‘Bah! Bloody stairs … made for smaller feet than mine, they were. Anyway. Fuss over nothing. I’m right as rain.’
‘Really?’ I say, screwing up my eyes in disbelief. ‘Because as a trained professional, looks to me like you might be in some pain …’
‘How do you reckon that, then, clever clogs?’ he challenges, looking unconvinced.
‘Years of training,’ I reply. ‘Coupled with the fact that I’ve never, ever seen you sit in that chair, or have your feet up. You’re usually on the move, or in the kitchen, or outside. Unless you’ve suddenly gone soft on me, then something’s hurting.’
He pulls a face, and says: ‘Are you going to carry on wittering or will you put the kettle on, woman?’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I answer, standing up to do exactly that. ‘And if you need me to, I can go and feed the animals – or in Belle’s case, throw food and run. Then in return, you can thank me by taking some pain relief, okay?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ he mutters sourly, gesturing for me to leave the room. I know he doesn’t want me to see him struggle to his feet, so I oblige, and by the time he shuffles through I have the tea brewing. He likes it so thick the spoon stands up on its own.
I stay focused on the tea while he settles himself down onto one of the wooden chairs, trying not to groan as he goes.
‘So, you remember Cherie, at the Comfort Food Café in the village?’ I say, placing the tea in front of him.
‘Grand-looking hippy type with all the hair? Moved here a few years ago?’
‘Yep, that’s her – although to be fair it was a few decades ago. Well, anyway, she was saying the other day she’s thinking of doing some outside catering, or selling Comfort Food Café goodie hampers, and she wanted to practice by sending some to people who live outside Budbury. All for free, obviously. What do you think?’
He sniffs, and sips his tea, and raises one bushy grey eyebrow.
‘Depends,’ he announces, ‘on whether her food’s any good or not, don’t it? I’ve lasted this long without a food hamper, can’t see why as I’d change now.’
‘Believe me, it’s good. And it’s free. If you don’t like it, you can give it to Belle. Now stop moaning, you nasty old coot.’
‘I’ll stop moaning when you stop bossing, madam!’
We snap and snark at each other for another half an hour or so, which is our usual style, and I do as I said I would and go and tend to the animals. I’m not the kind of woman who’s ever likely to live on a farm and milk cows, but you can’t grow up like I did – in rural Cornwall and Dorset – without learning a few things about livestock.
And even if I didn’t, Mr P was on hand to give me rigid instructions and glare at me through the kitchen windows.
By the time I’ve finished, to his satisfaction, he finally relents and agrees to take a painkiller – and I notice as he does that the pack he brought home with him from the hospital pharmacy is completely untouched. I gently explain to him that taking them isn’t a sign of weakness, or a signal for social services to swoop in and put him in a home – it’s merely a way of giving his battered body the respite it needs to properly heal.
‘There’s no medal for sheer awkwardness,’ I say, as he swills down the tablet with yet more tea.
‘If there was, I’d have a cabinet full!’ he acknowledges, grimacing as he swallows.
I check he has everything he needs before I leave, making a mental note to bring him one of the catalogues I have that feature recliner chairs and the like, and head off towards Briarwood. Willow is picking Mum up from the day centre, so I’m free for the rest of the day. Yippee.
It’s a pleasant drive, and I concentrate on living in the moment rather than allowing Seb to intrude on my thoughts. I can’t smell any roses, because I’m in a van, but I look out of the window at the rolling green hills, and the kestrel I see hovering over one of the fields, and the wooden sign by the road advertising home-made honey. That sign always makes me laugh, because the hand-painted picture makes the hive look like a giant pile of poo. Small pleasures.
It’s almost five when I reach Briarwood, and it feels as though all the sunshine and heat of the day has been building up to a lovely, sultry finale. I stand and stretch, turning my face up to bathe in the light, eyes closed as I soak it in.
‘You look like a sunflower,’ says Finn, sneaking up on me and snaking his arms around my waist. I lean back into him, and let my head rest against his chest.
