A Gift from the Comfort Food Café: Celebrate Christmas in the cosy village of Budbury with the most heartwarming read of 2018!

She stares at me for a minute, slowly peeling off her skeleton gloves, and shakes her head.

‘No, thank you. I’m just … well, I just thought I’d pop in and see how things are going?’

She doesn’t even sound convinced by this herself, and I see her automatically reach out and pick up a cookie from the plate. She takes a bite and pulls a face.

‘Not as good as they could have been,’ she says, frowning. ‘I made these at home to take to the café, and Midgebo ran into the cottage being chased by a cat. Poor thing was terrified.’

‘The cat?’ I ask, not unreasonably, as Midgebo is a very large, very lively black Labrador.

‘Oh no – Midgebo! The cat was a monster! Seriously, the biggest ginger tom I’ve ever seen. It chased him around the kitchen, trapped him in a corner, then as soon as his job was done, gave me a look, like “yeah, puny human, your kingdom is mine”, and strutted back out again. I’ve never seen him before, but I suppose people must have cats … I mean, a lot of us have dogs, don’t we? And Becca has those goldfish. But perhaps other people have cats …’

She’s wittering now, and doesn’t seem able to stop. I recognise the wittering for what it is: self-distraction.

‘Laura, are you all right? Auburn said you’d left the café because you didn’t feel well. Is there anything I can do for you?’

I’m thinking it might be bowels. The great British public seems, as a race, constitutionally unable to say the word ‘bowel’ in public without at least attempting to whisper it.

She bites her lips viciously, and I’m horrified to see tears springing up in her eyes. Laura is one of the most cheerful people I know, and seeing her crying simply does not compute. I know she’s had her share of hardships and tragedy, but since I’ve known her, she’s been such a happy soul. Kind of like Mary Poppins in café cook form, always upbeat and positive, and carrying a big bag full of everything you could ever need in life.

‘Yes. No. Maybe … is the chemist like a doctor? Or a priest? Or Vegas?’ she asks, in a tumble of words, all falling over each other.

‘You mean, are there rules about confidentiality?’

She nods, her curls bobbing up and down with the motion, and the tears finally spilling down her cheeks.

‘Well, I have rules about confidentiality, and they’re probably stricter than any laws, so don’t worry. Now, come on, what’s the matter? Don’t be upset. It can’t be that bad – and don’t be embarrassed, whatever it is. I’m a medical professional, you know, even though I didn’t look like one when I walked into the café this morning!’

I intend that last line as something of a joke, and she looks pathetically grateful for it, swiping her hands across her face to remove the tears as though she’s angry with herself.

‘Yes,’ she says firmly. ‘You are. And thank you. It’s kind of related to what we were talking about then, anyway. I’ve been really tired recently, and was just putting it down to getting older and being busy and the fact that I eat way too much cake and not enough quinoa or whatever. But then me and you had that conversation, about how exhausting it is to have a baby around, but how quickly it goes, and how it completely and utterly changes your life, and how it’s both the best and the worst time you ever have?’

We’d barely touched on any of that, but clearly, in her head, we had, so I just nod encouragingly.

‘Well, after that, I was in the kitchen, making a toffee caramel sauce for the puddings, and I suddenly hated toffee caramel pudding. I mean, look at me, Katie – I’m not the sort of woman who hates toffee caramel pudding!’

The last few words come out in a kind of desperate wail, and I suddenly start to get an inkling of what might be bothering her.

‘Ah … so you’re wondering why you hate toffee caramel pudding? And why you’re tired?’

‘Yes, and … well, having looked at the calendar on my phone, I suppose I’m also wondering why I’m ten days late with my period as well … I mean, it probably means nothing. I’m probably going through early menopause. And I’m probably going to love the pudding again tomorrow. But …’

‘You thought maybe you should check? Just to put your mind at rest?’

She nods, looking forlorn and deflated now she’s finally admitted what’s bothering her, and I walk over to our high shelf full of slightly adult items – by which I mean condoms and pregnancy tests and other things that would make a teenaged boy blush. I grab one of the packages, then turn the sign hanging on the door to ‘closed’. I hope we don’t get a sudden rush – but even if we do, Auburn would understand.

‘Come on,’ I say, leading her through to the back rooms. ‘Are you ready to go? Or do you need that tea?’

‘No, I’m bursting,’ she says, managing a smile. ‘I drank a whole bottle of water on my way here, just in case. If you hadn’t been in, or you’d been busy with a customer, I’d have probably just weed myself quietly in the corner and hoped nobody noticed.’

We approach the loo – a common or garden loo, with a small wooden sign showing a gnome urinating on the door – and I feel her slowing up. Like a dog who recognises the entrance to the vet’s, and tries to drag its heels as you take him in.

‘No point waiting,’ I say, firmly but, I hope, kindly. ‘If you’re not pregnant, then you can start eating some quinoa and maybe take some vitamin D, which I can find for you here. If you are pregnant, then ignoring it won’t make the problem go away. And it’s not even necessarily a problem – just an adjustment.’

