Читать книгу Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 14

Matt is, as promised, every bit the young Harrison Ford. He’s tall, on the brawny side, and has floppy chestnut brown hair that needs a trim. He’s quiet, softly spoken, and seems to truly come alive when he’s talking to Laura.

My sister, sitting next to him at the big table, surrounded by friends and her new family, looks just as vibrant. She and Matt are chatting to other people, but I can tell by the way they’re sitting that beneath that table, their legs are crushed up against each other’s. Like they can’t bear to break contact.

I’m struck again by how gloriously different she is now. This time last year, she was functioning, but still crippled by grief at David’s loss. Those first Christmases without him were pure torture, for everyone involved.

The kids got the best and brightest presents out there, simply because she blew a small chunk of her insurance money on them, in an attempt to make up for the life she knew they were lacking. I remember her nibbling at a few mouthfuls of her turkey, the kids quiet and withdrawn, my parents desperate to find a way to reach her.

They couldn’t. All we could do was play along with the fake smiles and the charade of familial unity she chose to present to us, and help out with the kids as much as we could. The real Laura, the one that was suffering, was buried beneath the school runs and the domestic-goddess cooking and the relentless walking of an old, fat dog.

Now, though, Matt had managed the impossible – he’d reached her. They all had, all of these people, here, gathered around this table, in this café. Closed to the public now, open just to us, celebrating something odd – my arrival in Budbury. The prodigal sister, joining in the feast.

Cherie is at the head of the table, sipping her wine and laughing joyfully at something Frank has just whispered to her. Frank himself – always known as Farmer Frank to me – is also grinning, his weather-worn face a road map of lines and experience, his blue eyes shining almost as brightly as the silver of his hair. His grandson, Luke, is with him – an eighteen-year-old sunshine kid who grew up in Australia, but is staying with him for a while, doing work experience with Matt on his gap year.

There’s the Scrumpy Jones collective, as they’re nicknamed. Joe, the dad, lean and dark and speaking with a Dorset accent so thick I can barely understand him. Joe runs the Cider Cave, and his wife, Joanne, is a frosted piece of eighties hair who looks unhappy to be out in company. Their son, Josh, is Lizzie’s boyfriend – a lanky beanpole of a sixteen-year-old, wearing a beanie hat and a checked shirt that looks like it needs a wash.

Lizzie is by his side, doing something with her phone, occasionally flashing him a smile that tells me he is the absolute centre of her entire world. Scary, that look – I used it once before, myself, when I wasn’t much older than her. When a boy like Josh was the centre of my entire world too. He’s a manager at the local Aldi now, Shaun, and I sometimes bump into him when I’m shopping.

We both pretend we haven’t seen each other – him bustling away to make an announcement at the check-out, me taking a sudden interest in the sweet potatoes. Even after all these years, all this life, it still cuts. Still stirs up thoughts and feelings that I know will derail me if I let them. I can only hope that Lizzie has a happier ending than I did, and be there for her if she doesn’t.

Willow, the pink-haired supermodel from the future who works at the café, is sitting with Nate. She has tattoos and piercings and generally looks like a handful of trouble. I’m pretty sure we’ll get on well. The two of them are playing noughts and crosses, and the bet seems to be for who loads the dishwasher once our feast is over.

Next to me is Edie May. I can’t put into words how much I already love Edie May. She is ninety years old and looks like a naughty imp. Her grey hair is permed and cut close to her tiny head.

Every one of these people already feels familiar to me through Lizzie’s summer photos and my conversations with Laura. I know that each of them has a very special comfort food that the café provides – for Frank, it’s the burned bacon butties his late wife used to serve up for him. For Joe, it’s the almond biscotti that remind him of his childhood holidays with family in Italy.

For Edie, it’s an extra portion of whatever’s going – to be taken back to her tiny house in the village, as a treat for the fiancé who was killed in the war. To Edie, though, he’s still real – and who am I to disagree?

‘You’re not eating much of your lasagne, my love,’ she says, pointing at my plate. She’s right. I’ve been squishing it around for a while, hoping nobody will notice. It’s a great lasagne. Laura made it, so of course it is. But I’m feeling a little… well, trapped. I’m used to my own company. To dinners for one in front of the TV. To doing whatever the hell I like.

Here, I am surrounded by people who expect… well, I have no idea what they expect. They clearly all love and adore Laura and are willing to love and adore me by default. The problem is, I am nowhere near as lovable as my sister, and am sure to say or do something inappropriate that proves it before very long.

‘I ate earlier, Edie,’ I reply, meeting wise old eyes that are submerged in a layer of lines and creases. ‘In fact I’ve been eating all day. From the moment I got here, I seem to have been presented with nothing but food…’

‘Well, that’s the nature of the beast, my dear. It’s how those ladies over there – your sister, Cherie – show that they care about us, isn’t it? If they were florists, we’d all be draped in roses, wouldn’t we? Anyway. Pudding’s coming now. At least you saved a space, eh?’

She gives me a little wink and I automatically wink back. She winks again and I return it. We sit there, twitching at each other, for a good minute or so, until we both dissolve into laughter at how silly we’re being. If this is what being in your nineties is like, it might be worth hanging around for.

I feel a soft, wet touch on my ankle and realise that the dog is under the table. At least I hope he is. Midgebo is a delightful bringer of chaos – not yet one, but huge, all shiny black fur and typical Labrador energy. I sneak a chunk of bread down by my side and he almost takes my hand off. He has yet to develop table manners, it seems, and is probably having a fine old time under there, minesweeping.

Willow’s dog – a Border Terrier called Bella Swan – is tucked away in her basket in the corner of the room, far too classy to get involved in such degrading shenanigans.

Willow herself is now clearing the table, with Nate and Lizzie’s help, as Cherie emerges from the kitchen with an enormous trifle. I see that it is made with chocolate custard, and understand immediately that Laura has made it just for me. It was always my favourite when I was growing up. I used to make it with packets of Angel Delight and eat a whole bowl to myself, locked in the airing cupboard, emerging covered in gunk and holding a sore tummy. I was a delightful child.