Читать книгу Don’t Go Baking My Heart - Cressida McLaughlin, Cressida McLaughlin - Страница 8

The Fair on the Field took place at the bottom of the hill on which Ross-on-Wye town centre proudly sat. It was a beautiful spot, with the River Wye wending along the bottom of the field, and the buildings of the town looking down on it from up high. When Charlie had phoned up to book a space, the organizers had assured her that, despite being close to the river, the ground was firm enough for Gertie; they’d had enough food trucks over the years and never had a problem. Even so, her pitch was at the edge closest to the road, where the ground was more solid. But it had rained heavily during the night, and while the sun was shining down on them now, as if the torrential downpour had never happened, Charlie could feel the wheels spinning as she navigated Gertie over the bumpy grass to her slot.

At least she knew how to drive the bus. Her time spent on the vintage Routemaster had started when she was little, Hal teaching her how to steer in car parks from his lap and, once she was old enough to legally drive, being patient with her about turning circles and visibility, how much space she needed to manoeuvre it into a tight spot. He’d encouraged her to take the bus driving test soon after she’d passed her car test with flying colours, and she was proud of her ability to keep the ride as smooth as possible, to not panic when faced with the narrowest of lanes.

‘OK, Sal?’ she called back into the bus, where Sally, The Café on the Hill’s newest staff member, seventeen years old, and with a pile of caramel curls on top of her head, was sitting quietly.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied, her high voice rising further as they went over a large rut in the grass.

Charlie grinned. They had made it. Clive’s hard work had paid off and now, with only the loss of a couple of downstairs seats, she had a small preparation area, and an under-the-counter fridge where she could keep chocolate éclairs and fresh cream cakes. She had made individual portions of Eton Mess and Key Lime pies, and a range of flapjacks, brownies and millionaire’s shortbread. Clive had also installed a fresh-water tank. It was small, but it meant she could have a proper coffee machine with a milk frother.

Everything was fairly cramped, but that didn’t matter because she wasn’t going to invite people onto the bus. What remained of the downstairs seating was taken up with her trays of goodies, and one of the long windows was now a serving hatch. She could unclip it and pull it up, securing it inside the bus while she served through the opening, as with any other food truck. It was perfect.

Gertie was a half-cab Routemaster, with the traditional hobbit-sized door on the driver’s side, used to climb into the cab, and the main doorway and stairs at the back of the bus. When Hal had given her a makeover a couple of years ago, he had made the cab accessible from inside the bus – he told Charlie he was getting too old to hoick himself over the wheel arch – and installed a tiny but functional toilet under the stairs. Clive had made Gertie as good as new and, with the extra additions, she had everything she needed, Charlie hoped, to work as a café bus. But this day would prove it either way; she was determined to make a success of it.

She slowed the bus down, and a young man in a fluorescent jacket waved her into position. Sally arranged the trays of bakes strategically around the serving hatch while Charlie jumped down from the bus and, registering nervously how spongy the grass was, slid her menu into the frame Clive had bolted on next to the opening. She was offering a selection of sweet and savoury treats, including a sausage roll with flaky pastry and a herby sausage-meat filling. Ideally they’d be served warm, but they tasted delicious cold as well.

‘Ready to go?’ she asked Sally, who was smoothing down her apron and staring at the sausage rolls as if they might bite. ‘It doesn’t open officially for another half an hour, but it may be that other traders will want a snack before the general public arrive.’

Sally had only been working at The Café on the Hill for two weeks, and behaved as if everything was a potential threat. Charlie knew she’d come out of her shell sooner or later, and thought that a day spent at a fair, where almost anything could happen, would be good for her.

‘I’ve arranged all the cakes and pastries,’ Sally said, giving Charlie a nervous smile.

‘They look great. Shall we go and hang the banner up?’

She’d had it made at one of the local printer’s; a beautiful sign in tarpaulin-weight material that would run the length of the vehicle, declaring it to be The Café on the Bus in burgundy writing on a cream background. Beneath it, in a forest-green font, it read: An offshoot of The Café on the Hill. It had brass-capped eyelets threaded through with thick chord, so she could attach it easily over the upper deck windows. Even Bea had widened her eyes appreciatively when she had showed her, rolling it out along the tabletops in the café.

She had also added a couple of photos of Gertie to The Café on the Hill’s Instagram page, and had received 117 likes on the picture she’d posted yesterday. It needed work, but it was a solid start.

Now Charlie led the way up the narrow staircase, the metal rail cool under her hand, and passed one end of the banner to Sally.

‘We’re going to have to hang it out of that end window, and then I’m going to have to grab it and unroll it outside, going to each window in turn to get it running the whole length of the bus. So just hold on, OK?’

‘OK,’ Sally parroted back.

It was hard going. She had to lean her arms out of adjacent windows so she could hold it up and then unfurl it further, but after ten minutes of sweating and muttered swearing, she was tying her end of the banner firmly onto the window. It was the right way round. It wasn’t upside down. Quietly triumphant, they rushed outside to look at their handiwork, and Charlie grinned. ‘The Café on the Bus,’ she declared. ‘We are open for business!’

Within two minutes of the banner going up, she had a queue of five people looking eagerly up at her through the serving hatch.

‘What’s this, love,’ said an old man with a flat cap pulled low over his eyes. ‘Hal’s old bus getting a new lease of life?’

‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘He left it to me, and I’m giving it a fresh start as a food truck. What do you think?’

‘I think my Daphne will miss the tours,’ he said, accepting a sausage roll and a black coffee in a sturdy takeaway cup. Charlie hadn’t had time to get them branded, but had picked out cream and green cups to tie in with the bus’s colour scheme.

‘Lots of people will,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Hal ran brilliant tours, but I can’t do that.’

‘Someone else could mebbe take them on, then,’ he added thoughtfully, and bit into the sausage roll. He eyed it appraisingly, and then her, and then shrugged. ‘Not sure it’s meant to be a café bus, like.’

Charlie kept her smile fixed. ‘I’m just giving it a go. This is our first outing together.’ She patted the side of the bus, feeling like something out of a cheesy Sixties film.

‘I say good luck to you,’ called a tall man in a navy fleece from further back in the queue. ‘Coffee out of a bus is a marvellous idea. Gives it a bit of individuality. You going to serve three-course dinners from your little window, too?’

‘Oh, shush your mouth, Bill Withers,’ said a bright-faced, plump lady Charlie recognized from the chemist’s in town. ‘This young lass is using her initiative. Would you rather the bus stayed locked away in a garage until it rusted to nothing? We all know Hal wouldn’t have wanted that.’

‘I just think it’s hilarious,’ Bill countered, while Charlie tried to serve and not let embarrassment overwhelm her. ‘Serving food from Hal’s old bus. Whatever next? Driving to work in the Indian takeaway?’ He laughed a loud, unbridled laugh that had several people turning in their direction.

‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ the woman said as she reached the front of the queue. ‘He’s so far stuck in the past he should be wearing black and white.’ She rolled her eyes, and this time Charlie’s smile was genuine.

‘It was only an idea,’ she replied. ‘Hal left me the bus, and I wanted to put it to good use, to have it out in the open, like you said. I’m a baker, so I thought I could combine the two.’

‘And it’s a grand idea,’ her supporter said, accepting a slightly haphazard-looking Eton Mess that was living up a bit too well to its name – Charlie would have to do something to keep her puddings upright when they were driving across rough ground. ‘You iron out a few … wrinkles, and it’ll be a triumph. Don’t listen to the naysayers. You do you,