Читать книгу Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 12

I arrive at the Rockery, where Laura now lives, just as evening is drawing in. The promised snow has arrived, coming in small ineffectual flurries, none of which has settled. Half-hearted snow, really a very poor effort.

I was tired on the journey, and almost hypnotised by the sight of white flakes landing on my windscreen and promptly getting squished away by the wipers. It felt wrong somehow, like I was committing some random and callous act of snowflake genocide.

I know, when I start to have thoughts like these, that I probably need a good sleep.

It is strange pulling into the gravel-topped carpark at the cottages; an odd feeling of déjà vu, even though I have never been here in the flesh. As soon as Laura and Lizzie and Nate arrived here over the summer, Lizzie started taking pictures and posting them on her Instagram account.

As a result of living those months vicariously through social media, I feel as though I have been here before. That I’ve already seen the smooth green lawn and the little fountain in the middle of it. That I’ve already strolled past the individual cottages with their odd names: Cactus Tree and Lilac Wine and Poison Ivy. They’re all named after bands or songs from the sixties and seventies, christened by Laura’s former rock-chick boss and owner of the cottages, Cherie.

I feel as though I have already stood in this very spot, looking around at the snow-dusted trees and little patios and the dark, rolling hills beyond, but on much sunnier days. It was a scorching summer – destined to become one of those famous ones, talked about in the way my parents still do about 1976 and 1977, when there was a hosepipe ban and the Queen’s Jubilee and Britain basically turned into the Med with strikes and bell-bottomed trousers.

Now, though, at the start of December, the sky is a dull gunmetal grey, patchy clouds marking it like bleach stains. The gravel is damp from the failed snow, and the cottages that are inhabited are lit up, bright lights shining from windows, curtains starting to be drawn.

It’s still beautiful here, but not the oasis of wildflowers and birdsong that I have been programmed to expect by my second-hand encounter with the place throughout July and August. Lizzie’s Instagram pics have slowed down since she started to live here for real, so for me, it’s a sudden jump from the height of summer to the bleak midwinter. It’s odd, like I’m in a movie and we’ve just done a huge flash-forward.

I heft my bag over my shoulder, lock the car and enjoy a few more moments of solitude before I enter the cauldron of life that I expect my sister’s cottage to be.

Don’t get me wrong – I love that cauldron of life. I’m thrilled to be diving into it for a while. But I have lived alone since I was eighteen years old and have never shared my space as an adult human being. Not even with a cat, or a budgie.

I am used to solitude and it is used to me. We understand each other, me and solitude. I don’t get annoyed when it keeps me awake at night with its echoing loneliness, and it’s always cool about me sometimes bringing friends home to chase it away for a while.

Like a grumpy but dedicated couple, though, we always come back to each other at the end of the day.

Now, I am voluntarily putting myself in a situation where I will be surrounded by people for a whole month. People I love, admittedly, but still… it’s not going to be easy. I have to be careful with myself, I know that. I have to watch my mental health, stay on an even keel, and try super-hard not to let things start to swamp me. Because not only are there all those people, but it’s bloody Christmas as well.

I freeze on the spot for a second, feeling my resolve falter; feeling my fear start to twitch and flutter inside me like a moth trapped in my intestines. I could still escape, a little voice tells me. Me and my solitude could jump straight back into my bright-red Suzuki Swift (my Noddy car, according to my sister), and leg it up the motorway. There would be nothing left to show I was ever here. Well, apart from the Krispy Kremes. It’d be mean to take those with me.

I’m not really considering it, I tell myself. I wouldn’t really do anything so insane. And yet… my fingers are gripping the car keys so hard I know they’ll leave bright-red marks, and I’m chewing my lips, and I’m already planning the reverse route…

‘Freeze!’ says Laura, emerging from a path by the side of the lawn. She is pointing a finger at me like a fake gun and walking briskly in my direction. ‘We have you surrounded; don’t even think about making a run for it!’

I laugh out loud. I have to, really. She knows me way too well.

I plonk the doughnut box down on the roof of the car and meet her half way. We engulf each other in a big, comfy hug, and I feel at least some of the anxiety drain out of me. As soon as she has her arms around me, I wonder why on earth I was worried. Why was I feeling so crazy?

That, however, is the mystery of The Crazy, isn’t it? It doesn’t really make sense, or it would be called The Logical instead. And that wouldn’t sound right – I mean, nobody ever spends a night with me and then says ‘hey, you’re such a Logical Bitch’. It’s always the other one.

