The Comfort Food Café, page 8
‘Oooh, where’s that then?’ says Edie, the elderly lady we met last night, who has approached us by stealth from behind. She’s carrying a tray of fresh pastries, which she places down on the nearest table before picking up a pain au chocolat as big as her face. I notice she already has one packed up in Tupperware to take home as well.
‘With someone called Gabriel, on Mr Pumpwell’s farm?’
Edie’s wrinkled little face breaks into such a big smile that her eyes disappear completely.
‘Oh, he’s so nice, that Gabriel! Such a lovely young man. He came round and fixed my sink for me, you know? I’d mentioned one day that the tap wouldn’t stop leaking, and that afternoon he just turned up. Lickety-split, he had it sorted. Wouldn’t let me pay him or anything. And while he was there, he noticed a few other things that needed doing, and he’s been coming back whenever he has the spare time. Always stays for a cuppa too. Doesn’t say much, mind, but he seems happy enough to let me witter on! Not bad-looking either, is he, if you’re into that kind of thing?’
‘What kind of thing?’ I ask.
‘Sexpots.’
‘Oh. Right. Well. I didn’t really see him for long; it was all a bit chaotic last night, as I’m sure you’ve heard.’
I go back to scrubbing my table, because it’s less confusing than talking to Edie. I had Gabriel firmly placed in the ‘bit of a dick’ category in my mind, and her version doesn’t quite sit with that. I suppose it’s possible that I overreacted, and I remind myself not to do a Pride and Prejudice and make assumptions. Like Matt said, not everybody can be a little ray of sunshine, and at the end of the day he did offer to let two complete strangers stay in his home just to be a good neighbour. He sounded rude, but maybe actions speak louder than words on some occasions.
I meet a few more people as the morning wears on, including Laura’s sister Becca, and Zoe who runs the bookshop, and a man whose name I can’t remember who turned up with a crate of home-made cider at lunchtime.
Sophie’s been in and out, and spent a bit of time with Martha, who is Zoe’s god-daughter. She’s older than Sophie, early twenties somewhere, but they bonded over a mutual love of David Bowie, Nandos, and the fact that they are wearing the same Doc Marten boots. Martha graduated from Oxford then started a post-grad degree before realising it wasn’t for her. She’s come back to Budbury for ‘the free rent and cake’ apparently, both of which seem like very valid reasons.
The clear-up soon starts to show every sign of turning into another party, with lots of food being wheeled out of the kitchens and the cider being cracked open, and I wonder if it just goes on like this: an endless cycle of party-clean-party. I suppose it could be worse.
Eventually, though, several hours later, Laura declares herself happy with the state of everything, and we set off to Gabriel’s place. She’s over the moon that we’ve taken up the offer, and as soon as Matt told her this morning, she got to work sorting out beds for us. Van, Katie’s husband, who presumably has a van as well as it being his name, was dispatched to ‘the retail park’. No idea where that is, but I’m assured it’s a veritable fleshpot of earthly delights, complete with a McDonald’s, a Pets at Home and several outlet furniture stores. Wowzers.
We follow Laura’s car out of the village, through winding country lanes that come with the most jaw-dropping views out over the coast and across the hills. It is gorgeous here, the kind of pretty that you see in films and on postcards. Every twist and turn we take plunges us even deeper into a wilderness of ancient woodlands and Iron Age hill forts and frothing rivers that are tumbling their way to the sea.
It’s probably only five miles away as the crow flies, but the roads here are like crows if they’d drunk a bottle of Baileys and then dropped some acid. They wriggle and curve through the landscape, past signs for places with names that sound as old as time: Nettlecombe, Powerstock, Dottery, Whitchurch Canonicorum. We drive up; we drive down; we drive in what feels like an impossibly random way along roads that sometimes turn into narrow one-way tracks. I’m sure I’ll get used to it, but for now I’m glad the traffic is light and we see little else but the occasional tractor, or a car at a passing place.
