Starry Skies Over the Chocolate Pot Cafe

by Jessica Redland

  Christmas Day was the one day of the year when I tried not to think. About anything. Hercules and I liked to sit on the sofa and watch back-to-back episodes of Friends. Well, I say Hercules liked it and I often imagined that his favourite ‘friend’ was Chandler, but I really had no idea whether he was entertained by Friends or not. What I did know was that he enjoyed snuggles on the sofa in front of the log burner.

  My Friends binge-watch was one of only two Christmas traditions I had. I’d done it with Hercules’s predecessor, Titch, and her predecessor, Dinks. We even had a special way of selecting which season to watch. I’d take one suit from a pack of cards and spread the ace through to the ten in a circle, then place the bunny in the middle. Whichever card they touched first would dictate our viewing and we’d see how far we could get before bedtime, sometimes dipping into the next season. Some families played board games or charades on Christmas Day. This was my game with my family.

  At 5 a.m., the central heating clicked on and I listened as the pipes in the old building filled, gurgling intermittently. I lay there gazing round my flat, thinking for the thousandth time how much I loved it. Not all the shops and cafés on Castle Street have flats above them and those that have are often rented out. Some of the traders hate the idea of living above their business, believing you could never escape from work if you live there too. When my business is my life, why would I want to escape?

  Castle Street itself is a cobbled street off the main shopping precinct in the North Yorkshire seaside town of Whitsborough Bay and contains a good mix of independent shops and businesses. When I moved in, the building was already used as a café and I knew exactly how I wanted to refurbish it but I’d struggled to see a vision for the flat. I remember panic welling inside me a few days after completing on the purchase, wondering if I’d just made the second biggest mistake of my life. What had I been thinking of, taking on a rabbit warren of tiny storage rooms, a dilapidated bathroom with no running water, and a damp problem from a hole in the roof which the previous owner had obviously got a builder mate to temporarily ‘fix’ so I wouldn’t notice it until it was too late? There was something about it, though, that made me believe it could be incredible.

  Fortunately, I found a builder with vision. After the café opened for business, Owen stood on the cobbles and spent ages staring up at the top floor then went round the back and did the same, before going inside and bashing intermittently into the plasterboard ceiling and walls with a hammer, shining a torch through the holes. A week later, he came back with some drawings and I couldn’t quite believe it was the same building I was looking at. It turned out the plasterboard hid ceiling beams and thick wooden pillars.

  ‘I’m not sure how you feel about open-plan,’ Owen said, ‘but this space is fantastic. It’s double-height so I’m thinking loft-style living with a mezzanine floor at the back and a roof terrace above your first floor. It’s not going to be cheap but, if you’re planning to make this your long-term home, it’ll be worth it.’

  And it had been. It took about a year to get the building works finished while I rented a flat above a shop on the other side of the street. A few years ago, I found the missing piece to truly make it my haven – hygge. I’d actually never come across hygge (pronounced hoo-ga) until I overheard a couple of women talking about it before my Pilates class. As soon as I got home, I went online and knew that I’d found my style. A Danish concept for creating a feeling of cosiness, comfort and well-being through simple things, hygge is about candles, blankets, oversized sweaters, hot chocolate in front of a roaring fire, a cup of tea and a good book. The only part I hadn’t embraced was ‘togetherness’. Although, if one woman and a giant rabbit could constitute togetherness, then perhaps I’d actually embraced the concept fully.

  I turned over in bed, looked towards Hercules’s crate, and sighed. ‘Happy Christmas,’ I muttered, peeling back the duvet.

  After feeding us both, then showering, I changed into fresh snuggly clothes – very hygge.

  ‘Which Friends season are we going for today?’ I asked Hercules, placing him on the floor with the shuffled playing cards in a circle round him. He moved towards the eight of clubs then changed his mind and headed in the other direction.

  ‘Season one?’ I asked when Hercules hopped onto the ace. ‘We’re going back to the start, are we?’

  And that was our Christmas Day. Just me, my rabbit, season one of Friends, a spot of crafting and the occasional break to eat some leftovers from the café.

