Читать книгу Sunshine at the Comfort Food Cafe - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 10

From the outside, it looks like something the Famous Five would drive round in if they’d teamed up with the Scooby Doo gang. It’s a vintage-looking VW camper van, with the distinctive spare wheel on the front and a raised roof space popped upright. One half is painted bright, shiny red, and the rest is a rich, gleaming shade of cream. And while it might look vintage, I can tell it’s actually brand new from all the glistening chrome and this year’s licence plate.

It’s parked up in a clearing in the woodlands on the far side of the pond, a thick canopy of richly leaved trees hanging over and around it, sunlight streaming through the shade and reflecting off its glossy paint in strange, darting patterns.

It’s a beautiful spot – I remember my mum telling me about the ancient hazel trees here, and how they’ve been added to with oak and ash, creating this idyllic corner of what is an already beautiful area. The floor is carpeted with bluebells and anemone, in swathes of lilac and white and yellow; butterflies with orange tips to their wings are fluttering around, and the air is drizzled with the sound of birdsong.

I pause, and breathe it in, letting the joy of it all filter through. It’s all so green and perfect and warm.

‘Isn’t it exciting?’ I say to Tom, turning to smile at him. ‘How spring always comes around, every single year?’

He grins, and doesn’t look alarmed, which is a good start. I can’t help but feel happy, and the beauty of this luscious place is erasing the stresses and strains of the last couple of days. Many things might be wrong in the Willow-verse – but right here, right now, it all feels gorgeous.

‘It is,’ he answers. ‘Even for an indoor boy like me. That’s part of why I did this … bought this van, came here. I could stay in the posh hotel on the coast, but I wanted to try and … I don’t know. Loosen up, I suppose.’

At first, I’m a little confused by that statement. I mean, he’s wearing a Godzilla T-shirt and hasn’t tied his shoelaces and has a dog called Rick Grimes. All the signs are pointing towards this guy being a mega-geek; one of those people who paints tiny figures of elves and goes to comic conventions.

Admittedly, he’d easily be the best-looking bloke at a comic convention – he could actually be an actor in one of those shows, like Supernatural or The Vampire Diaries, full of chiselled dudes with brilliant one-liners and tortured pasts. But still – he has that geeky vibe. Which is traditionally not one that needs any loosening up.

But as soon as I follow him into the camper, leaving Bella and Rick outside to sniff interesting pieces of wood and chase caterpillars, I understand exactly what he means.

Outside, it looks hippy – expensive, but hippy. Pure retro. Inside, there’s a completely different feeling. To say it’s tidy would be an understatement. Everything is put away; the surfaces of the small table and cooking area are spotless; the pull-down bed is made with corners so sharp you could poke your eye out with them, and there’s not a single sign of human habitation.

The front seats are covered in pristine cream leather, and the upholstery on the furniture looks brand new. Well, it is brand new – but if I’d been living here, it would all look a lot more messy by now.

There’d be a cereal box left out, or a book lying on the bed, or a pair of Doc Martens hanging from the ceiling, or some photos tacked up to the walls. I like my cleaning job – but in my own space, I like to be surrounded by a little bit of … well, me, I suppose.

After my mum’s diagnosis, which was a long and torturous journey in itself, we were warned that she might lose some of her spatial awareness as the condition progressed, and find even familiar places difficult to navigate. We were told to expect bruised hips from hitting tables, or confusion about which way a door opened.

As it turns out, that hasn’t happened – yet. She can still pull off advanced yoga poses, and is physically as fit as a fiddle. Not that I’ve ever figured out why a fiddle is especially fit, but there you go – one of life’s many mysteries. But we did de-clutter the cottage a bit in anticipation – we did it together, on one of her very lucid days, so we wouldn’t get rid of anything she’d later desperately want.

