Starry Skies Over the Chocolate Pot Cafe

by Jessica Redland

  After she left, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Carly said about how she viewed me. She’d echoed everything said by the participants in the Best of the Bay Awards video and it was exactly the sort of person I wanted to be. After I moved into foster care, I was also the outsider at school. At first, it was because I kept moving school and then, when I settled with the Sandersons, it was because I wasn’t one of them. I navigated the senior school years alone but Kirsten was always there for me at home. I hadn’t said a word about my invisibility but it was as though she could sense the pain.

  ‘I hated school too,’ she’d said one evening while I did my homework at the dining table. ‘I enjoyed the learning but it was the other kids I struggled with.’

  I put my pen down. ‘Why? Were you bullied?’

  Kirsten shook her head. ‘No. I just never quite fitted in. I wasn’t one of the cool kids but I wasn’t one of the geeky kids either. My grades were okay, I was average at sport, I was never in trouble and, as a result, I was off everyone’s radar. At parents’ evening, I think even the teachers struggled to remember who I was.’

  ‘Did you have friends?’

  ‘Not really. I had some girls I sat next to in different subjects and it was all very polite and civilised, but I wouldn’t say we were friends. Acquaintances, perhaps.’

  ‘Were you lonely?’

  ‘Sometimes. It hurt when I was never invited to parties or trips to the cinema, but I suppose at least I wasn’t being bullied.’

  ‘You were playing “the glad game”,’ I said.

  Kirsten smiled. ‘I suppose I was. I was glad I wasn’t the centre of attention because it meant I wasn’t being picked on.’ She put down her embroidery and patted the sofa beside her.

  I eagerly joined her, cuddling into her side.

  ‘The thing to remember, my angel, is that you’re at school for such a small portion of your life. Some fit in and others don’t. If you’re one of the ones who doesn’t, then put your head down, study hard, and it’ll soon be over. And in that time you have alone, you can discover who you are, who you want to be and what you want to do with your life, knowing you’ll never have to see any of those people again.’

  ‘Is that what you did?’

  Kirsten ruffled my hair and kissed the top of my head. ‘I certainly did. I discovered that I was the sort of person who’d never make anyone else feel insignificant or invisible, that I always wanted to be kind and help others, and that I wanted to be a chef because, much as I loved it, I realised I couldn’t make a career out of doing embroidery.’

  ‘And you got to be all of those things,’ I said.

  ‘And you’ll get to be the things you want to be too. What do you want to be, my little Pollyanna?’

  It was an easy one. I looked up at her and smiled. ‘I want to be just like you.’

  According to Carly, that’s exactly what I’d become.

  31

  On Tuesday evening, I went to my Pilates class as usual and couldn’t ignore the butterflies fluttering in my stomach at the thought of seeing Jed there. He’d featured in my dreams over the weekend. I’d been on a carousel on a pier, just like on The Best Day Ever, only I was riding a giant rabbit instead of a horse. I’d turned, expecting to see my mum galloping – or hopping – next to me, but it had been Jed and he’d smiled such a warm, tender smile that made me feel the same joy as Mum’s laughter that special day. When the ride stopped, the rabbits jumped off the carousel and hopped down the pier. The temperature dropped and snow started to fall before we realised we were in a giant snow globe. Jed took off his coat and draped it round my shoulders. As soon as he touched me, the snow stopped falling and rainbows jumped in front of us like dancing fountains. I made a comment about how beautiful they were, but he shook his head and said I was the one who was beautiful. Cupping my face in his hands, like he’d done outside The Bay Pavilion, he lowered his lips towards mine… then Hercules rattled his crate and woke me up, that promise of a kiss hanging in the air once more.

  ‘Were you looking for someone?’ Karen asked as I rolled up my mat after the class.

  ‘No. Actually, yes. Jed? He came to a couple of classes and hasn’t been since.’

  ‘He’s hoping to be a regular from the New Year,’ she said. ‘He’s too busy getting his shop ready at the moment.’

  I hoped my disappointment didn’t show in my face. ‘Makes sense. Opening day on Saturday.’