  As bedtime approached, it was time for my second Christmas tradition. I made my way to the large dresser in the dining area, paused, then reached for the handle on the middle drawer and slowly pulled it open. Lifting out a bright yellow photo album, I placed it on the dining table, then took out a snow globe and gently shook it. Miniature white flakes swirled and danced before settling at the hooves of a pair of carousel horses.

  As long as I live, I’ll never forget that amazing day in Herne Bay on the south coast. I was only seven at the time yet I clearly remember riding on one of the cream and gold horses on the carousel on the pier. I’d chosen a horse called Emma because of her violet and pink saddle – my favourite colours at the time. Dad sat behind me, holding me tightly round the waist, while Mum sat beside us on a horse with a bright red saddle and bridle which matched her coat. I was laughing, Dad was laughing and, best of all, Mum was too. And not pretend laughter, trying to assure me everything was fine. This was proper, genuine belly laughing. Her long, reddish-brown curly hair flew behind her and her red coat billowed as the horses gained momentum, galloping and leaping over imaginary fields and hedges. Still giggling, we ate ice-creams on the pier, then chased each other along the sand and shingle beach.

  If I could go back to one day in my past and relive it over and over again, that would be the day. Because, for whatever reason, Mum was free that day. The black cloak that smothered her was at home in a locked box and I got to see my beautiful mum live her life and love her life. We christened it The Best Day Ever and bought the snow globe to forever capture the memories.

  Afterwards, Mum would often shake the snow globe, a smile playing on her lips, no doubt remembering how elated she’d felt. Then she’d sigh and put it down again, her shoulders slumping. I always imagined her echoing my thoughts: Why couldn’t all days be like The Best Day Ever?

  In my flat, I shook the snow globe again before setting it back down on the table, then suddenly shivered. I padded into the lounge area and added another log to the burner, watching the flames licking the edges of it. As I made my way back towards the dining table, I became aware of the changing light in the flat. I turned to face the giant arched window and gasped. Fat white flakes of snow were tumbling towards the cobbles. Dashing to the dining table, I picked up the snow globe, then returned to the window where I shook it again. Holding my arm outstretched, I was mesmerised by the miniature flakes tumbling against the backdrop of larger ones. Magical. Completely magical.

  Hercules nudging against my legs drew me out of my trance. I carefully placed the snow globe on the dresser then picked him up for a hug. ‘Fancy looking at some photos with me?’ I asked.

  Sitting down, I placed Hercules on the table next to the album and stroked his back and ears.

  ‘This is me as a baby,’ I said, opening the first page. ‘And this is my mum. Wasn’t she beautiful? And my dad. Handsome, wasn’t he? Do you think I look like them? I’ve got Mum’s hair. Mum used to say I have Dad’s hazel eyes, but I can’t tell from these photos.’ I turned the pages gently, giving Hercules a running commentary. But each image was a little more blurred than the last, and my voice a little wobblier with each explanation, until I couldn’t speak anymore. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and splashed onto the plastic film. Reaching the end of my childhood photos, I closed the album. ‘Happy Christmas, Mum and Dad,’ I whispered. ‘I miss you.’

  Putting Hercules to bed for the night, I brushed my teeth, put a fresh pair of PJs on, then curled up unde
r my duvet with Waffles, the bear who’d arrived in the last ever Christmas Eve box. The one before my family fell apart.

  4

  The door to The Chocolate Pot opened just before our 5 p.m. closing time the day after Boxing Day. I got ready to make my polite but firm ‘takeaways only’ speech, but it was only Carly, the owner of the shop next door – Carly’s Cupcakes.

  ‘Is it a bad time?’ she asked, coming over to the counter.

  ‘Terrible,’ I deadpanned. ‘Absolutely rushed off our feet.’ The café was completely empty and had been for the last twenty minutes or so.

  She laughed. ‘It’s been dead next door for about half an hour so I’ve rebelled and closed a whole five minutes early.’

  ‘Living life on the edge,’ I joked.