We pull apart and I get my first proper look at my sister. It is a look that makes me feel immediately much happier. We both have dark-brown hair, but while mine is long and straight; hers is wild and curly and all over the place. She dyed a strand of it bright pink over the summer – I suspect alcohol was involved – and that is partly grown out, but still there, flicking around vividly in the fading light.

She’s wearing a pair of washed-out old jeans with grass stains on the knees and a huge baggy cardigan covered in tufts of dog fur and red-and-green striped socks with open-toed Birkenstock sandals. There is a smear of something that looks like icing on her cheekbone and I notice as she gets closer that one of her socks has a big hole in it, letting a pink-painted nail pop through.

Despite the disaster zone that is her outfit, she has never looked more radiant.

Her green eyes are bright and clear, her skin is smooth beneath her still-clinging summer tan and she literally can’t get the grin off her face. She is sparkling, from the inside out, like Edward Cullen in sunlight.

She looks like the old Laura. The Laura who was happy. The Laura I knew before the imposter came, the fake Laura who was so smashed up by grief and longing that she was like a mutant, a hollow shell wearing a pale imitation of my sister’s face.

I don’t know whether it is the healing power of time, or her new job, or her new friends, or her new man, or just the sea air down in Dorset, but something has changed in her. It’s been a long time coming, and it fills me with joy.

I pause, and say a little prayer of thanks to whoever the Supreme Commander in the Sky may be. I also throw up a little hello to David, the husband she lost. Because he, of all people, would be pleased to see this transformation – he would want her to be happy, I know he would.

Almost without me noticing, my eyes have filled up with tears, and I’m only alerted to the fact when a couple of them blob their way down my cheeks. An inappropriate response, I know – but that’s kind of my speciality subject.

‘You okay?’ she asks, stepping back and giving me some room. As I said, she knows me too well.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Just a bit freaked out. I’ve not inhaled traffic fumes for over an hour now. I think I’m going into some kind of detox.’

‘Yeah. It gets you like that. Don’t worry if you hear some strange noises, either. There’s a cow near here that sounds like it’s having a rave every night.’

‘That sounds udderly terrifying,’ I reply, giving her a wink. She groans, which is totally fair.

‘Come on. The kids are about to explode.’

I retrieve the Krispy Kremes and follow her through, down the path, past the other cottages. I glance across as we near Black Rose, the big house on the corner where Matt the Hot Vet lives, and I see lights on in his windows. I imagine he is sitting inside, looking like Han Solo, playing the guitar while he single-handedly saves the lives of a litter of pug puppies.

‘Is Matt in?’ I ask, already knowing the answer. ‘I should take him a doughnut and give him that Princess Leia outfit. There’s nothing that says Christmas quite like a bit of sordid cosplay.’

It has been a standing joke between us since the two of them met that Laura should dress up in Leia’s famous slave-girl costume. When I suggested this, months ago, I was simply being rude and provocative, which is often the case with me. But since their relationship took off, I got a bit more serious about it and ordered her one off eBay. It will be an amusing Christmas gift, if nothing else.

She glances at me over her shoulder and I see that she is smiling. Good, I think. Not only is it all still going well, she’s not even embarrassed about it.

‘Maybe later,’ she says. ‘For the time being, you have to help the kids do the tree.’

I nod, but as soon as she turns away from me, pull a face that reflects my true feelings: I’d rather have a threesome with the Chuckle Brothers and a vat of olive oil than engage in such a horrendously festive act.

‘And stop pulling a face,’ she says, without even looking back. ‘Christmas is all about the little ones.’

I resist the urge to point out that her kids aren’t so little any more, as to mothers – including our own – we simply always are, no matter what physical evidence there is to the contrary. Lizzie is fifteen now, and Nate is thirteen. They are terrible teens, I think, as we approach Laura’s cottage – Hyacinth House, named after a Doors track. They are probably only pretending to still be into Christmas to keep their mum happy.

As I walk through the cottage door, I am almost deafened by the sound of Christmas crackers being pulled, party poppers going off, and two excited children screaming in unison. I am immediately showered in bits of silly string, glittery streamers and handfuls of foil confetti.

‘Happy Christmas, Auntie Becca!’ they shout, rushing towards me and forcing a bright green paper hat onto my head.

Hmmm. So much for that idea. I am clearly alone in my hatred of all things mistletoe and wine.

I try to smile, because that seems like the proper thing to do in the circumstances, but I feel my face almost cracking in half with the effort.