  ‘So I hear. Do you know what it’s going to be? I’ve heard rumours and I’ve seen the sign but Yorkshire’s Best doesn’t give it away.’

  ‘I think he’s trying to keep it a surprise,’ I said.

  One of the other class attendees wandered over and clearly wanted a word with Karen so I said goodbye and headed out to the car park.

  Driving home, I thought about how things had ended on email after my panicked realisation that Jed was the manager of Yorkshire’s Best. He’d replied saying he understood and hopefully we could talk next year because he really loved my crafts and was eager to work with me. How guilty did I feel? I’d let him down and he’d responded with kindness. Now that I’d shown Carly my flat and revealed the true identity of The Cobbly Crafter to her, it was time to stop hiding in the shadows. I’d come up with an idea for revealing the news to the team, but it was important to me that Jed knew first.

  Back home, after a fuss with Hercules, I typed in an email:

  To: Yorkshire’s Best

  From: The Cobbly Crafter

  RE: Huge apology

  I hope your final week of prep is going well, ahead of Saturday’s grand opening.

  You mentioned that your shop’s on the Yorkshire Coast. It’s in Whitsborough Bay, isn’t it?

  I know because I live there and have spotted the sign on a building in Castle Street opposite the incredibly successful award-winning café, The Chocolate Pot, run by the most outstanding person in the whole of the Bay.

  I appreciate that you’ll be busy, but if you do have time for a conversation, perhaps I could visit you at your premises one evening this week? I’m free tomorrow and Friday.

  I smiled at the message and toyed with whether to be more cryptic. No. I was sick of secrets. Send.

  To: The Cobbly Crafter

  From: Yorkshire’s Best

  RE: Huge apology

  I did NOT see that coming!

  How about this evening, Tara?

  8.30pm

  Bring hot chocolate

  And some of that millionaire’s shortbread if you’ve got any left x

  * * *

  To: Yorkshire’s Best

  From: The Cobbly Crafter

  RE: Huge apology

  You have a deal

  And you’re in luck with the shortbread x

  Kiss, no kiss, kiss? Sod it! Send.

  I had fifteen minutes to spare and no way was I going over in my Pilates gear. What I wanted and needed Jed to see was the real me which didn’t mean the me in smart jeans and a tailored top that I presented to the world. I pulled on a pair of soft grey leggings and my favourite Nordic-print oversized knitted jumper. Round the middle was a band of turquoise reindeers so I draped a turquoise shawl round my shoulders before pulling on sloppy tan boots ready to present the hygge me. The real me.

  At 8.30 p.m. exactly, I made my way across the cobbles clutching two hot chocolates – chilli and salted caramel, to give Jed a choice – and a bag of millionaire’s shortbreads. Slung over my shoulder was a sports bag containing examples of The Cobbly Crafter’s work.

  Jed opened the door and I swear he did a double take, but he recovered well. It was the hair. I always wore it tied back or pinned up meaning that nobody had any idea that it was waist-length, curly and full of natural red highlights. Kirsten had always commented on how striking my hair was and how lucky I was to have natural curls. Leanne, on the other hand, had tried to convince me to dye it brown and add blonde highlights. I’d refused to change the colour because it was exactly like Mum’s, but I had allowed h
er to straighten it. I’d never straightened it since but I had kept it hidden away so nobody could pass comment on it.

  ‘The Cobbly Crafter, I presume?’ Jed smiled, indicating that I should step into the shop.

  ‘The mysterious manager of Yorkshire’s Best? We meet at last.’ I held out the card tray containing the two drinks. ‘Chilli or salted caramel?’

  ‘Which do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I love them both so the choice is yours.’

  ‘I might try chilli, then.’

  ‘It’s the one nearest to you.’

  He took the drink and laughed when I passed him the bag of millionaire’s shortbread. ‘I love these and thought I’d tasted the best in Aus, but when Anastasia bought me one of these the other week, the bar raised several notches. You make them yourself?’

  ‘Everything we sell is made on the premises, mostly by me, although some of my team are superb chefs.’

  I was dying to turn round and look at the shop.

