It was fortunate that she’d started with an uncommon name – Brenda Whitcomb. Cherie had heard that she’d got married and moved to Scotland, but I started on the basis that the wedding took place in this part of the world and worked on from that.
I’d had to guess at time frames, but eventually found a record of her marriage in East Devon in 1969, to an Adrian Applegarth. I suppose I was lucky he wasn’t called John Smith.
Adrian was listed on the marriage certificate as a shipbuilder and there was an address in Glasgow.
I got nowhere with that – the street didn’t even seem to exist any more and none of the Applegarths I managed to contact in the city (there were more than I expected) could help me.
One of them, though, suggested I look in Clydeside and even the North East of England, as the family might have followed the work around. From that point, I just got lucky – a search on a local paper’s website showed an archived photo of the final group of men leaving one of the shipyards that was closing down, and sure enough, one of the serious-faced men it featured was an Adrian Applegarth.
Once I’d got a better idea of place, I did it the old-fashioned way – I made phone calls. Eventually, I ended up talking to a Robbie Applegarth in Dumbarton – Brenda’s son. Obviously, he was a bit nonplussed at first, when this strange woman called him out of the blue to ramble incoherently about the Auntie Cheryl he’d never met.
‘I’ve heard about her, of course,’ he said, once he was convinced I was genuine and not out to somehow scam his elderly mum, ‘but it always seemed to upset her if we asked too many questions. I’m one of five and she’d absolutely lather us if we fought too much. Which of course we did, all kids do – but we knew that if we went too far, it’d really upset her. She’d cry and tell us we were wee brats and we should all be taking care of each other instead of squabbling.
‘We grew up knowing that something had happened, that our ma wasn’t in touch with her sister any more, but never really understood why. When we were old enough to properly ask, she’d say ‘och, it was just silliness, it was …’ and change the subject.’
That struck such a chord with me – ‘silliness’ was exactly the word that Cherie had also used to describe what had happened.
Robbie agreed to talk to his mother for me and he was true to his word, leaving me her phone number and a bit of advice on when to call. She’d had a tough few years, losing her husband to a stroke, and being in and out of hospital herself with conditions that weren’t life-threatening but enough to make her children all worried sick.
Neither of us said it, but I suspect we were both thinking it – Cherie and Brenda are in their seventies, and who knows how much time they have left? Who knows how much time any of us have? If there’s one thing I’ve learned in recent years, it’s to make the most of every moment you have – even if it means uprooting your whole family and moving them to Dorset on a whim.
Now, though, as I have to stop colouring my peacock because of my trembling hands and impending brain explosion, I am not feeling quite so sure that my latest whim is going to pay off. Not that it was a whim – it took a lot of effort to track down Brenda – but it was definitely a risk. What if one of them has a heart attack? What if Cherie never forgives me? What if they take one look at each other and start a geriatric catfight?
‘It’ll all be fine, you know,’ says Edie, not even looking up. ‘You’re having a panic for nothing, you are. They’re sisters. Family. Once they see each other, they’ll be so happy. They’ve been lost for so many years and you’re going to bring them together. It’s good. It’s marvellous. Don’t think about it too much, dear.’
I smile at her and try to regulate my breathing. She’s right, of course. At least I hope she is. Brenda had sounded a little shaky and unsure of how to react. I told her a bit about Cherie’s life and her recent operation, and the café and the world she’d built for herself, and hoped it was enough.
Because although it had taken effort to find Brenda, it hadn’t been insurmountable – and I can’t help thinking that either of them probably could have done it too, if they’d set their minds to it. Maybe I’m trying to scratch an itch that they’re both content to ignore, who knows?
Only time will tell – either she’ll turn up or she won’t; and either Cherie will kill me or she won’t. No use worrying about it now, I tell myself – especially when I have other plans to hatch. Plans that are less controversial, but logistically challenging.
Still, I decide, it won’t do any harm to perhaps sound her out a bit more thoroughly.
‘I think,’ I say to Edie, ‘that I’m going to take a couple of painkillers. Then I’ll run you home. And then I might go and pay Cherie a little visit …’
Chapter 29
I have dropped Edie in the village and I have checked in on the kids. Sam is going to give Nate a lift back to Hyacinth later and collect Lizzie from Scrumpy Joe’s on the way. I am not the only one party-planning, and I will be checking Lizzie’s rucksack for any smuggled cider later. She’s a good kid – but she is still a kid. Cider and teens seem to have a certain magnetism that has survived the ages.
She’s excited because all of her collective Budbury friends, and the younger ones who hang with Nate, are coming round later on. The two of them will be going away with my mum and dad in a couple of days and I’ve said they can have a bit of a gathering – a maximum of ten, and no going in the swimming pool if there are actual paying guests in there who might not want to be swamped by harmless-but-loud teenagers.
Lizzie is preparing for this one night away with my parents as though she may never return. She is talking about her pals here with such affection and yearning that she occasionally has tears in her eyes at the thought of being parted from them, even for a night.
I remind myself that this is how she felt about her Manchester friends not so long ago and that she was miserable about leaving them as well.
