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

I’m driving around Budbury and its beautiful surroundings in my little white van. It has a sign for the Budbury Pharmacy on the side, and I always feel a bit like Postman Pat when I do my rounds. I even asked Katie if I could borrow her cat Tinkerbell, but she put me off by reminding me that he was ginger, not black and white.

Despite the lack of a loyal and resourceful feline companion, I always enjoy doing this. It started small, dropping off a few prescriptions, but it’s expanded a lot. I think it was the thing with Edie last year that made me step things up.

When Edie developed pneumonia, it was only the fact that Katie checked up on her and had an instinct that something was wrong that saved her. We ended up breaking into her house in the village, and managed to get her off to the hospital with a supply of top-class antibiotics in the nick of time. If we hadn’t, it could all have ended very differently.

Edie’s lucky, in many ways, despite the tragedy that has touched her life. She’s lucky because she is at the heart of a watchful community, and because she has anextended circle of friends and family who love and cherish her beyond measure. We’ve all been keeping an eye on her ever since, through an unofficial Edie Watch rota that we all take part in.

Other people in our isolated little part of the world, though, aren’t quite so lucky. Sometimes its elderly people, like the man I’ve just visited – Mr Pumpwell. As well as having the most amusing name on the face of the planet, he also has type 2 diabetes, and lives on his own in a tiny freeholding miles away from any other human beings. That doesn’t bother him, as he views most human beings as well below a water vole on the evolutionary scale, and prefers his own company.

He’s a tough old bird and has lived that life for decades, making the land work for him, largely self-sufficient, never marrying or having kids, and only occasionally venturing into the big bright lights of the village itself. He’s almost eighty now, and still on his own, despite the offer of a place in sheltered accommodation.

He dismissed it, saying it was ‘for old people’, and stayed where he was. I suspect he’s got a point. He’s active and proud and he’d probably fade and wilt if he was uprooted, like a wildflower that can only exist in certain soil.

I understand that, and respect his choice, but also worry for him. For him and the surprisingly abundant amount of people in his situation.

Some rural communities can be like this – the young ones get frustrated at the lack of opportunity, or the hard battle of farming, and move away. The older ones are often left keeping the flame alive. They’re not always old, either – one of my clients is a woman in her fifties, living in a cottage in a vale so green and fertile it looks like something from one of those old Technicolor films from the olden days.She’s a widower, living with her adult son with Down’s Syndrome, who has complex needs and various health problems.

Then there’s a couple of new mums, out on farms where they don’t have access to baby groups or day centres or places like the Comfort Food Café, struggling with a double dose of motherhood and loneliness. There’s also a man called Charlie, whose seventy-seven-year-old wife has Alzheimer’s, coping alone after the unexpected death of their daughter.

All of this sounds a bit grim, but it isn’t any different than anywhere. I know from working in London that life in the big city can be just as isolating, just as much of a struggle, especially with the added pressures of urban poverty and air quality that suck the life out of you.

Here, though, I do at least feel like I can make a difference. It wasn’t entirely intentional – I didn’t sit down and make an action plan – unsurprisingly – it simply happened when I started delivering prescriptions. Katie’s learning to drive now, but until she can get behind a wheel on her own, she keeps the shop open while I do my visits.

In the early days, I’d stick to filling the prescriptions that the GPs sent over, then either popping them through the letterbox or dropping them off with a quick hello. Bit by bit, though, it changed and grew and became something much more time-consuming but also much more satisfying.

It started with Mr Pumpwell offering me a cup of tea, and me staying for a chat. Then one of the young mums asking me to take a look at some nappy rash. Then I began talking to Charlie about his wife’s condition, and about Lynnie’s, and suggesting ways he might be able to get more help.

Over the months, it’s become something of a lifeline – not only for the clients but for me as well. I’ve always struggled with being stuck in one place for too long, and doing this helps me to get out and about, spend time both on my own and with other people, and to feel useful. I’ve only recently started to realise the importance of that – of feeling useful.

