Читать книгу Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café: The only heart-warming feel-good novel you need! - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 16

As we emerge onto the path, we see a green space, lawned over apart from a central bedded area with a water feature, draped with flowers. The cottages are arranged around the green, in pairs and terraces and one big house on its own, all built with pretty pale stone. So far, so normal.

It’s the people on the green that change it into something weird. The people who are all, so far as I can see, dressed in various types of horror outfits. There are a couple of vampires with cloaks and teeth and blood down their faces; a fully wrapped and humungous Mummy; a hairy-headed werewolf, and a steampunk-type Victorian who may or may not be Dr Jekyll or Mr Hyde. There is a small pack of young zombies, and a boy with fake bolts through his head and green face paint. It feels a bit like we’ve walked into an impromptu meeting of the Hammer House of Horror fan club.

Steampunk Dr Jekyll is a strikingly tall young woman with flaming pink hair, the Werewolf is handing out bottles of cider, and there’s a tiny raisin of an ancient old lady rocking a Catwoman suit. Not usually a horror character, but pretty scary given her age. Running around her feet is a leggy black Labrador, complete with devil horns. Even the dog is evil.

I take a couple of hesitant steps forward, Martha now lagging behind in understandable confusion. Possibly fear as well. It’s not too late, I tell myself; we could jump back in the car and be home by tea-time…

Before I have the chance to act on that impulse, we are spotted. One of the monsters – a full on Bride of Dracula, around six-foot-tall and frankly terrifying – sees us, and waves.

“Hello!” she bellows, the word slightly distorted by her fake fangs. At least I assume they are fake. “Come on over – we don’t bite!”

That line gets a laugh from the rest of them, and I take tiny steps in their direction. I tell myself it’s to give Martha time to recover from the shock, but that would be fibbing – I’m feeling a bit discombobulated myself.

The Bride of Dracula strides over towards us, and up close she is even more imposing. A big, powerful older woman, built as though she could carry the world on her back, grey-streaked brown hair flowing over wide shoulders. She is bare-foot, and wearing a torn old wedding dress that shows off an impressive cleavage. She looks like Wonder Woman’s gothic grandma.

Her face is wrinkled and tanned, creased into a welcoming smile as she pulls out her plastic teeth.

“Bloody things …” she mutters, “Honestly, I couldn’t eat a soggy parsnip with those things in, never mind a vestal virgin! You must be Zoe!”

I nod, and before I get the chance to speak, she has me wrapped in her arms, crushed to her bosom, and is almost bouncing me up and down in her enthusiasm. I’m a lot shorter than her, and I get a bit of an eyeful – in fact I’ve not been that close to another woman’s boobs since I went through my brief and failed experimental phase many years ago.

At first, I panic, and have the urge to punch her in the ribs and run away – I’m not big on hugs. But she seems so genuinely delighted to see us, and her hugging is so utterly heartfelt, that after that initial moment of freak-out, I just give in, and let myself be smothered for a few seconds. Lord knows I need a hug. By the time she releases me, blinking into the sunlight, I’d quite like to burrow back in there and let all my cares get squashed away.

She holds me by the shoulders so she can inspect me, and I see her frown, then shake her head so all that long hair swishes around.

“Good job you’re a red-head,” she says, poking at my curls, “I think I might have just rubbed fake blood in your hair … I’m Cherie, by the way. Cherie Moon.”

Before I have the chance to respond, she’s moving on to Martha, and giving her the hug treatment as well. Uh-oh, I think, as I see Martha try and shrivel away from her, this won’t end well: Martha might not be in fancy dress, but she has plenty of horrible behaviour up her sleeve. I look on, my fingers screwed up into fists with the tension, expecting screams and yells and possibly karate kicks.

Instead, Martha does the same as me – she simply gives in to it. After one touch, she seems to collapse into Cherie’s arms, and even endures it when she strokes her hair and mutters soothing noises into her ear. I even think – though I might be wrong here – that I see the glint of tears in Martha’s eyes when she is finally released.