Finally, Laura indicates and turns in through an open iron gate, tooting her horn as she drives onto a gravelled courtyard. Off to one side is a small paddock, presumably home to the infamous Belle, complete with a little stable. There’s a run-down garage, and signs of recent building work: bags of cement, a mixer, a stack of dismantled scaffolding. A pile of tree branches, maybe torn off by the storm, is weighted down beneath netting.
As I get out of the car, I see that the cottage itself is a strange mix. The central part looks old, made of mellow gold stone with mullioned windows and a big wooden door freshly painted a deep blue. Around it are various extensions, which I’d guess have been added over generations of working and living, giving the whole building a ramshackle look with its different heights and different materials. A barn further back looks more run down, its roof sagging and one of the big wooden doors off its hinges. I can’t tell if it’s always like that, or a victim of the storm.
Despite the work-in-progress vibe, the location is idyllic, in the middle of lush fields bordered by hedgerows and drooping oak trees. We’re in the base of a valley, the road dipping suddenly down, surrounded by velvety green hills and grazing sheep. I see a flurry of swallows swooping in and out of the barn, and it makes me smile. They’ll be heading off to warmer climes soon, I’m sure.
Gary is running around having a good sniff at everything, Midge by his side, and both of them seem to be having a contest to see who can manage the final pee against the gate post. They came; they peed; they conquered.
As soon as the big wooden door opens, they both look up, ears cocked, alert for threats or treats or both. Midge immediately dashes over, obviously familiar with the human who emerges, and Gary cautiously follows. A small, petty part of me secretly hopes that he doesn’t approach him, doesn’t respond to him, but the traitorous beastie does his I’m-nervous-but-brave slink towards Gabriel, who is squatting down to put himself at dog height.
Within seconds, Gary is getting his ears scratched, and licking his fingers like they’re old friends. The swine.
I feel an instant bite of tension when he stands up and walks towards us, taking in the chunky fisherman-style sweater, the battered Levi’s spattered with paint, the scuffed steel toe cap boots. Despite the working gear, there’s an aura of something exotic about him, like he could have just left his artist’s studio. Maybe it’s the tanned skin, or the longer-than-usual hair, I don’t know. Somehow, he seems slightly too striking a creature to find in an old farmhouse in the English countryside—as though he should be migrating, like the swallows.
The smile he had for Gary and Midge fades as he approaches, and he meets my eyes and gives me a single nod.
‘Nice dog,’ he says gruffly, and although it’s not much, it does melt me a little. Your dogs are like your babies, aren’t they?
‘He is,’ I agree, deciding that I will always match him word for word. He speaks two, I speak two. If we keep it like that, there’s no chance of things going wrong.
‘Van’s already been round. We moved the stuff up to the rooms.’
Ah, shit. I realise that this will be harder than I thought. If I have to count his words every time he speaks, I’ll miss what he’s saying. How many was that?
‘That’s great!’ says Laura, saving me the effort. ‘Did he bring everything? I asked him to call into Dunelm and get duvets and things.’
‘I don’t know what Dunelm is, but he brought a lot of stuff with him. Are you any good with building flat-packs?’
Laura laughs out loud, scaring up a few nearby magpies, and replies: ‘Of course I’m not! That’s one of those times when I think sexism is a really good idea, and declare it’s a “man’s job”. Sorry!’
‘Mum is,’ Sophie pipes up helpfully. ‘She’s an absolute whizz with them. Give her a screwdriver and a set of instructions in Swedish, and she’s in her happy place.’
Laura looks surprised, and Gabriel simply nods.
‘Good,’ he says.
‘Great,’ I mumble.
‘So,’ Laura continues, obviously realising she needs to fill a conversational void, ‘I need to be getting off to collect the girls from school. Matt had a roofer out, Gabe, and he agrees with you on the estimates, so hopefully we’ll have Hyacinth restored to her former glory before long. I’ve brought some food obviously, because I’m me. I’ll leave that with you and be on my way. Is eight okay for you tomorrow morning, Max?’
‘That’s fine. I’ll see you there. And thank you, for everything.’
She makes hush-now noises as she retrieves several containers full of food from the car, stacking them up on the floor before she departs in a flurry of curls, Labrador woofs and honks on her car horn. In response, I hear the sonorous boom of a donkey hee-hawing, and see the famous Belle amble towards the edge of her paddock.