  ‘I need to get cleaned up next door but are you free for a cuppa when we’re both organised?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘Half five?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘And let me guess… salted caramel hot chocolate?’

  ‘Gosh, yes please. Heaven in a mug. See you shortly.’

  I walked her to the door, locked it, turned the closed sign round, then made my way to the till to run off the sales report and cash up.

  With everything cleaned by quarter past, I let Cody and Lana, two of my student part-timers, go early, then quickly ran upstairs to check on Hercules. Unless the café was heaving, I usually took a short break around mid-morning and another one mid-afternoon to give him some attention, so he was never more than a few hours without company. None of my team knew about him.

  Returning downstairs, I set to work making the hot chocolates. I’d only just placed the finished drinks on the counter when Carly knocked on the door. She thrust a bouquet of flowers at me when I opened it.

  ‘What are these for?’ It had started raining again so I quickly ushered her inside. The Christmas Day snowfall had been short-lived with overnight rain removing all evidence of a white Christmas and there’d been showers on and off ever since.

  Carly smiled. ‘For helping me find the courage to tell Liam how I felt about him.’

  ‘All I did was give you a little nudge.’ Shortly before Christmas, Carly had finally told her lifelong best friend, Liam, that she’d been in love with him for years. Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual.

  ‘And it was exactly what I needed so thank you.’ She smiled gently. ‘And the flowers are because I know that Christmas is tough for you.’

  I shook my head vigorously. ‘Christmas isn’t tough. Why would you think that?’

  She looked at me with sympathy. ‘I won’t push. But if you ever want to talk about it…’

  For a moment, I felt quite choked up. Nobody had ever invited me to talk about it before. Nobody had bought me flowers either. Ever. Well, other than Garth, but the less said about that, the better.

  ‘I love daisies,’ I eventually managed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. Sarah said they were your favourites. Are you okay? Have I upset you?’

  Was I about to cry? Good grief. I turned away from Carly. ‘Of course not. I’ll pop these in some water. Your drink’s in the purple mug.’

  Filling the sink behind the counter with water, I took a few deep breaths. It was ridiculous that a small demonstration of kindness like that could reduce me to tears but her offer to talk showed that Carly genuinely cared and it was such a long time since anyone had shown that. As for the flowers, they were the perfect choice. I regularly treated myself to a bunch – usually daisies – from Sarah, who ran Seaside Blooms at the other end of Castle Street. Daisies had been Mum’s favourite and she’d often included them in her lighthouse paintings.

  I lifted my special sunshine-yellow mug off the counter and led Carly to a pair of high-backed armchairs towards the back of the café where no passing customers could see us.

  ‘So how was your first Christmas as a couple?’ I asked.

  Her eyes shone. ‘It was amazing. Best Christmas ever.’ She told me what she’d done and talked about some of the gifts she’d received. Then her smile slipped as she asked in a gentle tone, ‘How was yours?’

  ‘Good, thanks. Really busy.’ Over the years, I’d learned to be very vague about my plans – or lack of them – but always made out I had lots on.

  Carly sipped on her drink, looking at me thoughtfully.

  ‘What?’ I self-consciously wiped my mouth. ‘Have I got a chocolate moustache?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I know I said I wouldn’t push but I can’t help thinking about you and being on your own over Christmas and—’

  I frowned at her. ‘Who said I was alone?’

  ‘I came to that conclusion myself. You never mention your family and I know you don’t have a boyfriend.’

  I picked up my spoon and stirred my drink as butterflies took flight in my stomach. If I was willing to open up about my past, Carly would be the person to whom I’d open up. But was I ready to do that? And which part would I share? It was such an emotional, humiliating mess.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve just done exactly what I promised I wouldn’t do. Do you want me to go?’

  I shook my head. ‘I do want to tell you. I think. It’s just that…’

  It was just that I’d built an impenetrable stone tower round me and I’d lived safely behind it for thirteen and a half years. If I let Carly take down some of those stones, the whole structure might collapse and I’d be vulnerable, exposed and open to being hurt again. But this was Carly and she’d proved herself a good friend over the past four years or so, never pushing for information about my past, never interfering. She was only asking now because I’d recently told her I’d been married. I’d never let anything slip out about my past before. Maybe I’d subconsciously revealed that little snippet because I wanted to talk about what happened.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, taking a deep breath to quell the rising panic. ‘I’m not ready to talk about Garth yet, but I will tell you about my family.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. It’s not pretty, though.’

