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

‘We’ve all been there, love,’ she says, casting her eyes over my new look. ‘I once went to Tesco with my hair sprayed into a mohawk, when Lizzie was going through a creative stage. Completely forgot until I was in the checkout paying for my sweet potatoes and toilet roll. What time did he get you up?’

‘Umm … before six,’ I reply quietly. I feel embarrassed and awkward and want the floor to open up, like in one of those films about earthquakes, and swallow me whole. I want to say more – to see how funny this is and shrug it off. Play it like Auburn would, and do a spontaneous mock-fashion catwalk around the room, showing off my new look.

But I’m not Auburn. I don’t have her energy or confidence or ‘I’m-all-out-of-shits-to-give’ attitude. I’m me. I’m almost mousy, and my default setting is to stay as quiet as possible so the predators don’t notice me.

I try on a small smile for size, as Van looks at me in concern. Maybe he can see the slight trembling in my hands, or the ever-so-annoying sheen in my eyes. He nods at me once, sharply, and says: ‘Come on, Saul – we’re going on an adventure in the garden. Buried treasure. Let’s give your mum a chance to look less beautiful and have a coffee, and see what we can find. What do you say, pirate lad?’

Saul grabs hold of his ears as though they’re handles, and shrieks: ‘Aye aye, Captain!’ as they walk towards the doors. I watch them go, feeling both relieved and worried.

I don’t have time to ponder the worried part, because Laura takes me by the arm and leads me away to the ladies. She’s produced a packet of baby wipes – she’s one of those mumsy women who always have a fresh pack of hankies about her person – and perches on the fake zebra-skin stool that’s in there while I start to clean myself up. She looks a bit tired herself, now I come to notice.

The mirror in front of me reveals that my stylish look is even worse than I’d anticipated. I have purple eyes, the colour swirling all around the socket and across my eyebrows, and my skin is the deep tan of a terracotta warrior – up to my chin, where it suddenly goes milky white again. Two giant, circular blobs of bright red adorn my cheeks like apples, and the remnants of scarlet lipstick are lining my mouth. My hair is sprayed into a kind of cone on my head, like a strange hat – he must have covered it in lacquer, and massaged it upwards like the Eiffel Tower.

I stare at my reflection for a couple of seconds, then start to attack the whole mess with the vigour of a woman vowing never to let such a thing happen again.

‘I remember those days,’ says Laura, watching me and smiling. ‘The early mornings. The constant demands for attention. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you’ll miss it when it’s gone.’

‘Really?’ I say, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice as my fingertips get caught in my beehive.

‘Oh yes,’ she replies, nodding. ‘Definitely. These days, budging Lizzie and Nate from their bedrooms is a challenge. Getting their attention is even harder. They still need me – but mainly for money and food and lifts to their friends’ houses. I’m not the centre of their worlds any more, and even though that means I get more sleep, I do miss them being little. Of course, it was different for me – I had David around, then.’

Laura married her childhood sweetheart when they were barely out of school, and had her kids young. From what I can gather, theirs was a perfect life – until David tragically died after an accident at home.

A couple of years after that, she packed the children up and moved here for the summer. A summer that turned into forever, after Nate and Lizzie settled so well, and she met Matt. She’s another one of the Budbury survivors who has fitted into the routine of life here in this far-off corner of the world.

‘Well, it’s not too late, is it?’ I ask, as I wipe my eyes within an inch of their lives. ‘You could have another baby, if that’s what you and Matt wanted.’

She snorts out a quick laugh, and slaps her own thighs.

‘I don’t think so!’ she answers, looking part amused, part wistful. ‘I’m knocking forty, you know. I think those days are behind me. Matt … well, he’d be a great dad. But I think he’s happy with being a kind-of step-dad … I don’t know. We’ve never even discussed it, to be honest. Anyway, I’m exhausted enough dealing with the kids and Midgebo.’

She gazes off at something I can’t see, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. If I’ve touched a sore spot without even trying. She snaps out of it and smiles at me again, as though to reassure me.

‘Anyway. You know what this place is like,’ she says. ‘We share our problems and we share our joys – and that means we all get to enjoy having Saul in our lives. We’re glad you’re here.’

I feel a sudden wash of gratitude towards her – for the baby wipes, for the conversation, for the reassurance. For the way she makes me feel so welcome.

‘Thank you,’ I reply, as I tackle the blusher spots. ‘It’s … well, it’s taken me a while to settle in, but now I have, I’m glad I’m here as well. I’m not … not the sort of person who opens up too easily.’

She nods, and I can practically see her making an effort not to dive right in with a load of questions. The crowd here doesn’t know much about my background, or why I left Bristol. They don’t know about the way I grew up, or about Saul’s dad, other than he lives in Scotland now. I have my privacy settings on high, and always have had.