  ‘It’s not finished yet,’ Jed said, ‘but feel free to take a look.’

  I actually felt quite nervous as I turned, not sure what to expect. I felt my mouth and eyes widen as I took it all in.

  ‘Oh my God, Jed. These are amazing.’

  It was still a gallery but clearly Jed knew what he was doing when it came to stocking the right sort of art for the area. Whereas Galley’s paintings were urban and industrial, these were all rural or coastal. Large round sheep, doe-eyed cows and highland cattle stood in the Yorkshire Dales or on clifftops overlooking the sea. I recognised local landmarks in some of the images including Whitsborough Bay Castle, Whitby Abbey and York Minster.

  Ambling round the shop floor, I took in the colourful pictures on the walls, hung on either side of plinths strategically placed round the room, and on display panels in the window. So much warmth and colour exuded from the canvases and prints.

  Then I stopped dead, completely captivated, by an image of a lone sheep being buffeted on a windy cliff. Long grass and daisies billowed round its hooves and, above it, dark clouds threatened rain, but the yellow beam from Whitsborough Bay’s stripy lighthouse in the distance gave colour and hope. The caption below the canvas read: If you’ve lost your way, I will be your lighthouse.

  Oh my God! Swallowing on the lump in my throat, and blinking back the tears, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The image and caption could not have been more perfect for me. Oh my goodness. I’d never known a piece of art could be so moving. I reached my hand out towards it and could almost feel the coarseness of the fleece, hear the crashing of the waves, smell the approaching storm.

  Suddenly aware of Jed in the room, I stepped away from the painting and focused on spinning a rack of cards, barely taking in the images on them as I tried to compose myself.

  Various glass display cabinets were distributed round the room but they were empty, as were several shelving units.

  ‘Who’s the artist?’ I asked, finally finding my voice.

  ‘Jed Ferguson.’

  I gasped. ‘These are yours?’

  ‘Hopefully they’ll be somebody else’s but, yes, they’re my work. Mainly pastels but I dabble in paint occasionally.’

  ‘But you were running a café. You’re a trained chef.’

  He laughed. ‘I know. And I hated it. Come upstairs. I’ve got a couple of chairs up there.’

  I followed him up to the first floor and into a light and airy room with a kitchenette at one end, a battered pine table, and a couple of mismatched chairs. A pair of easels stood at the other end of the room near the window, the canvases covered in paint-spattered sheets.

  ‘I’ve been using this room as a studio,’ he said, indicating that I should sit down. ‘I’m not sure whether I’ll keep it as a studio and move into the flat upstairs, or move the studio upstairs and make this into more sales space. I’ll see how the first six months go before I make any expensive decisions.’

  ‘So, chef to artist?’

  Jed took the lid off his hot chocolate and took a sip. ‘Nice kick. I like it.’ He put the cup back down. ‘Yeah, chef to artist is probably not the obvious career route. Long story short is that I loved art at school and wanted to go to art college but I stupidly listened to a teacher who told me that there was no chance of making a career out of being an artist.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  He nodded. ‘Looking back, he was probably talking from personal experience and trying to protect me, but someone has to make it and why couldn’t it be me? Anyway, I’d worked in my parents’ café since I was twelve. If I wasn’t going to be an artist, I didn’t know what to do, so I trained as a chef. Ingrid, my ex-wife, got a Saturday job in the café when she was seventeen and we got together a couple of years later and married a couple of years after that. She trained as a nurse but still helped out occasionally between shifts. When my parents wanted to retire, her parents bought them out, made Ingrid and me co-owners, and I ended up managing the place. My heart wasn’t in it, though. I can cook but I’m not passionate about it. Creating new recipes or thinking of menu ideas doesn’t do it for me.’

  I smiled. ‘I love that part of it.’

  ‘Which is why you’re brilliant at what you do and why I was managing a greasy spoon café that was barely ticking over, as I think you called it.’