Coming back here - helping look after Lynnie, starting the pharmacy, making friends - has changed the way I view the world. Before, I’d have been horrified at the idea of being trapped here, in this situation, with all these responsibilities. I’d have done anything to escape such a terrible fate.

But now? Now I see that it took me a long time to grow up. I’m not all the way there yet, but I’m doing my best – and I’m coming to understand that being useful isn’t a death sentence where joy and fun are concerned. It’s something we all need – it’s the reason why Laura freaks out about not being able to work full-time at the café, and Lynnie insists on trying to cook for us, and Zoe’s getting worried about her step-daughter Martha going off to university this year.

So, yeah, I might have started late, after decades of utter uselessness, but now I’m trying – and these rambling visitations in the depths of Dorset are a big part of it.

They also mean that I have a chunk of time to let my mind wander. My life is busy, with Lynnie and family and Finn and running a small business. There’s not a lot of unscheduled downtime. I’ve learned over the years that my brain works at its own pace – there’s no use trying to force myself to pay attention, or fix something, or come to a conclusion. It simply doesn’t work.

But if I give myself a bit of space, and let the thoughts and events percolate through the many layers of illusion and mazes of procrastination, I get there in the end. I see things more clearly and make decisions, or simply amuse myself by planning practical jokes I can play on my siblings. Nothing keeps the spirits up like cling film on the toilet seat, does it?

Mr Pumpwell is my last visit of the day, and I am driving across an especially lovely stretch of road alongside Eggardon Hill. Eggardon is an old Iron Age fort, strikingly weird and beautiful, with views over all the tumbling fields and out to sea. It’s also one of those places that Lynnie used to treat as some kind of spiritual mecca when we were kids, telling us stories about its folklore and history. She’s not the only one to feel that way– for as long as I can remember there’ve been legends attached to it, everything from ghosts to UFOs.

Some people don’t like it, and say it has a bad energy, and share tales of how their cars stalled unexpectedly or they saw dead birds fall from the sky. Maybe I’m more in tune with a bit of bad energy, but I’ve always loved it – it looks different every single day, depending on the way the sun hits it, or the cloud cover, or the colour of the sky.

Today, like everything else around here, it’s bathed in dazzling yellow sunlight, the distant sparkle of blue waves beckoning as I drive towards the coast. The view gives me a bit of a natural high, as does knowing that my next stop – quite legitimately – is at Briarwood.

An alarmingly high number of the brainiacs seem to have asthma, or eczema, or allergies. Maybe there’s a scientific study to be had there – maybe they’ve spent more time indoors because of those things, and ended up as whizzkids. Or maybe spending all their time indoors being whizzkids didn’t help. Who knows? Anyway, I have several white paper bags to drop off, and as it’s my last visit of the day, it’ll give me an excuse to see my handsome Viking Star Lord.

It’s been over two weeks since I bared all on the Cliffside. And by that I mean emotionally – it was too cold to get naked physically.

On the night, Finn didn’t react with big speeches, or pep talks, or further queries. He could obviously tell that unstoppering that particular bottle of homebrew had unsettled me, and was wise enough to not push me any further.

What he did do, and what he has continued to do, is be even more … Finn. By that I mean he’s been kind and strong and funny, and done what he has this amazing skill at doing: allowing me to be myself without making me feel crappy about it.

Don’t get me wrong, he calls me out on any self-indulgence, or any time I get ridiculous. But he also knows the difference between me being a bit on the wacky and confused end of the spectrum, and me genuinely being worried or anxious. It’s like he’s some kind of mind-reader.

I still can’t figure out quite why he’d be interested in reading my mind – I’m more of a cult classic than a best-seller – but I’m not complaining.

On the whole, I’ve felt better since I talked to him about things. Like a weight has been lifted, or a boil’s been popped.