Even as a kid, I was guarded. There are only so many times you can bring friends home from school just to have them walk into a parental war zone before you decide not to bother any more. It was embarrassing, at an age when you’re mortally embarrassed about having a spot, never mind your mates seeing your mum whack your dad around the head with a frying pan.

‘I know,’ she says, when I don’t add anything. ‘And that’s fine. We’re all different, aren’t we? I hope you know, though, that we’re always here for you if ever you need a listening ear. Or some cake.’

‘Or some baby wipes.’

‘Yes! I always have baby wipes … even if I don’t have the baby. Anyway, come on out and have a coffee and some toast. Or do you want some jam roly-poly? I know you like that.’

‘Isn’t it a bit early for jam roly-poly?’ I ask, smiling.

She feigns shocked horror and says: ‘Hush your mouth, child – it’s never too early for jam roly-poly! I didn’t get a figure like this by watching the clock, you know!’

She gestures down at her own body, which to be fair is a little on the round side. She’s not fat, not by any means. Just … comfortable. And curvy. And perfect.

‘Thank you. Toast would be great,’ I reply, as we emerge back into the café. There’s another couple of customers now, a fresh-faced teenager and what looks like his granddad, and I feel momentarily bad that I took Laura away from her work. She glances at my face, and seems to know that immediately.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says, patting my hand. ‘Cherie’s sorted them, look. About time she got off her lazy backside anyway.’

She says the last part extra-loud, and Cherie laughs from behind the counter, waving a spatula at her threateningly.

‘Watch your cheek, lady,’ she answers, grinning. ‘You’re never too old for a good spanking!’

Frank looks up from his newspaper, blue eyes twinkling, and adds: ‘You’re right there, love!’

This is something of a conversation stopper, and Laura and I exchange wide-eyed glances as we both try very hard not to imagine Frank getting his 82-year-old bottom smacked. Crikey. Grey panthers rule – and they’ve definitely got a better love life than me.

Laura does a mock shiver and settles me down at one of the tables. She knows I won’t want company, and doesn’t push it. The ladies here, in particular, tend to gather at the café for mammoth sessions of gossip and world-righting. I often see them, clustered around a couple of tables shoved together – Cherie and Laura and Becca and Zoe, Edie and Willow and Auburn. They always look so comfortable with each other; sitting there guzzling endless rounds of freshly baked scones and hot chocolates.

Sometimes, I want to join them. I want to take that simple step of walking in, sitting down and chatting with the tribe. But I never have, so far – in fact I’ve sometimes turned away from the café once I’ve seen them there, not quite ready to break my solitude.

Maybe one day I’ll take the daring step of joining them for one of their sessions.

Not quite yet, though, I decide, looking on as the new customers stare around the room in wonder. They’ll always remember this place – the weird café on the cliff they found when they were out walking. They’ll probably tell their friends about it, go home and try to describe it. I see the teenager whip out his phone and start taking photos – because, of course, teenagers don’t settle for just describing something when they can post it on social media instead.

Cherie comes over with a mocha – my favourite – and a plate heaped with granary toast. The butter is laid on so thick it’s melting and oozing over bread that I know Laura will have baked herself. I have died and gone to heaven.

‘There you go, love,’ says Cherie, laying one gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Fill your boots, as they say. That little dynamo of yours will be back in soon, so enjoy the peace. Oh, by the way, did Laura tell you there was a phone call for you?’

I already have a mouthful of toast when she asks this, and all I can do is shake my head, butter dripping down my chin, looking up at her inquiringly.

‘Laura!’ she bellows, so loud that small mountain ranges in Nepal probably shake and quiver. ‘When did you take that message for Katie?’

Laura stops what she’s doing – slicing tomatoes for the day’s salads – and stares up, looking horrified.

‘Oh no!’ she says, biting her lip. ‘I’m so sorry – I completely forgot about it; I don’t know where my head is today! Katie, your mum called – she said can you call her back, please? She also said, “Don’t worry, nobody’s dead.” Which is nice.’

Chapter 8 (#ulink_a6501c80-7ffd-5ff5-81a3-b6ae897afd9f)

Van walks back into the café at that stage, Saul trailing behind him, cheeks rosy from the autumnal chill and his hair ruffled.

‘Mummy!’ he shouts, dashing over full of excitement. ‘We found treasure!’

He grabs hold of my knee with one muddy hand, and in the other brandishes his booty – a one pound coin. I’m guessing that Van managed to distract him while he buried it in the garden, then helped him re-discover it. He winks at me over Saul’s head, and I blink rapidly in response.

‘It’s a Spanish doon!’ Saul says, spinning it around on the table top. He looks so thrilled, it momentarily distracts me from Van, my mother, and wondering what the hell is going on back at home.

‘A Spanish doon? Wow!’ I say, widening my eyes in suitable awe. ‘That’s amazing!’