It didn’t totally work. We had weeks of anguish where she was insisting someone had broken in and stolen her old knitting basket, even though I knew it had gone to the tip, but it does mean that the cottage is a lot less crowded than it used to be. Maybe that’s why I still cling on to the random-ness of my own room.

Tom, I can see, is of the opposite persuasion. A man who looks like him, dresses like him, and uses the pop culture references he uses? I’d expect to see framed Han Solo quotes and possibly a display cabinet featuring original blaster guns from Star Trek. At the very least, a Spiderman tea-towel hanging from the cooker.

But no, it’s all shipshape. A place for everything, everything in its place, almost untouched. It’s such a contrast with the free-flowing wilderness outside – sterile and clean and man-made. If I’d only seen this and not the man himself, I’d say he definitely was in need of a little loosening up.

Maybe the skinny-dipping was part of that process – trying to recreate himself. If so, he’d come to the right place. Budbury, and especially the café where I work, specialises in second chances and fresh starts. A few of the people in our community are locals, but a lot of them are refugees from other places, and other times in their lives, looking for something different. Like Zoe, who runs the bookshop we’ve just opened – she moved here permanently in the new year with her goddaughter Martha, and Martha’s dad Cal.

It’s a long story, involving tragically early deaths, Australian cowboys and dysfunctional teenagers on the verge of rebelling themselves into oblivion – but now, it seems, they’re all settled. Happy. Moving on with life. It’s the Budbury Effect. Seriously, someone should do a scientific study on it. Maybe I will. I have a GCSE in Biology.

Tom, perhaps, will become the latest addition to the gang – or maybe he’ll just stay long enough to do up Briarwood, sell it on at a vast profit, and bugger off again.

For the time being, he seems challenged enough by making a cup of tea. I can tell from his awkward, jerky movements that he’s used to living alone, and not having to work around another human body. Each time we accidentally touch, he apologises, as though he’s just invaded my personal space so much I might feel traumatised.

It doesn’t bother me, but I can see that he’s getting stressed. We’re both stupidly tall, and the van isn’t actually that big, even without any clutter – plus it’s a glorious day out there.

‘Why don’t I go outside and leave you to it?’ I say, taking pity on him. ‘It’s too nice a day to be cooped up inside anyway. It might be snowing tomorrow.’

He looks at me, and I see the relief he tries to hide.

‘Good idea. There are some camping chairs out there. I only use one, but they came as a set … I’ll bring the tea out in a minute.’

I give him an enthusiastic thumbs up sign, and jump down onto the soft carpet of green at my feet. There’s a bowl round the side, which Bella is drinking from while Rick – now reduced to a bit part in his own life – waits his turn, tongue lolling out and panting.

I take the opportunity to squat down and give his enormous head a stroke. His fur is so soft and dark, it feels like velvet beneath my fingers. I wonder where he sleeps, as I didn’t see a dog bed in there. I have the sneaky suspicion that when it comes to his dog, Tom is maybe a bit less disciplined – I bet he sleeps curled up on the bed with him.

Rick gives my face a quick lick, and I set up the chairs. This takes a few attempts as the ground is uneven. I am unstable enough as it is, without deliberately setting myself off balance. Once I’m done, I sit quietly, legs stretched out in front of me, simply enjoying the warmth and the birdsong and the peace.

Moments like this are precious – knowing my mum is safely being looked after by the magical elves at the café; knowing I’m exactly where I need to be, at the time I need to be there. One of the best coping mechanisms I’ve developed over the last couple of years has been this: just pausing and taking time to appreciate the way the world is at that exact moment, rather than fretting about a future I can’t control or predict. I mean, by teatime it could all be different. I could be getting whacked round the head with a frying pan.

Tom emerges from the camper, ducking his head, and carrying two teas of steaming deliciousness. I always have a flask with me when I’m working, but it tastes even better when someone else has made it for you.

He sits next to me, settling himself carefully into the chair as though he expects it to collapse beneath his weight, and hands me the tea.