‘Oh my God,’ Sophie mutters. ‘A donkey! Also her happy place.’
I can’t argue with that, and I walk over to meet her. Gary runs by my side, and takes a tentative sniff at the fence before deciding it’s a no for him and retreating a few feet away.
Belle is not, to put it bluntly, the prettiest of animals. She’s old—her teeth are terrifying—and one of her ears points out at a wonky angle. I don’t care; she looks gorgeous to me.
‘Be careful,’ says Gabriel, at my side. ‘She doesn’t like people. I’ve tried winning her over, but—’
‘Your natural charm has failed?’
There’s a hint of a smile at that, and I realise it’s the first I’ve seen from him—aimed at a human, at least. There’s a bag hanging on our side of the fence, containing carrots and apples, and I decide on a carrot. Less chance of losing my fingers.
Belle lets out a ferocious roar, the kind of sound you could use in a TV show set in the bowels of hell, and batters Gabriel’s shoulder out of the way with her bulky head. I ignore that, and offer up the carrot, making soothing noises as I do. She turns her attention to me, and her teeth seem to get even bigger. There’s a stand-off for a few seconds, then she grabs the other end of the carrot and starts gnashing it in her mouth. While she’s distracted, I manage a quick stroke of her head, running my fingers gently over the thick, bristly hair.
I don’t push my luck, and back off straight away afterwards. She glares at me with shining brown eyes, and shows us her substantial rear.
‘That’s closer than I’ve got in over a year,’ Gabriel says, shaking his head.
‘Mum has a lot in common with donkeys,’ Sophie replies. ‘They’re like her spirit animal. They’re both grouchy, stubborn, sometimes affectionate. Short, stumpy legs, awful hair…’
I throw a handful of hay in her face and she splutters as she swipes it off. Maybe I do have more in common with Belle than I thought.
I run my hands over my hair, suddenly self-conscious. There’s nothing wrong with my hair, I tell myself. It’s normal hair—dark with a few hints of grey, long, thick. Okay, it has no style whatsoever, but I’ve started to think that’s much easier; no need for trims or colours or trips to the salon for me. Here in Budbury, I fit right in. It’s when I’m comparing myself to women like Valerie that I come off badly.
Gabriel has watched our interaction without comment, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets as though protecting them from the donkey. He waits until we’re finished, then strides off back to the house. I assume we’re supposed to follow him, even though he doesn’t say a word. Sophie and I exchange a brief ‘WTF’ look, and go after him.
The door opens straight into the kitchen, and I stand still for a moment admiring the room. There’s an old Aga that looks like an original, with pretty cream enamel doors. The floors are made of stone, and that’s even older than the Aga; you can see all the little indentations and smoother shining paths where countless feet have walked it down over the decades.
The walls have been stripped back to bare brick and whitewashed, and I can tell the cupboards and counters are new, even though they’re made of antique-looking pine to fit in. The ceiling is freshly plastered, little spotlights shining down on us. A big pine table sits in the middle of it all, and I run my fingers over it. I’m guessing this came with the house, and bears the scars and bruises of many mealtimes.
‘This is beautiful,’ I say, spinning around to soak it all in. ‘Did you do the work? I love the Aga!’
Gabriel looks borderline embarrassed, and replies: ‘I did. And as for the Aga, have at it – I’ve no clue how to use the thing. I stick to the microwave, the toaster, and that.’
He points at a little two-ring electric hob that he has set up on the counter.
‘Can we see the rest of the house?’ Sophie asks. I see her phone in her hand and suspect there will be pictures before long.
He shrugs, and takes us through into the living room. It’s big and roughly square, with a low beamed ceiling that he has to duck under. The floorboards have been sanded down and painted a very pale shade of green, almost white but with a hint of apple, and the windows look out over the darker green of the fields beyond—it’s almost like they match. I’m sure an interior designer would say something clever, like ‘bringing the outside inside’.