Being a teenager these days seems like a lot more work than it did when I was one, that’s for sure. So many ways to communicate, and not communicate, so many ways to judge and be judged. So many tribes to join and music to like and styles to rock. It all seems very complicated, but I suspect that every generation thinks that about their children.
Maybe it was all much simpler when we were on rations and had world wars and women couldn’t vote and everybody died of diphtheria.
I have Jimbo in the boot of the car and on the backseat there are a couple of boxes of muffins and cupcakes – some for Cherie and some for the kids’ bash.
I forgot they were there and am now driving along the country lanes towards Frank’s farmhouse hoping that the dog doesn’t catch a whiff. If he does, I’m fairly sure he’ll find a sudden burst of agility and manage to leap over the seats and bury his nose in them. He’ll emerge, muzzle covered in pink frosting, with an innocent look on his face – like ‘What? Cakes? Me?’
I pull up on the gravel driveway that leads to Frank’s place, next to his muddy Land Rover, and open the boot. Jimbo, far from stealing the cupcakes, seems to be so tired he doesn’t even want to get out. He thuds his tail a couple of times in greeting, but refuses to budge. I shrug, give him a quick tickle behind the ears and leave the boot open. I can see the car from Frank’s living-room window and will notice if there is any sudden canine movement.
Frank’s farmhouse is low and solid and built of beautiful pale-yellow stone. It has mullioned windows and a big, red-painted door and various outbuildings that have been added to the main house over the decades. It is set amid rolling green fields as far as the eye can see, the twinkle of the sea a distant glimmer along the coast.
It’s a warm day, not too hot, but mellow and lazy. The kind that is made for places like this, with its echoing bird song and the dull buzz of insects and clear, open views. I pause, look around and feel the sun on my skin, and think again how much I will miss all of this when I am back in Manchester.
As ever, when I am in danger of feeling too sad abou
t leaving, I remind myself that Manchester also has lots of beautiful open spaces and that I will be able to get takeaway Thai food delivered to my door, hail black cabs in the street and do my Christmas shopping at the Trafford Centre. A host of urban delights awaits me back home.
I knock, but don’t wait for a reply – they already know I am here. It’s not the kind of place where there is a lot of random passing traffic. The door is on the latch and I let myself in, shouting hello as I walk through to the main living room.
Predictably enough, the house is still decorated to the tastes of Bessy, Frank’s late wife. Perhaps less predictably, her tastes seem to have run to classy dark colours, plain-painted walls and a distinct lack of clutter on the tasteful pieces of wooden furniture.
Cherie is perched on her tall chair, crutches propped up next to her. The pink tips of her hair are flowing over her shoulders, reminding me that I also have a giant neon streak curling its way down the side of my face. As I generally don’t spend a lot of time in front of mirrors, I am often surprised when I see it there.
She gives me a little salute as I enter and matches it with a huge smile. I suspect she must have been bored here and feel bad that I’ve not visited her more – but there are only so many hours in the day and keeping the café ticking over has been the priority.
‘I come bearing cake,’ I say, laying the smaller box down on a side table. ‘Shall I make us a cuppa?’
‘Only if you want one,’ she replies, pulling a face. ‘Frank seems to make me tea every half an hour. I swear he sets that fancy phone of his with an alarm and comes running back here to get the kettle on. That’d be all well and good, apart from the fact that it makes me run to the loo just as often …’
‘Ha!’ I say, slouching down into a squishy armchair opposite her. ‘I’d like to see you run right now!’
She is sport enough to laugh at that and reaches for one of the cakes. I wait until she takes a bite and see her face crease into pleasure. As ever, that makes me feel happy.
‘Gorgeous,’ she says, when she’s finished chewing. ‘Orange?’
‘Yep,’ I reply, grinning. ‘I’ve had them on the breakfast menu for the last few days. I call them Morning Sunshine Muffins. Basic muffin recipe, but I use skewers to make holes through them when they’re baked and pour over a glaze made of fresh orange juice, zest and sugar. Bit messy, but … well, yum.’
‘All the best things in life are messy,’ she replies, giving me a wink. I wink back and wonder if this will lead onto a rash of double entendres. Like I say, she must have been bored. She has probably been storing up all her risqué one-liners.
‘I’ve brought you your mail,’ I say, pulling a wedge of envelopes, cards and flyers out of my bag. She sets them on her lap and doesn’t look overly keen on opening any of them. I often feel the same about my mail, as it is usually full of bills, but I know first-hand that although Cherie may have some worries in life, money is definitely not one of them.
Still, I’ve adopted the same avoidance tactic here, even though they won’t be my bills. I’ve been getting Lizzie to pile them all together in a corner for me to pass on, without going through them once.
‘I’m glad you came by, my love,’ she says, idly flicking through the envelopes, as though looking for any that might be interesting. ‘I’ve been wanting to see you about something anyway. I think it’s time we had a little talk …’
There is something about the way she says this that instantly makes me feel nervous. Although she doesn’t have kids of her own, she is an old hand at being a mother figure to what seems like an entire village.