‘It’s beautiful here,’ I say, stating the obvious.

‘I know. It is. Taking a bit of getting used to, though – home is usually a flat on the top storey of a block in London. All mod cons. Night-time lullabies of sirens and car alarms. Rick prefers it here, but I’ve actually struggled a bit with the quiet since I arrived a couple of days ago.’

‘Would you like me to arrange for some of the locals to come by and have a drunken argument outside at three a.m.?’

‘Yes please,’ he replies, smiling. ‘And if you could persuade them to leave a half-eaten kebab on the doorstep and possibly smash a couple of bottles while they’re at it, I’d feel even more at home.’

I nod sagely, and wonder who’d be up for it … any of them, I reckon. Maybe Becca and Sam. They’ve got a six-month old baby, Little Edie – little to differentiate her from her ninety-one-year-old namesake, Big Edie – so they’re rarely asleep anyway. Plus Becca lived in her own flat in Manchester for years, so she’d probably have the urban nightscape routine down perfectly.

We look on as Bella decides to head into the camper van to investigate, followed quickly by her love toy. I raise my eyebrows to ask Tom if that’s okay – some people are funny about that kind of thing – but he waves his hands in a ‘no worries’ gesture.

‘When you go back in,’ I say, sipping my tea, ‘she’ll be curled up asleep on your bed, and Rick will be on the floor, gazing up at her. She is now his Queen, and he is her subject. His life will never be the same again.’

‘Well, he doesn’t seem to mind. The fact that he’s not gone for her throat or snarled at her shows that. It’s a revelation – so long live the Queen. Anyway … how’s it going, in the house? Making progress? I didn’t really expect anyone to be cleaning it – I asked the estate agent to get someone to just make sure there weren’t any dead bodies in cupboards, killer tarantulas in the cellar, that sort of thing.’

I involuntarily shudder a bit – it’s the thought of the cellar – before I reply: ‘Well, I get a lot of work like this, cleaning up places that have been empty a while. But this one … well, I’m sorting the windows so it’s nice and bright, and I’ll concentrate on the things you might keep, like the sinks and the lovely woodwork, but I’m guessing you might be planning on a refit anyway?’

I’ve phrased it like a question, and I hope I’m not being too nosy. Instead, he seems quite keen to talk about it.

‘Where it’s needed, yeah,’ he says, gazing off into the distance while he thinks about it all. ‘It’s structurally sound – I had all the surveys done – but I’d say there’s probably a bit of a damp problem, and it all needs re-wiring, so the lights stop flickering on and off like something from a horror film. Did you notice that?’

‘Only all the time,’ I say, nodding. ‘That would definitely be an improvement.’

‘Plus I’d like to do some restoration work – the cornices and ceiling roses, some of the panelling; it all needs a bit of TLC. I’ll redecorate, obviously, and sort out the gardens and the fountain. I used to love that fountain – I could see it from my window, and I’d watch the other kids playing out there all the time, jumping in and out of it in the summer, splashing each other. I could hear it at night as well, and it was … well, reassuring, I suppose. I need to find some local trades people to help with some of it, but I’m planning on doing at least part myself.’

‘Right. Are you good at that kind of thing then?’ I ask, knowing I’m frowning but not quite able to stop myself. ‘DIY, I mean?’

‘I can be, yes – why, don’t I look like I am? Don’t I look like a guy who could knock down a wall, or build an extension?’

He is pretending to be offended at this, as though I have somehow questioned his masculinity, but I can tell from the smile he’s trying to hold down that he doesn’t mean it.

‘To be entirely honest …’ I answer, smiling back. ‘… you look like the type of guy who can speak Klingon.’

‘Maybe I can speak Klingon,’ he responds. ‘At least a few words. But I’m a Renaissance man – I also know my way around an angle grinder.’

‘Well that’s good – not to be obtuse, but I don’t even know what an angle grinder is. I apologise profusely for implying that you were anything less than a rugged frontier man.’