I rub my eyes clear of the confetti, pull the thickest strands of silly string out of my hair, and look up at my niece and nephew and sister.

All three of them are also now wearing paper party hats and all three of them are creased up in hysterical laughter. Lizzie is holding her stomach, pointing at me and giggling so much she can hardly breathe. Nate is waving another party popper around like a machete and Laura is leaning against the wall, choking on her own guffaws. It would serve her right if she did.

‘Oh gosh,’ says Lizzie, straightening up and wiping tears from her eyes. ‘The look on your face! Brilliant!’

‘You are all,’ I say, standing tall and using my very best Haughty Queen of Hearts accent, ‘a frightful shower of bastards. Off with your heads!’

This provokes another round of laughter and it is so infectious that I am forced to join in. It might take me half an hour in the shower to get rid of all the crap I am now coated in, but I suppose, from their perspective – at a push and if I’m feeling generous – that their Christmas ambush was pretty funny.

In an act of mean-spirited but necessary revenge, I open the lid of the box of Krispy Kremes and proceed to take one big bite from every single one of the cakes. This is both childish and extremely satisfying, and by the time I dodge their attempts to grab them off me and flee with my mouth stuffed full of icing into the living room, I am feeling much better. A tiny bit sick, but much better.

The living room, I realise as I look around, is again both familiar and strange. Familiar, because Lizzie’s summertime photos had already revealed it in all its chintzy, uber-floral, beamed ceiling glory. Strange because literally every available surface is now covered in Christmas decorations.

There are angels and snowmen dangling on strings from the beams, as well as a reindeer mobile where all the little plastic animals have flashing red noses. The glittery confetti in the shapes of trumpets and stars is strewn across the TV stand, the coffee table and the bookcase, and even in the strands of the fluffy rug.

The mantelpiece over the open fire is draped with fake holly boughs and fairy lights, and the whole room is dominated by the ridiculously large Christmas tree in the corner. It’s a real one, not like the fake green thing we had as kids, and it looks like it’s been donated by the King of Norway.

I feel my eyes widen as I look it up and down, and wonder if there are furry rodents nesting in there. It is, I see gratefully, already decorated, and that Laura had only been winding me up when she said the kids wanted me to do it with them.

The tree is a huge, messy confection of tinsel and baubles and lights and chocolates on strings, although only on the upper branches, which I suspect is down to the frequent visits of a Labrador puppy.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Nate, sidling up to me and nudging me. I’m sure he actually wants a big cuddle, but is too cool to initiate contact. I’ll get him later, catch him unawares when his guard is down. ‘It’s the biggest tree we’ve ever had.’

‘That’s because Matt chopped it down for us,’ adds Lizzie, rolling her eyes, and adopting a sing-song Disney Princess voice. ‘And Matt is the biggest strongest man in the whole wide world! And he has a magical axe! And he went into the haunted forest all alone, just for us, so we could have the most special Christmas ever!’

Laura sticks her tongue out at her, and I am impressed and relieved with how relaxed they are around each other. It’s not just Laura who’s changed, I think. It’s all of them. For so long, before they left Manchester and moved here, everyone was walking on eggshells. Nobody wanted to upset any of them and they didn’t want to upset each other, and the horrible end result was that absolutely everyone was upset all the damn time.

Now, I see them the way they should be. Happy. Loud. Rude. Perfect. If I have to tolerate a merry Christmas and spend the next month picking glitter off my clothes, it will be worth it just to see this.

I finally finish off the last mouthful of doughnut – some kind of white chocolate and raspberry, I think, but by this stage my tastebuds have all died – and smile.

‘I thought you were waiting for me to decorate the tree?’ I say. ‘Now I’m so disappointed. I’ve been looking forward to that all day…’

‘We saved you the best bit, Auntie Becca,’ replies Nate, grinning so hard I know something amusing is coming. ‘It’s a very special fairy we made to go on the top.’

Laura passes me a cone-shaped object that seems to be constructed from an old toilet roll tube and some paper doilies. The head is a battered ping-pong ball and glued to it, as its face, is a cut-out photo of me when I was about eight.

I recognise the picture. It was taken the year I caused a scene because I didn’t get Mutant Turtle toys from Santa. Originally, it would have been of both me and Laura – her smiling like a perfect angel, of course, the bringer of joy. Next to her, I look like Satan’s favourite stepchild, my face a picture of absolute misery. Seriously, it’s a face that only a mother could love – and I’m not entirely sure my attitude at this time of year has improved very much at all.