Good lord, I think to myself – what’s going on here? Does this woman have supernatural powers after all? Maybe it’s like it happens in a film or one of those teen TV shows I’m technically too old for but secretly love, and she is a real-life vampire with the power to magic us all into submission…

Cherie spoils this potential illusion by letting out an enormous belch, giggling, and apologising.

“Sorry about that, ladies – there’ve been a few ciders too many, it seems! Anyway, come on, come on, I want you to meet everyone …”

I look at Martha and raise my eyebrows as Cherie walks towards the others.

“Normal enough for you?” I ask. She just shrugs, and looks as confused as I feel.

As we approach the rest of the horror movie cast, I notice a few more details about the hula-hoopers. The Monster is a tall man, bright blue eyes glinting in his painted face, his hair blonde and surfer-long. He’s bare-chested, and although the chest in question is green, it’s also totally ripped. Kind of Young Matthew McConaughey does Frankenstein.

He’s doing a mean hip swivel, keeping the bright orange hoop flying, even though he is creased up with laughter. Next to him is Count Dracula, dressed in a smart black suit complete with waistcoat and cloak, and I notice that he’s a lot older than he looked at a distance – 70s at least – but with a healthy, weather-beaten face that shines through even the white make-up. He’s also doing all right with the hoop.

The Mummy, however … well, she never stood a chance, as she’s approximately three years pregnant, and the size of a hippo. She’s pulled the bandages off her face, and they droop around her shoulders with her long dark hair. The hula hoop is, tragically, completely still – she’s looped it over her head, and it’s simply got stuck around her body, perched solidly on the top of her baby bump. She’s looking at it morosely, as though wondering how all of this ever happened to her.

Frankenstein stops swivelling, drops his hoop to the ground, and steps out of it. He lifts hers back over her head – there’s no way it’s ever going to go in the other direction - and gently kisses her on the lips. Ah, I think. That’s how it happened.

At this point, the devil dog spots us, and runs immediately over to investigate. He sniffs my Converse, and I give him a quick tickle behind his velvety ears. Martha, who isn’t that keen on people but adores dogs, drops straight to the ground to let him lick her face. He does so enthusiastically, his tail wagging at the speed of light, as a lady dressed as some kind of evil nurse walks over to us. She’s wearing a slightly slutty, blood-spattered outfit, but offsets the short skirt with a pair of leggings underneath – like she’s not quite confident enough to go full slutty.

She’s not tall, and she’s curvy, and pretty, and has exactly the same kind of crazy hair as me, except hers is brown. Mainly brown – there is one green streak in the mass of locks, curling at the side of her face, half grown-out.

She holds out her hand for me to shake, and smiles at me with such warmth and kindness that I immediately want to adopt her as my big sister.

“Hi – I’m Laura, and this,” she says, pointing at the dog, “is Midgebo. He has no manners at all, I’m sorry. Welcome to Budbury.”

I nod, and smile, and try to look less bewildered than I actually feel.

“Erm … nice to meet you, and thank you. And don’t worry about the dog – Martha has no manners either.”

There’s a brief ‘humph’ noise from beneath the tangle of teenager and Labrador which lets me know she heard that, which is fine. I intended her to hear it.

“Laura … why is everyone dressed like this?” I ask, gesturing at the party with my fingers. I notice a table set off to one side, laden down with bottles of cider and cupcakes with tiny icing skulls on top and bowls of gooey jelly with what look like eyeballs floating in them.

“Oh! Well, we always dress like this on a Sunday …” she says, grinning. “Right before we sacrifice a goat to the Sacred Lord of Darkness.”

Martha’s face emerges from the flurry of Labrador, and she looks interested. Laura notices, and quickly shakes her head.

“No, sorry – I was kidding! No goat sacrifices here, I’m afraid. At least not as far as I know. It was Frank’s birthday party last night. That’s Frank, over there, the hula-hooping Count Dracula. It was his 81st. We always have a big fancy dress bash for him. Last year was the Wild West, this year was horror legends. We had all these outfits left over, and the food, and it was pretty much the last day of the holiday season, and we knew you guys were coming, and … well, any excuse for a party, in all honesty.”