‘I’ve been called worse,’ I reply, holding onto his hands and smiling as he nuzzles my hair. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, thank you. An exciting day today – one of the junior genius brigade shorted all the electrics in the building. Nobody could do anything after that, so they kind of declared it a public holiday, and had a giant picnic instead. I got an electrician out this afternoon and it’s all sorted now.’
‘Never a dull moment at Professor Tom’s School for the Gifted and Talented, is there? So, have you got anything else to do today, or can I tempt you out for a walk? I’m feeling very at one with nature today, Finn. I think I might become a Druid.’
‘You’d look good in the gown. And yes, you can tempt me – it’s too beautiful to be indoors. Anyway, I wanted to show you this little waterfall I found in the grounds …’
‘Waterfall, not pond?’ I ask, turning to face him. He looks supremely lovely in the sunlight, laughter lines crinkling around the blue of his eyes.
‘Yes. Definitely not pond. Why?’
‘Because,’ I say, shaking my head as though he was stupid not to have figured it out, ‘the pond belongs to Willow and Tom. And when I say “belongs to”, I mean they’ve done the deed there. And much as I love my sister, I don’t want to share her sex pond.’
‘No,’ he says, grinning. ‘When you put it like that, I completely agree. Give me five minutes to grab some picnic leftovers and get changed.’
I lean against the front of the van, listening to insects buzz around the lavender pots and wondering what they’re saying to each other, until Finn emerges. He’s changed into a pair of well-worn Levis and a pale blue T-shirt, and has a rucksack on his back.
‘You look like an explorer,’ I say, as I follow him off into the thick greenery that surrounds Briarwood. ‘You should maybe get a pith helmet, or a bullwhip like Indiana Jones.’
‘Wasn’t he an archaeologist?’ Finn asks, as he leads me along a path that gets more and more narrow as we go.
‘He was. But don’t spoil my fantasy, okay?’
He laughs, and we carry on walking. Briarwood is set in acres of garden and woodland, some of it tamed and cultivated, some of it not so much. The more formal gardens immediately around the house lead off, on a variety of paths, into the deeper countryside that circles it.
When we were kids, and Mum was working here all those years ago, this was our unofficial playground for a couple of summers. We climbed the trees, played hide and seek in the woods, had picnics in the small, shaded, bluebell-drenched dells, and in Van’s case, brought girls out to his secret camp to drink cider and snog.
It was all very Swallows and Amazons, with hindsight. Or borderline neglect, depending on your viewpoint. As we all survived the endless days of unsupervised roaming, I’ll go with the Swallows and Amazons perspective. It wasn’t the easiest time in my life, being a teenager, but there were benefits.
As we delve deeper into the undergrowth and further away from both the big house and the road that leads to it, the atmosphere starts to feel more and more jungle-like. The overhead leaves and trees are thick and lush, dripping shades of green, the tree trunks surrounded by giant ferns and scatterings of brightly coloured wildflowers.
The sunlight is partially blocked by the boughs, but the air remains warm despite the shade. We walk single file as the path narrows to nothing more than a rarely used trail.
‘Hey, Indiana,’ I say at one point, ‘did you bring your machete?’
‘No need,’ he shouts back,
glancing at me over his shoulder. ‘I thought we could use your cutting comments!’
‘Sorry?’ I reply, grinning. ‘I can’t hear you. I’m too busy looking at your arse!’
He gives it an obliging waggle, and I follow him through to the end of the current path, where it starts to widen again. I can hear the sound of fresh water gurgling and bubbling, and it’s the sound more than anything else that sparks a memory. A distant image of the gang of us as kids, from Van as the elder statesmen at fifteen or something like that, then me, and Angel, and Willow when she was maybe seven or eight, scrawny and scrappy.
A hot day, possibly a series of them, just like this. Us finding the waterfall. Van bringing rope to tie to one of the tree branches that dangles over the water. Us taking turns to swing out and jump off, splashing into the pool. Willow being terrified but goaded into doing it anyway – we were always so vile to her, the runt of the litter. Now she’s the toughest of the lot, so it must have been character building.
I pause behind Finn, and remember what we called it.
‘The Bibber,’ I say out loud, recalling the word.