  Carly nodded. Poor woman has no idea. Oh well, here goes… I took another deep breath and stared into my hot chocolate, unable to look Carly in the eye. ‘Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Tamara Chadwick…’

  5

  Twenty-seven and a half years ago

  I remembered my early childhood in London as being very happy, despite the challenges my mum faced. She’d often say, ‘Sorry, princess, but Mummy’s wearing her black cloak today.’ On those days, she’d cry a lot and sleep a lot, but my dad was an exceptional man who devoted his weekends to me. We baked together, cooked dinner, kicked a ball round the garden, and climbed trees or played hide and seek in the park. I loved it when he read me stories because he gave all the characters accents. Dad had such a zest for life that he could always make Mum smile, even on her darkest days, albeit briefly.

  Whenever I asked Dad what I could do to make Mum happier, he hugged me tightly and insisted that I made her happy every day by being me – their little Pollyanna. Pollyanna was one of our favourite books. It told the story of an orphan who had to live with her miserable aunt, Miss Polly, and I loved the grumpy voice Dad used for her. Pollyanna radiated positivity and wouldn’t let anything get her down, frequently playing ‘the glad game’, which her dad had taught her. The game involved finding something to be glad about in any situation, no matter how bad it initially seemed. Mum seemed to like me playing ‘the glad game’ on her dark days – I was glad she was staying indoors during the winter because it meant she wouldn’t catch a cold, or I was glad that she’d had a nap instead of playing with me because that meant she would be awake enough later to watch a film with Dad and me.

  But one summer’s day, when I was eight, the darkest day ever arrived and there was absolutely nothing to be glad about.

  It was the school holidays and Mum brought a blanket downstairs and said she’d nap on the sofa while I played with
my dolls. Dad kissed us both goodbye and went to work as usual, telling me that we’d bake an apple pie when he got home. We never baked that pie.

  As the afternoon stretched into evening, my stomach started rumbling. Mum was asleep and Dad still hadn’t arrived home from work so I made myself a cheese and crisp sandwich. I was about to eat my second quarter when I saw a police car pull up outside. I crept to the side of the window and watched two policemen get out and look up at our house, shaking their heads. Even though I saw them open the gate and walk the few paces across the front yard, I still jumped at the sound of the door knocker. Somehow I knew there was bad news coming and I didn’t want to answer the door.

  They knocked again and Mum stirred. ‘See who that is, Pollyanna,’ she murmured. ‘There’s a good girl.’

  ‘It’s two policemen,’ I responded.

  I noticed her sharp intake of breath, her hand fluttering to her throat and the glance towards the clock on the mantlepiece.

  ‘You’d better let them in,’ she said when they knocked once more.

  The sad looks and the grave tone of voice when one of them asked if Mum was home confirmed my worst fears. Definitely bad news.

  In the lounge, I pressed myself against Mum’s side as they spoke. I didn’t understand it all but certain words jumped out at me like accident, fall and hospital. They weren’t good words. Then one of the policemen said, ‘I’m so sorry.’ I can still sometimes hear Mum’s agonised scream in my dreams and feel her clinging onto me so tightly that I could scarcely draw breath.

  I later discovered that Dad had been a health and safety manager. He’d visited a building site in response to allegations of unsafe working practices. The owners swore they were fully compliant and took him on a tour to prove it but the scaffolding rig they climbed on collapsed and that was that. Not so compliant after all.

  Mum couldn’t cope without Dad. She pulled her black cloak tightly round her after the policemen left and, even though she tried to remove it, it was far too heavy. I tried to get Mum to play ‘the glad game’ but she couldn’t find any positives and neither could I. He was the best and, without him, we were both lost. No amount of positive thinking or creativity could draw a reason to be glad.