I’ve also spoken to Willow and Van, and while I wouldn’t say it gets easier to remember,it definitely gets easier to describe – I’ve got the condensed version down to tweet-size now. Plus, I seem to be able to talk about it more dispassionately, without the snot and the tears.

So far, nobody has condemned me, or called me names, or chased me out of the village with a pitchfork. I don’t know why I thought they would – nobody gets through life without making at least one big mistake, do they? Admittedly, in my case it seemed to be a decade or so of making mistakes, but ultimately I hurt nobody but myself.

Talking it through with Finn has at least made me consciously reduce the amount I blame myself for hurting Seb. All these years, I’ve felt bad that I hadn’t been able to help him – that in fact I’d made it worse. Then I ran away, and that can’t have helped either. It all made me feel cowardly and weak and without any value at all.

But, as Finn calmly said when I raised this, Seb was already well on his path when we first met. He could have married Mother Theresa and not have changed course. Most importantly, he’s made me realise that everything that happened with Seb is in the past – and I can’t let it affect my future, or my present.

And my present, I think, as I pull up and park on the gravel driveway in front of Briarwood, is damned good. I’m healthy, I’ve cut down to one ciggie a day, Lynnie’s symptoms are manageable, I have my work, my friends, and my man. I’m satisfied in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever been before, and am fighting the urge to expect some kind of diary irony. I don’t want to carry on spoiling what I’ve got by worrying about what I might lose.

I grab my container full of prescription packages and go into the building. I’ve seen several other cars parked outside, so I’m expecting company.

What I’m not expecting is to be confronted by the combined menfolk of Budbury prancing up and down the hallway like they’re performing some kind of impromptu fashion show.

They’re all here: Finn, Becca’s partner Sam, Cal, Tom, my brother Van, and Matt, Laura’s soon to be husband.

They’re all also wearing outrageously pink suits. I stop dead in my tracks and stare at Sam as he strikes a pose, hands on hips. I burst out laughing, because why wouldn’t I? These men are all amazing in their own way. Sam looks like a surfer and works as a coastal ranger; Cal is a rugged cowboy type of dude; Matt is a vet; Tom is a millionaire inventor, and Finn is … well, perfectly Finn.

They all look different – different hair colours, different builds, different heights – but seeing them all en masse, dressed head to toe in pink, is breathtakingly silly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, putting my packages down and surveying them all in various stages of embarrassment, ‘did I interrupt a flamingo convention?’

Sam responds by standing on one leg and flapping his arms about while I walk around, examining them all. The suits are all different – Sam’s a bit seventies, Matt’s a classic wedding outfit with tailcoat, Finn’s very well tailored – but they’re all very, very pink. Different shades, but undeniably pink. Even their shoes are pink – ranging from Tom’s Converse to Van’s spray-painted steel-toed boots to Matt’s petal-pale dress shoes.

I knew this was happening, but it’s the first time I’ve seen it in reality – and it is nothing short of spectacular.

I walk over to Matt, take his sheepish-looking face between my hands, and give him a big kiss.

‘Laura,’ I say to him, ‘is a very lucky woman. You all look amazing.’

‘Yes, well,’ he replies, flustered, looking over my shoulder in a bid to avoid eye contact. ‘We couldn’t have done it without your sister and your mum.’

This all started that day in the café, when Becca revealed that Laura’s dream wedding was entirely pink. Due to the advanced state of her baby-growing venture, and because Cherie loves to organise a good party, the wedding planning has been left to her friends. And her friends – me included – decided that if Laura wanted a pink wedding, then she’d darn well get a pink wedding.

Willow and Lynnie, who were always more artsy and craftsy than me, have been busy with dye packs, creating these dream outfits for the men – and the fact that everything’s been home-coloured has resulted in a splendid range of different pinks. Finn’s, I notice, is at the pastel end of the colour chart – and it actually goes well with the golden skin and the blue eyes and the blond hair. The man would look good in a suit made entirely of used kebab wrappers, damn him.