He pauses before he replies, drinking his tea and kicking off his Converse, toes wriggling in freedom.

‘Obtuse. Good gag. And truthfully? I’m not that rugged. I do understand the mechanics of houses, and the ways they work, and how to build them, but I’ve never actually done it. I started my career as a design engineer, and most of that involved being cooped up in a cubicle in a warehouse full of brainy nerds. Seriously, it was like that place where they hide the Ark of the Lost Covenant … loads of us, all really young and keen, beavering away, perfecting the essential next generation pencil sharpener or cat-flap or whatever.’

‘Like High School Musical for Inventors?’

‘A bit like that, yeah – but without the jocks or cheerleaders or cool kids. Just the nerdy ones. Eventually, after that and a few other jobs, I successfully invented something. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was a part that’s used in the manufacture of small spherical objects. Like ball bearings, or beads, or a few of the items used in plumbing …’

I pretend to snore, and let my head loll to one side as though I’m asleep. After a second or two, I jolt back ‘awake’, careful not to spill my tea during the whole charade.

‘Sorry!’ I say, brightly. ‘You lost me at ball bearings …’

‘Ha ha,’ he snarks back, kicking my ankle in retaliation. ‘You are so hilarious.’

‘I know, right? I should do stand-up. Anyway … so why the move here? Why leave your city idyll and escape to the country?’

‘I don’t know. Ask me that in a few months’ time. I was site-surfing one day, and came across this place and recognised it. “Small Victorian manor house,” it said, “in need of some renovation.” I did a bit of digging – not actual digging, you understand, my milky-white skin is far too delicate for that – and found out it’d been sitting empty for all these years. It made me … well, it made me sad. Like I said, I was actually happy here – as happy as I could’ve been, under the circumstances – and I hated the thought of it being neglected. Stupid, I know – sentimental and stupid. It’s a house, not a person. Now you probably think I’m nuts, as well as a pathetic city slicker nerd.’

Wow. That’s quite a speech. I suddenly get the impression that this is the first time he’s tried to put all of this into words – or at least spoken those words to anyone other than Rick Grimes, who probably isn’t that chatty.

I put my mug down on the grassy floor, and it immediately falls over. Huh. At least it was empty.

‘I have to be honest,’ I say, eventually, glancing over and noticing that he isn’t meeting my gaze. Maybe a bit embarrassed. ‘That doesn’t even come close to being nuts in this village. You’re going to have to try an awful lot harder if you want to fit into that category. You’ll understand what I mean when you meet everyone … which you will, I guarantee. If you don’t come to the village, the village will come to you.’

‘Will they bring flaming torches and buckets of pitch?’

‘No, they’ll bring carrot cake and caramel macchiatos and possibly a whole spit roast suckling pig. And then they’ll show you what nuts really is, in the nicest way you can imagine. And … no, it really doesn’t sound nuts. I know exactly what you mean. This place is special to you, and you care about what happens to it. That’s lovely, not nuts.’

He nods, but doesn’t look entirely convinced. By my response, or the thought of the proposed invasion of the village people.

‘I’m not that good,’ he says, slowly. ‘With big groups. With people I don’t know. Or people I do know … just people, really. I’m okay with dogs, and with machines, and technology. People? Not my strong suit. Not to sound too macho, but they scare the shit out of me. I just don’t understand normal people.’

‘Ah, well that’s where you’re in luck – none of these people are normal. You’ll be fine, I promise. And you seem okay with meeting me.’

He looks at me, and grins. He looks stupidly handsome, and it’s hard to reconcile the way he looks with what he is – a socially awkward nerd-man. In another life, he could have been something entirely different. Like an actor or a politician or one of those people who model for romance book covers.

‘I do seem okay with you, don’t I?’ he says, laughing. ‘Weird. I think it’s because you own a magical dog named after something even lamer than mine. And you have pink hair, and dress a bit like Doctor Who’s assistant.’