I nod, as though that makes sense, while I hold out one hand to help Martha back up to her feet. Predictably enough, she completely ignores it and struggles up alone, leaving my hand hanging. I feel a mild flush flow over my cheeks – one of the many curses of The Ginger Brethren – and take a deep breath. What did I really expect? That we’d move to Dorset and Martha would suddenly turn into a model teen? She hadn’t told anyone to fuck off yet – I had to accept the small mercies and move on.

Laura also notices that, of course, and gives me a sympathetic smile. She points at the zombie pack, who I now see, closer up, are all teenagers – Martha’s age, maybe 14 through to 18 or thereabouts.

“The blonde zombie over there,” she says, gesturing at a petite girl with a long ponytail, “is my daughter, Lizzie. She’s almost 16. Next to her – the zombie in the beanie hat - is her boyfriend Josh, he’s 17, and a couple of their mates from the village.”

“Wow,” I say, gazing at them. “It’s impressive – the way she’s managed to incorporate black eyeliner into her zombie outfit.”

“Oh yes,” replies Laura, looking on proudly, “she wouldn’t be caught dead without her eyeliner – or even undead! And over there is my son Nate, he’s 13. He’s the junior Frankenstein. The pregnant Mummy is my sister Becca, and the cutie with her is Sam. Or Surfer Sam, as he’s known for obvious reasons. Frank is married to Cherie, in case you were wondering. And the girl with the pink hair is Willow, and Catwoman is Edie May. She’s 91, but don’t let that fool you – she actually won the hula hoop challenge, the others were just playing for the losers’ spots …”

It’s a lot to take in. A lot of names, and information, and stuff to remember. Details to file away. None of which seems to be easy at the moment, as all I can see in my mind’s eye is a 91-year-old Catwoman hip-swivelling her way to victory.

This place isn’t just weird – it’s super weird.

The thought must have come across on my face, because Laura is laughing at me, and Martha is edging away from me. For a change.

“Don’t worry, I know it seems a lot. And it’s all pretty strange – I only moved down here myself last summer, and it took me weeks to remember everyone’s names. I’ll be around to help you settle in, as much or as little as you like. I live here at the Rockery, and so does Matt. That’s Matt, over there – the scary doctor.”

She goes a little dreamy-eyed as she says this, and I can’t pretend I don’t see why. Matt is sitting off to the side, an elderly Border Terrier at his feet, strumming away on the guitar.

He’s big and beefy and even dressed in a white coat covered in blood, looks like the kind of doctor who would immediately raise your blood pressure. In a good way. Floppy chestnut brown hair, hazel eyes, all-round handsome. As though he senses us watching, he looks over, and waves at Laura. She waves back, and they give each other a smile that makes me feel like I don’t exist. That nobody else in the world exists. It’s sweet and lovely and intimate, and it straight away makes me feel lonely. I don’t think any man has ever smiled at me like that – certainly not while sober.

I drag my mind away from that thought, as it is bordering on self-pity, and instead look around to see how Martha is reacting to all of this insanity.

She is standing behind me, hands shoved in her pockets, and studiously ignoring the nearby zombie teenagers. My heart falls a little, and maybe breaks a little as well. I had hoped, as soon as I saw them, that it might make the difference – seeing people of the same age, of the same eye-liner inclination, of the same footwear tribe (most of the zombies are wearing Doc Martens, which never go out of fashion, even after the apocalypse). I suppose I’d hoped that she would see them as potential friends – but instead, she’s pretending not to see them at all.

I am gazing at Martha, and feeling sad, when Laura slips her arm into mine and links me.

“Don’t worry,” she says, quietly, following my gaze. “It just takes time. Give her a chance to get used to it all, to us. To the fact that you’ve dragged her kicking and screaming away from her friends.”

I tear my eyes away from Martha, and back to Laura. It sounds so simple when she says it, but I’m not so sure.