‘The what?’ he asks, looking back at me.
‘The Bibber. It’s what we called this place, when we were little. It’s an old Dorset word, means something like shivery, or cold. The water in there is really chilly, and after we’d jumped in, we’d all sit around the edge, shaking. So we called it the Bibber …’
‘Ah. I see this is not the virgin territory I’d assumed?’ Finn says, smiling gently as I reminisce.
‘No. In fact there might even still be a rope swing if we’re lucky …’
We both make our way out into the clearing, which is decidedly smaller than I remember it. Or maybe I’m bigger, who knows? And yes, I can see the frayed tip of the old rope swing dangling from the branch, looking a bit creepy now.
The foliage is dense here, and the thick canopies of leaves and boughs make it shady and cool. The Bibber is exactlyas I remember it – a perfect cascade of white-frothed water bubbling over the rocks and tumbling into the pool.
The pool itself is tiny – I recall it being so deep I couldn’t put my feet on the ground. Poor Willow, who could barely swim at the time, was forever spluttering and flapping her skinny arms, determined not to ask for help.
It’s quiet out here today, the mellow sounds of birdsong and the gentle hum of insects almost lost amid the splashing water – but back in those days, it was raucous. Four feral children, filling long hot days, hooting and hollering and yelling.
Finn looks at me, takes in the expression on my face, and asks: ‘Happy memories?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, snapping back to the here and now, ‘on the whole. Life with Lynnie as a mother was never exactly normal – but it could be a whole lot of fun. Anyway … last one in’s a nincompoop …’
I race towards the edge of the pool, eyeing the clear water as I go, shedding my trainers one at a time in an elegant hop. I know it’s going to be freezing in there, but I can’t resist.Iwriggle out of my jeans and T-shirt, unhook my bra, wave it around my head with a rebel yell, and let it fly. I wince as it snags in a tree branch, knowing I’ll have to go and retrieve it later, but it makes a statement.
Finn’s right behind me, laughing along, and just about beats me to the prize – damn him and his lack of fiddly underwear. Men have it so easy.
He jumps in, and I pause, waiting for the inevitable reaction. I get it, and point a finger at him as his face changes from amused and excited to rigid with the sudden shock of cold. He gulps, and his eyes widen, and I say: ‘Ha ha! Serves you right, you nincompoop! Told you it was cold … what’s happened to your Viking heritage now, big man?’
I dip a toe in, feel the pierce of it, and decide that jumping in is the only way – if I try to do it inch by inch I’ll never make it.
‘Honestly?’ he says, grimacing as I make a splash landing opposite him, ‘I think Norse raiders crossing the North Sea would sob if they fell into this!’
He reaches out and pulls me towards him, crushing my flesh into his. I can feel the goosebumps on his chest, and we’re both shivering while we giggle. I wrap my legs around his waist, and kiss him, long and hard.
I can’t touch the bottom of the pond, so he holds me up while we kiss and splash and play around and generally behave like naughty teenagers sneaking away from the adults.
Eventually, after what feels like an hour but might only be five minutes, I pull away from him, treading water to keep myself warm.
‘When I imagined this,’ I say, slicking back my wet hair, ‘it was very erotic. It was like something out of a romantic comedy movie, where we declare our love under the waterfall before we tenderly take each other in a gentle yet possessive way?’
‘Like, I’m just aboy, standing in front of a waterfall, freezing my bollocks off?’ he replies, grinning and reaching out to touch my hair.
‘Yeah. That kind of thing. But it’s actually just bitterly cold, and I keep choking every time I’m under the waterfall, and I sort of think …’
‘That we should get out and continue this on dry land? That would be the Viking way.’
I nod in relief, and we both clamber out of the water. I suddenly have the realisation that it’s going to take ages to drip dry, and consider shaking myself off like Bella Swan does after she’s had a bath.
Finn, however, has other ideas, and he strides naked and rather sublime over to his rucksack. He unzips it, emerges with two towels, and passes one to me, a slight smirk on his face.
‘Goodness me,’ I say, accepting it gratefully and wrapping its fluffy contours around my shivering body, ‘you really are the best man in the whole wide world, aren’t you?’