I glance down at my Docs – silver spray-painted – and my odd socks and the tattered fishnet tights I have on beneath the socks, popping out beneath my Minions leggings. Right. He has a point there.

‘Plus, you seem so relaxed,’ he adds. ‘Like you could sit in these woods all day drinking tea and chatting to a stranger. Like you don’t have a care in the world.’

‘Yep,’ I reply, shrugging. It would be cruel to spoil his illusion with the nitty-gritty of my life. ‘That’s me. Little Miss Sunshine. Anyway … I can’t sit here all day, and I have a confession to make. I don’t think we’re strangers. I think we’ve actually met before.’

‘No way,’ he says quickly, looking confused. ‘I’d definitely have remembered you.’

‘I didn’t have pink hair back then,’ I answer, easing myself into the subject. ‘In fact, I was only eight, and you were a few years older. It was summer – maybe the first one you’d been at Briarwood – and … well, maybe you don’t remember. But one day, my brothers and sister convinced me the room you lived in was haunted, and they dared me to come in and find out for myself. So I opened the door, and you – I think it was you – were sitting there, at your desk, making something, which does add up now. And then …’

‘And then you screamed your head off, and ran away! That was you? Really?’

‘Yes. That was me. So you remember that, do you?’

‘Remember? I was scarred for life. I should probably have had counselling. In a bad year, it was one of the absolute highlights. My parents were dead, the rest of my family was … well, unavailable. I was living here, surrounded by other kids I had nothing in common with and couldn’t talk to, and then you happened. A screaming little whirling dervish. I’m lucky I didn’t drop dead that second. I saw you later … you were with those other kids, weren’t you? Your mum worked at Briarwood?’

By this stage, I’m holding my face in my hands, partly in shame and partly in amusement. I’d always suspected that incident all those years ago was a bit like the thing grown-ups say when you see a spider – it’s more scared of you than you are of it.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I wheeze out between laughs. ‘Honestly, I am. I was thinking about it today – I was actually a bit scared to go into that room, and I was feeling guilty, about freaking you out like that. What can I say? I’m the youngest of four. They were evil, and they made me do it. And yes … my mum worked there. You may have enjoyed one of her chakra-cleansing workshops at one stage or another.’

‘Definitely not,’ he replies firmly, grinning at the memory. ‘That would have involved leaving my room. Although she did visit me up there sometimes, tried to get to know me. She was pretty intuitive actually – brought me technical drawing pads instead of sketch pads, and gave me books with weird inventing stuff in them. She tried with Frankenstein, but when that didn’t catch she brought me biographies – George Stephenson, Isambard Kingdom Brunel. You know, your average cool kid stuff … but she was nice. I was just too wrapped up in myself back then to respond properly. Is she … you know, still around?’

He says this tentatively, knowing that we have reached the age where it’s not always a given.

I nod enthusiastically. ‘Oh yes! Very much so. And I’m glad she helped … maybe it’ll offset some of the bad family karma I earned by making you poo your pants.’

I stand up, planning to get back to work – plus avoid any more questions about my mother, as that’s too big and too private a subject for now – and he stands next to me. He’s so tall I have to look up at him, which is an unusual feeling for me. I don’t entirely hate it.

‘I didn’t poo my pants,’ he replies, as we walk back to the camper van. ‘I’d just like to state that for the record.’

‘Noted and recorded. I’ll add it to the typed transcript of this conversation when I next see my secretary.’

We climb up into the van with empty mugs in hand, and sure enough, Bella is flat out on the bed. She’s fast asleep, all four paws sticking out, jerking slightly as she dreams. Rick is squashed into the remaining floor space, his gaze turned towards Bella and only Bella.

‘Shit,’ says Tom, taking in the scene. ‘He was my one friend in the world – and he’s abandoned me for a vampire Border Terrier.’