Читать книгу Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café: The only heart-warming feel-good novel you need! - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 18

Martha’s first day at college rolls round quickly, and I cling to it like it’s a lifeboat all made of hope. Perhaps, I think, this will change everything. Perhaps she will be inspired by her new teachers; enthused by her A-levels; won over by new friends. Perhaps she will finally decide to give this place a chance, and stop acting as though she’s been sentenced to death by Dorset.

The first dent in those rather pathetic hopes comes when she gets on the bus in the village. I drive her there, park up, and offer to wait with her.

“Worried I’ll do a runner?” she says, staring at me from the passenger seat.

“It wouldn’t be the first time. You did a runner from Miss Clarke’s class that time because you didn’t want to sing in the assembly.”

“I was eight!” she replies, sounding exasperated. “And you and mum were the ones who always told me to follow my instinct, that if something felt wrong, it probably was …”

“Oh. So it’s our fault it is?”

“Yes,” she snaps back, staring out of the car window at the centre of Budbury, “everything is.”

I follow her gaze to the bus stop. It wasn’t hard to find – there is in fact only one. In high season, tourist buses run through as they trek up and down the Jurassic Coast, but from this time of year onwards, there’s only two buses a day in both directions. Plus this one – the bus that takes local kids a few miles down the road to the high school and its college.

There is a small gang of young people hanging round the bus stop, as of course is usually the case in small towns. I’ve never figured out why the bus stop becomes the hub of under-age social activity, but it always seems to.

The weather feels cooler, with a brisk breeze blowing up from the coast, and the kids are wearing a lot of check flannel and beanie hats and chunky jumpers. The younger ones – including Nate and Lizzie, who’s in her last year at school – are in a hideous purple uniform, the older ones in jeans and boots.

“It could be worse,” I say, looking from them to Martha, who is dressed head to toe in black, nose stud in, dyed hair back-combed in a tribute to Amy Winehouse kind of way.

“Yeah? How?” she asks, looking genuinely confused.

“You could be a year younger, and have to wear that purple uniform.”

She snorts, but doesn’t respond. She’s too busy watching the school bus roll along the one narrow road that threads through the village. Her eyes squint at it, and her fingers clench into a fist around the backpack on her lap. I realise how nervous she is, beneath the anger and the tough veneer, and reach out to give her hand a very quick pat.

“Go on. You’ll be fine, you know – just give it a chance.”

She shoots me a look that might mean ‘go and drown yourself in the nearest toilet’, but I choose to interpret as ‘thank you, I will’, and climbs out of the car, slamming the door behind her. She strides over to the bus stop, head held high, strutting along as though she hasn’t got a care in the world. Attagirl, I think, smiling as she goes.

Lizzie and Josh and her gang have already boarded the bus, and I see Lizzie waving frantically at her through the window, banging on the glass to get her attention. She’s on the top deck – as the cool kids always are – and is making ‘come and sit with us’ gestures through the pane. Aaah, I think. What a sweetie.

Martha looks up at her, gives no response at all, and gets onto the bus. She’s the last one on, and I see her take a seat on her own, on the lower level. I cringe a little inside as I see her snub Lizzie, but know there isn’t much I can do about it.

Instead, I blow out a big breath as I watch the bus pull away, and feel … well, in all honesty, I feel relieved. This in turn makes me feel guilty, so I decide to get out of the car, and go for a walk. Isn’t this one of the reasons I wanted to come here, anyway? The endless paths and the endless cliffs and the endless space? Never mind that I’m so tired and ragged and borderline weepy that I could quite happily fall asleep in the car, and stay there until it’s time to collect Martha at the end of the day. No, that won’t do. I will go for a walk.

The village is small but perfectly formed, I see, as I amble along the narrow pavement. Small terraced houses line the road, along with a handful of shops – a pharmacy, a gift shop that has a 20% sale on conch shells, a butcher, some tea rooms. No book shop, which isn’t surprising but does make me sad. The world needs more book shops. I pass a small bakery, and the Community Hall advertising ‘zumablates’ for the over 60s, and navigate the flower-filled buckets outside the florists. I see a sign for the pet cemetery, which I vow to visit some time when I’m feeling less fragile, like in 2021.

I nod to people as I pass, a bit freaked out by all the ‘good mornings’ and smiles, and follow my nose down towards the coast. I see a hand-painted wooden sign for the Comfort Food Café, and decide that that’s probably where I’d been heading all along. It’s Cherie’s cafe, and Laura manages it, and Willow works there, and basically from what I heard on the day we arrived, it’s the absolute centre of the Budbury universe.

After about ten minutes of walking, I reach a small carpark, next to the bay. The bay is a perfect horse-shoe shape, the September sunlight streaking down onto waves that are racing in to foam over the sand. There are a few holiday-makers left, some with toddlers, some with dogs, all enjoying the last few days of what we could loosely call summer. There’s an ice cream van parked up, a bored-looking lad reading a collection of poetry by Yeats inside the cab. I silently applaud his taste, and start the trek up to the cafe itself.

The path is long but not steep, with low-level steps cut into it and a handrail to hold onto when it starts to feel so high it’s vertigo-inducing. I pause every now and then, and let myself soak up the view. The higher you get, the more the colours change: sea that looked grey and white from land level now looks iridescent, merged shades of blue and green and turquoise, rippling and rolling on its way into the bay.

The clifftops stretch off into the horizon on either side, yellow and red, rock meeting sand, jaggedly rising and falling as they disappear into the distance. I can see people walking along the paths, doing exactly the same as me, and pausing to enjoy the spectacle of the morning sunshine on the water. It’s so quiet as well – it may be the seaside, but it’s not the kind of place you find banana boats or fairground rides; all you can hear is the sound of the seagulls shrieking as they dive, the waves fizzing inland, and the occasional bark of a stick-chasing pooch.