‘You can thank Det Danske Spejderkorps for that,’ he says, the words coming out but the meaning remaining obscure.
‘Danish Boy Scouts,’ he supplies, towelling dry his hair and grinning. ‘I spent quite a few summers with my grandparents when I was a kid. I guess I still try to always be prepared.’
He proves his point by unpacking the rest of the bag – a blanket for us to lie on, a couple of bottles of Scrumpy Joe’s cider, and a random selection of Scotch eggs, sliced chicken and a tub of cupcakes. Marvellous. He even has a bottle opener for the cider.
We’re both shaking, despite the warm evening air, so we agree to cuddle on the blanket while we warm up, vowing to revisit the whole taking each other in a gentle yet possessive way later on, when we can move our extremities. In all honesty, even if we had sex right now, I probably wouldn’t be able to feel it – which would be a waste.
We drink and snack and chat, and gradually look a bit less blue. He tells me about his day, and recounts some stories about his summers in Denmark, and his Granddad Christian, and eventually, after a particularly exciting tale involving a boat trip and an aggressive bull seal, I find myself noticing the way his flat stomach feels beneath my hand. The strong line of his nose; the sparkle in his blue eyes; the way his fingers are twined in my hair.
I’m guessing he’s noticing a few things about me as well, and liking what he notices, as his hands start to roam and his leg accidentally finds itself splayed across my body and his lips are soon on mine. Then we stop chatting, and start loving, and it is absolutely exquisite. Maybe it’s the setting, or the warmth of summer, or just how it is when you’re with someone you love. Whatever the reason, it’s wonderful.
‘Would it be embarrassing if I used the word “wow” about that?’ he asks, when we’re both lying, pleasantly exhausted, on the blanket afterwards.
‘No,’ I reply, grinning at him in a way I suspect might fall into the category of ‘adoring’. ‘I think it would be an entirely appropriate usage of the word. It was indeed wow. Only problem is, we now have a ten-mile jungle trek when all our limbs are in a weakened state.’
‘I’d say it’s maybe two miles, tops, but yeah … I know what you mean. And it’s starting to go a bit darker now as well. I think we need to rest here for a while, thou
gh, don’t you? Just lie here, and stare at the sky, and talk. Tell me about your day – you’ve already heard all about mine.’
I’ve not exactly been dreading this moment – more that I’ve been avoiding it. I’ve been so busy living in the present that maybe I convinced myself the rest of the day didn’t even happen. Now he’s asking me, though – well, I can’t lie, can I? He’s been so understanding about this whole Seb situation – this whole me situation – and the one thing he asked for was honesty.
‘Well, I visited Mr Pumpwell at his cottage,’ I say, building up to it.
‘Oh – how is he? Didn’t you say he’d had a fall?’
‘He has, but he was pretending like it never happened. He wasn’t that convincing, as he was clearly in a lot of discomfort. I made him some tea, fed the donkey, and persuaded him to take some pain relief before I left. So that was good. And before that …’
I taper off slightly, suddenly wondering how this will go. Suddenly feeling like I’ve done something wrong.
‘And before that?’ he prompts.
‘Before that, I had lunch with Seb. Well, not lunch exactly. I met him. At a time that happened to coincide with the period of the day when people usually eat lunch.’
I feel him stiffen slightly beside me, and not in a good way. I wait, my eyes screwed up in anticipation.
‘Okay. Right. Well, how did that go?’
‘It was awkward. And weird. But … I think you were right, when you said it’d be good for me. I mean, it didn’t feel good – it felt odd and unsettling. But I think we maybe need to sort some stuff out.’
Finn is quiet, and his fingers stop twirling in my hair, and I recognise the signs of him processing tricky news and trying to decide how to respond.
‘What kind of stuff?’ he asks, finally.
‘Well, we caught up. His dad died, which is really sad – his dad was nice. And he’s been clean for years, after a variety of stints in rehab. And he works as a sports massage therapist. And … and he said he wanted to be sure there was nothing left between us before he gave up on our marriage.’
A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 14