Only one wall has been painted, the rest is exposed whitewashed stone, rough and characterful beneath my fingers. Looking around, I see what amazing potential this space has, but right now it feels empty and unloved.
There’s one small two-seater sofa, the type that has a button you press for the feet to pop up, and stacks of books. And … that’s it. There’s a huge coal fire grate with a beautiful old surround that’s made of cast iron—the kind you’d pay a fortune for at an antiques place—but literally nothing else. No art, no photos, no TV. Just one small coffee table next to the sofa. It feels spartan, unused, like nobody even lives here.
I glance at Gabriel, and see him in a slightly different light. Maybe he’s the one who has things in common with Belle, not me—living this solitary life, miles away from anyone. I picture him sitting on his recliner after a long day of work, rewarded with a microwave meal and a mug of tea. That’s probably exactly the way he likes it, but somehow it makes me sad.
I tell myself off—I’m projecting—and remind myself that this is the life he chose. I’d be lonely, but then again, I’m really quite pathetic.
‘Where’s all your … stuff? Where’s your telly?’ Sophie says, looking incredulous.
‘I don’t have one. And this is all my stuff. There’s another room on the other side of the building. Loads stored in there, plenty of old furniture and things from when my relative owned the place. There might be a TV, I don’t know. I was just leaving it there while I worked on this. You can look if you like, makes no difference to me.’
He’s clearly uncomfortable at the scrutiny, and turns back towards the kitchen. A narrow, steep set of stone stairs leads up to a spacious landing, still carpeted in some awful seventies pattern that is a relic from the last owner. He shows us into the rooms we will be using, and both are similar—medium sized, bare floorboards, paper stripped from the walls but not replaced. Both have big windows that offer the kinds of views that make the presenters on Escape to the Country sigh in delight.
I see the flat-packs and bundles of bedding, and say: ‘Shall we get started? I can probably manage to do it on my own—Sophie wasn’t lying—but it’ll be easier with two if you can spare the time.’
At that point, after consulting her phone, Sophie pipes up: ‘I think you’ve got this situation handled, grown-ups. Is it okay if I go back to the village for a bit? Martha’s invited a few of her friends to the pub and I’d like to meet them.’
I feel immediately unsettled at the thought of her leaving. Partly because I’m protective, partly because I’m not sure how I feel about being left here alone with Mr Chatty. One look at her pleading face overrides the second concern, but the first still remains solid.
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go to the pub and drive back,’ I say. ‘These roads are going to take some getting used to.’
‘Well, I won’t get used to them if you never let me drive them! And I promise I won’t drink, not even the two I’m allowed. I’ll stay totally sober.’
‘And if it’s dark when you come back, will you remember to put your headlights on?’
‘Of course! I never forget that.’
She always forgets that. But I can see how keen she is, and understand that much as she loves her dear old mum, meeting people of a similar age is important to her.
‘I don’t know why you even bother meeting in a pub,’ I say. ‘All you’ll do is look at your phones.’
‘Ah, that may be true, but when we see an especially good TikTok, we can lean across the table and show it to each other. There’s not much of a Wi-Fi signal here, and you can’t expect me to quit cold turkey, that’s child abuse! Please please please!’
‘Okay, jog on then, but be back before midnight, or I’ll beat you to death with a pumpkin, all right? And reply to my messages!’
I’ve noticed with both of my offspring that while they are permanently glued to their phones, they seem to have a magical ability to ‘not see’ my WhatsApp messages.
‘Will do!’ she yells, already running back down the stairs. Gary goes with her, then runs straight back up when she leaves. He looks giddy with all the new stimuli.
Gabriel ignores all of this, staring at the boxes, and says: ‘I can spare the time. Back in a minute.’
He comes back up bearing a Stanley knife and some tools, and gets to work cutting open the boxes. Unusually for a man, he takes the time to look at the instructions before we begin, passing the sheet to me once he’s done.
Without even a word being shared between us, he slices the boxes open, and we pull out the various mysterious sticks of wood and bags of screws. I love doing this stuff; it’s just like a big puzzle that needs to be solved, and at the end you win the prize of fully-assembled furniture.