She snorts out a quick laugh, and finally takes off her puffa jacket.

‘It would be less of an adjustment, and more of a “holy fuck what am I going to do next?” kind of thing, really. I don’t even know what I want it to be … negative would be easier, and, you know, I do like my life as it is. But positive would be … well, it would be a baby, wouldn’t it? A new life. A bloody miracle …’

Laura rarely swears – at least out loud – and it’s a sign of what a tizzy she’s built herself up into. She hands me her jacket, gives me a brave smile, and says: ‘Right! I’m going in … if I’m not back in ten minutes, call the fire brigade!’

I nod, and tell her I’ll be waiting back in the shop. I mean, nobody can pee properly while they know someone’s outside listening, can they?

I feel jittery and nervous on her behalf, and calm myself down by checking up on our stocks of pre-natal vitamins and nappies. You know, just in case? By the time I’ve decided we’re fine for both, and dusted the already dust-free shelves they’re sitting on, Laura emerges from the back.

Her skin is still pale, and her lips are quivering, and she’s crying again. I don’t know whether it’s from relief at not being pregnant, shock at being pregnant, or a combination of all of the above. I fight the urge to run across the room and shake her shoulders, screaming ‘what was it???’, and instead just smile. Whatever the news, she doesn’t need some hysterical shop assistant getting in on the action.

‘Well?’ I ask, then hastily add: ‘If you want to tell me, that is. It’s completely fine if you don’t, I respect your privacy.’

She holds out her hands, inviting me to take them.

‘Don’t worry, I did wash first …’ she says, grinning, as our fingers interlink. ‘And it was positive, Katie. I might need to do another seven, just to be sure, but … well, I think I might be just a little bit pregnant!’

‘And how do you feel about that?’ I ask, keeping my tone even – she’s smiling, but I still can’t 100 per cent figure out what’s going on in her head. Probably she can’t either.

‘Well, I feel terrified. And shocked. And worried. Concerned about how Matt will react, and how Lizzie and Nate will react, and how I’ll manage at my age. How I’ll fit in work, and how that might affect Cherie. And I’m cursing that night away we had for Matt’s birthday, and all the cheap prosecco we drank that might have made us a bit careless, and that Princess Leia outfit Becca bought me for a laugh that made us definitely a bit careless …

‘And I’m even a little tiny bit sad about David, my husband who died? Which is extra stupid – but this seems such a big deal, and I really want to talk to him about it. And … well, there are a lot of problems. The house is too small. I have a job that involves toffee caramel puddings. I have teenagers. I have a crazy dog. I’m overweight and middle-aged and … oh lord, Katie, mainly, I’m just absolutely delighted! The minute that second line appeared on the pee stick, I was just filled with joy … I can’t believe it, still, but I’m over the moon. Thank you! Thank you so much!’

She pulls me into her arms, and we do a crazy, unbalanced jig all over the room, bumping into shelves, knocking over cardboard display stands, and generally wobbling and whooping and waving our hands around. Anyone passing by outside who happens to glance in will wonder if we’ve been getting high on our own supply after breaking into the Party Cupboard.

Eventually, we come to a standstill, both wearing matching grins on our faces – her hysterical level of happiness is completely infectious.

‘What will you do now?’ I ask. ‘Apart from seven more tests. And maybe you should make an appointment with the GP. And … well, I’d suggest having a drink to calm yourself down, but that’s not really appropriate, is it?’

Her expression momentarily clouds over – understandable, as I’ve just pointed out she’ll be teetotal for the next few months – but soon bounces back into happy mode. Then confused mode. Then frowning mode.

‘I need to tell Matt, obviously. I think he’ll be okay about it, but … gosh, this is a really big thing, isn’t it? I think I might need an hour to myself.’

‘Go to my place. There’s a spare key in the soil of the hanging basket. Excuse the mess, but make yourself at home – have a cuppa. Have a think. Take your time. I’ll be here for a bit, then I’m off to Willow’s to collect Saul, so there’s no rush.’

She bites her lip, looks through the window at the rain, and nods.

‘Thank you. That’s a good plan. Nobody will look for me there … I’ll just sit for a minute, and try and get my head a tiny bit straighter before I go and see Matt. Oh my … how do you think he’ll react?’

That’s a tricky one. The truth is that even though I’ve technically known Matt for a long time, I don’t actually know him. Matt is the local vet, and he definitely seems to communicate better with animals than people. Like myself, he’s a private kind of person. Always polite, always the type of guy you know you could count on in a crisis, but also always slightly guarded. Like he doesn’t quite trust you if you only have two legs and no tail.

‘I couldn’t possibly say, Laura. You know him better than anyone. Trust your instincts. And try not to worry – I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’

‘Yes, you’re right … I’m sure it’ll all be … shit!’