  I cringed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. If it had been my decision, we’d never have tried to sell the business because, as you quite rightly pointed out, there wasn’t a business to sell, but Ingrid had the majority shareholding and made all the financial decisions. My hands were tied.’ He paused to take another sip on his drink. ‘She’d talked about selling up and emigrating for ages and I refused, but then I started to see it as my way out of the rut I’d got into. I knew I’d miss my parents, but I was so unhappy at the café. The visas were granted on Ingrid’s job so I had flexibility about what I did there. I told her I’d only emigrate if she let me take some time out to work out what I wanted to do with my career.’

  ‘Which was being an artist?’

  ‘Yes, but not at first. That dream had already been destroyed and buried. It was so hard finding a new focus, though. I’ve lost count of how many jobs I had and none of them were me. Then one weekend, Ingrid was working and I took the kids on a road trip to a town we’d never visited. On the way back to the car, we passed an art supplies shop and the kids asked if they could have some new pencil crayons. They wanted me to spend the afternoon colouring with them so I got myself a couple of canvasses and pastels, set them up in the basement and that was it. I was hooked again and my career was found.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ I asked, keen for him to continue speaking. There was something captivating about his voice, a melodic mixture of North Yorkshire mixed with a sing-song Australian twang. Very nice. Very soothing.

  ‘About eight years back. It took me a couple of years of experimenting, but I found my style and it was thanks to the kids. They loved drawing animals and I noticed that they were always cute and podgy. So I drew kangaroos and possums and koalas and placed them by the ocean or in the bush. Basically it was what you saw downstairs but for Aussie animals. I donated one to the school as a raffle prize. One of the parents ran a gallery and was on the lookout for something new and fresh. She loved the picture and set up an exhibition of my work. It took off so she commissioned more, and eventually I’d sold enough to open my own gallery.’

  ‘That’s a lovely story,’ I said. ‘So did you close the gallery when you moved back here?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s still there. I’ve got a manager in with a three-year plan to keep releasing fresh paintings and prints. I’m not sure what we’ll do after that, but I don’t need to make that decision for some time yet.’

  ‘Are you famous in Australia?’ I asked.

  He screwed up his nose. ‘I wouldn’t say famous, but there are a few households with a Jed Ferguson on the wall and there are one or two collectors.’

 
I made a mental note to Google him later, suspecting he was being modest about his achievements.

  ‘What about you, then?’ Jed removed a piece of shortbread from the bag and held it near his mouth. ‘Chef and café owner extraordinaire by day and Cobbly Crafter by night…?’

  While he devoured two pieces, making appreciative noises, I told him that my mum and foster mum had both enjoyed crafting, that Kirsten had shown me new skills and that I’d developed others when I moved to the coast. Conscious that we’d only just moved out of the enemy-zone and I wasn’t sure if he was trustworthy yet, despite the clear heart of gold for capturing those animals so beautifully, I massively glossed over my family history and focused more on setting up as The Cobbly Crafter.

  ‘I never expected it to take off like it did, but I have a strong following on Etsy so I often work long hours. When you’re passionate about something you don’t really see it as work, do you?’

  Jed laughed. ‘I once tried to explain that to Ingrid and she never got it. She was an efficient nurse, but she wasn’t a very sympathetic one from what I can gather. It’s a shame more people don’t feel passionate about what they do. I suppose the biggest challenge is finding that one thing. Or those two things in your case.’

  ‘So how does stocking Yorkshire-made products fit with your art?’ I asked.

  ‘I know what it’s like to be a struggling artist and to be an artist who’s had their dreams crushed. If this gallery has even half the success of the one in Australia, the business will be doing well and can afford to support other creative types. I’m looking to stock a range of Yorkshire-made products, bought at a slight discount, and sold for a reasonable price. The creative gets paid what they want, I get what I want by bringing people into the shop who might not have visited if it was only about the art, and the customer gets to choose from a range of gifts at a variety of prices. Everyone’s happy.’

  ‘Sounds like—’

  Jed’s phone rang, cutting me off. He took it out his pocket and frowned. ‘Damn. Sorry. I need to get this… Hi Erin. I’ve completely lost track of time. Can I call you back in ten minutes? Yeah… yeah. No worries. Love you. Bye.’