“Maybe,” I reply. “I hope, anyway. She’s … well, she’s been through a lot.”

“I know,” Laura answers, simply. “Cherie told me. And you might not know it to look at her now, but Lizzie was the same. She lost her dad. I lost my husband. We were broken when we arrived here, and she hated me for making her come. These days, she’s … well, she’s still a pain in the arse sometimes; she’s impossible to get out of bed, she’s addicted to her phone, she swears too much, and she punches Nate in the kidneys most days, but … well, that’s all normal pain-in-the-arse stuff, isn’t it? Nothing we can’t cope with.”

Wow, I think, looking at Laura through fresh eyes. I’d been standing here, feeling jealous of her and Matt, and assuming that I was looking at one of those perfect families. Mum, dad, two kids. Lashings of love all around.

And while I was right about the love – that much is obvious – I’d been wrong about the circumstances. Laura is a widow, and Lizzie and Nate have suffered the same kind of loss as Martha, and nothing is as simple as it seemed on the surface. Maybe, just maybe, this place will do the same for us – sprinkle some fairy dust on our lives until we reach the point where all I have to worry about with Martha is her lazing around in bed. Not, you know, overdosing in a nightclub toilet.

Martha herself has taken a walk, obviously not into the whole meet-and-greet party vibe, and is starting her new life in Dorset the way she probably intends to carry on: alone. I watch as she mooches from cottage to cottage, pausing to look at the names they all have engraved on slate plaques outside them, frowning as she does. She looks forlorn, and isolated, and very, very young. It’s like a kick in the teeth, and I suddenly wish we hadn’t come. Somehow, being surrounded by everyone else’s happiness – even if there is sadness just a layer beneath – feels like too much.

I have an urge to change my mind right then. To scoop Martha back up, and load her in the car, and drive us to the nearest pub, where I will happily let her use her fake ID and allow us both to get absolutely shitfaced.

Before I can give in and act on the impulse, Martha turns back, and joins us. Her face is slightly more animated than it has been all day, and she’s pulled her bobble out so her black hair is flowing over her shoulders.

“What’s the name of our cottage?” she asks, abruptly.

“Erm … Lilac Wine, I think?” I reply, frowning in confusion.

She nods, as though she’s just figured something out.

“Right. Jeff Buckley. And there’s Cactus Tree, which is Joni Mitchell, and Poison Ivy, which is the Rolling Stones, and Mad About Saffron, which is that hippy dude Donovan. Plus over there there’s one called Black Rose.”

She raises her eyebrows at me expectantly, and I answer: “Thin Lizzy?”

All of the cottages at the Rockery – a name which now makes much more sense – are named after songs. Quite cool songs as well, in a retro kind of way.

“Wow,” says Laura, shaking her head in awe. “I can’t believe you figured it out that quickly, and you know all the songs as well … you two are way cooler than us!”

Martha glances at her, glances at me, and replies: “Well, one of us is at least.”

It’s cheeky, and could have been nasty, if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s almost smiling. Not full on – not grinning or anything crazy like that – but definitely almost.

“We’re in Hyacinth House, behind the others and next to the pool,” says Laura, and waits a beat for us to figure that one out.

“The Doors,” I say, at exactly the same time as Martha. I resist the urge to offer her a high-five – I think we all know how that would end – and instead satisfy myself with a small, internal whoop of joy. Perhaps this will all be okay, after all. The healing power of rock music might at the very least have given us a chance.

Cherie wanders back over to us – I’ve seen her watching me and Laura, as though she’s giving us the chance to get acquainted before she butts back in. She’s perched her plastic fangs in her hair, and they look a bit like they might come back to life at any moment and start gnashing down on her head.

“Martha figured out all the cottage names straight away,” says Laura, eyes wide as though Martha has performed some kind of miracle.

“I’m not surprised,” replies Cherie, reaching out to smooth Martha’s hair behind her ears and somehow, amazingly, managing to keep her hand. “I could tell right away that this was the right place for these two.”