I nod in recognition and announce, in a kind of Gandalf the Grey Setting Off to Mordor voice: ‘I shall accept this sacred mission. Onward, to the top of the tree!’

I clamber up onto the dining table, realising once I’m up there that I can’t stand straight or I’ll bonk my bonce on the beams, and do a crab-like shuffle until I am perfectly positioned next to the enormo-tree.

I ceremoniously place the hideous me-fairy on the very top spikey bit, and manage to get down again without killing myself. This earns me a round of applause, and, joy of joys, a couple more party poppers get sprayed into my hair.

‘Now, we can’t wait to show you the rest of the cottage!’ says Lizzie, enthusiastically. ‘Everywhere is decorated – especially your room! That’s the best of all!’

‘Oh goody,’ I respond, not even attempting to sound genuine now. The swines are doing this on purpose. ‘I can barely wait.’

‘Actually,’ adds Laura, absently reaching out and picking random stuff out of my hair in a borderline invasive way that reminds me one hundred per cent of my own mother, ‘we have a bit of a surprise for you on that front. Call it an early Christmas present, if you like.’

‘Okay,’ I reply, moving back a few steps to stop her fiddling. She immediately realises what she was doing and grins in apology. ‘Hit me with it. Inflatable Santa in the bed? Live donkey by my manger? ‘Now That’s What I Call Christmas’ 108 piped direct into my room through invisible speakers?’

‘None of that,’ says Laura, ‘though they are all excellent suggestions, and I’ll tuck them away for future use. No, the early Christmas present is a bit simpler than that – it’s a place of your own to stay while you’re in Dorset.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, frowning in confusion. The plan was always that I would stay in Nate’s room and he would bunk in with Lizzie on a camp bed, sofa-surfing if she tried to kill him in his sleep.

‘I mean your own flat. Des res, great location, magnificent sea views, and best of all, a totally Christmas-free zone…’

‘Cherie’s apartment!’ trills Lizzie, bopping up and down in anticipation.

I give her a sideways glance, wondering what’s so exciting about Cherie’s apartment. Possibly, I think, given Cherie’s colourful past, it comes complete with a life-size stone circle and a set of bongs carved from parsnips.

‘It’s the best place in the world and you’re going to love it,’ Lizzie says. I’m not sure if I should be upset that she’s so keen to get rid of me, but understand a little better when she adds: ‘And, you know, I’ll be able to stay with you sometimes. Away from irritating brothers and mums who try and make me eat broccoli. And…well, it’s right by Josh’s house, and…’

‘She gets the picture,’ interrupts Laura, giving Lizzie a shut-your-trap-little-miss look. It works, and Lizzie is immediately silent. Josh is the boyfriend, in case you wondered.

Laura turns to me and smiles, her eyes amused at what must be a pretty befuddled expression on my face.

‘So, I’ve come all this way to see you guys and you’re kicking me out already?’ I say, half-joking.

‘Not at all. You’re more than welcome to stay in Hyacinth, of course you are. But… well, the offer is there. Cherie is finally – finally! – ready to admit defeat and stay with Frank, at least until the night before the wedding, and she offered. Said she didn’t want her little Moroccan boudoir to feel all neglected.’

I grin at that description. It does sound brilliant. Straight away I can picture it: a little attic hideaway, all silk cushions and joss sticks and bowls of figs…

‘I thought,’ says Laura, walking through to the kitchen, dodging low-flying angels as she goes, ‘that it might be nice. I know you’re going to love it here, but I know you’ll love it even more if you have your own space.’

I look around, at the tree and the streamers and the plastic holly and the big, battered sofa that’s covered in floral fabric and placed strategically in front of the TV. I imagine us all, crammed in here, sharing this space, breathing this air, inhaling this tinsel, being force-fed sickly festive movies about angels’ wings and miracles, while I slowly die inside.

If I have my own space, at least I can watch Bad Santa without worrying that it’s too rude for the kids to see. If I have my own space, I can declare war on Christmas. If I have my own space, I can stretch out and walk round in my knickers and not bother washing the dishes until I’m good and ready.

If I have my own space, I can stay just about in control – surely the greatest Christmas gift of all?

‘You’re right,’ I say, nodding. ‘I would love that.’

‘Good,’ she replies, opening the oven and pulling out a huge, steaming pizza. ‘But tonight, you’re stuck with us – and guess what? We’ve got Elf on DVD…’