I am immediately on my guard and have a scary list of things in my mind that I suspect she might be about to tell me off about.
It could be Matt – perhaps we’ve been rumbled and she’s about to quiz me on how far it’s gone. Maybe it’s the fact that I let Lizzie launch the honesty-box system without asking. Perhaps she’s been checking her bank balance and seen some mysterious debits on there she needs to query. Or … the absolute worst of all … Edie May or her fictional fiancé have been round here and dobbed me in it with regard to Brenda.
I clench my lips together and try to stop the nervous tap of my toes against the parquet flooring, and ignore the prickling sensation that is disco-dancing its way over my scalp. Oh God, I think. She’s going to kill me – crutches or not, I’m sure she could still manage it.
‘Okay,’ I say, sounding much braver than I am feeling. Externally, I hope I look normal. Internally, I am bricking it.
‘I was wondering …’ she says, tucking stray hair behind her ear as though she, too, is bricking it – or maybe just pebbling it – ‘if …’
She leans forward a little and I notice a slight wince of pain. Cherie is such a force of nature, it’s easy to forget that she had major surgery very recently.
‘If you’d like to stay,’ she finishes, raising one eyebrow. She continues to flick through the mail on her lap, as though waiting for my brain to catch up with what she’s just said.
‘Stay?’ I repeat, frowning in confusion. I glance at my watch. ‘For a bit, yes – got to make a move soon, though, there will be ravening hordes of teenagers heading over to the Rockery in search of cake before long …’
‘No,’ she says, waving a hand to cut me off. ‘I don’t mean now. I mean in Budbury. At the café. Would you like to stay, permanently?’
‘You mean, like, forever?’
‘That’s often what permanent means, my sweet. Look, I can see this has come as a surprise to you, Laura, but I’ve been considering it for a while. Even before this happened.’
She gestures at her injured hip and the crutches with utter contempt, before carrying on.
‘You’ve fitted in from day one, haven’t you? You and the kiddies. It’s a special kind of place, this, and it’s not for everyone … but I think it could be for you. I realised how right you were that day with Jean, the walking lady? The way you took care of her and settled her and made a real difference to her. She’ll always remember you and the Comfort Food Café, for that small kindness, you know?’
I shake my head, not quite believing what I am hearing.
‘No she won’t, don’t be daft! I’m sure she’ll just go on her way in life and won’t think about it again at all … and … Cherie, this is a bit mad, even for you! I know you’re hurt now, but you’re going to make a full recovery, you know that. And you’ve told me yourself that once the summer season’s done, it quietens right down. You don’t need me, you really don’t.’
‘It’s not just a matter of need,’ she replies, ‘and it’s not about my broken hip. Or maybe it is a little bit. Maybe the hip, and being forced to take some time out, and being here instead of in the flat on my own, has made me reconsider things a bit. Take stock, you know? Have a think about where I am in life and what I want from it.’
She gazes out of the front window as she speaks and I follow her eyes to see that Frank is out there. He is leaning into my car boot and I see he’s putting a bowl of water in there for Jimbo, which I really should have thought of myself.
I may be a little befuddled by her offer, but I’m still with it enough to join the dots. Maybe Cherie has finally realised that there is more to her and Frank than banter and bacon butties. If so, I’ll be happy for them – but it doesn’t really change anything in my life.
‘I’m going to retire,’ she announces, firmly, turning her face back towards me. ‘And I think you’re the person to take over. I can pay you, and pay you well, and we’d find somewhere more permanent for you and the kids to live. They’ve settled in, you can’t deny it. And you’ve made friends yourself. This could work, if you just give it a chance.’
‘Making friends for the summer isn’t real life, Cherie!’ I say, with some zeal. I suppose, deep down, I have been pondering these subjects myself – wondering how much substance there is to my life here; how genuine Lizzie and Nate’s friendships are; how serious this thing between me and Matt i
s, or could be …
‘Course it is,’ she replies, not to be dissuaded. ‘And if you stay, the summer doesn’t ever have to end. It’ll just change colour and get a bit colder. Look, just tell me you’ll think about it, all right?’
I shake my head and stand up. I feel unnerved and unsure and thoroughly discombobulated by this turn of events. I was sad about leaving, yes, but I was set on it. It seemed the only thing to do. Now Cherie was presenting me with options that I wasn’t at all sure I even wanted.
Life, sometimes, is much easier when you don’t have too many choices. Manchester is my reality – it is my parents and my sister and school and home and, most of all, my precious memories of David. It is my oxygen.
This? This has been wonderful. Life-changing. Utterly brilliant.
But it simply isn’t real.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, refusing to engage with the whole silly idea. ‘I have to get pizzas in the oven. I’ll see you soon, all right?’
I turn to leave, realising that I’ve been thrown completely off course and not managed to even sniff around the subject of how Cherie would feel about seeing her sister again. I daren’t sit back down, though, because I know she’ll only take that as encouragement.
‘Laura!’ she says, calling me back. ‘At least take these, will you, before you make your mind up? Take these and then tell me this isn’t real.’
She hands me a small stack of old-fashioned postcards, which she seems to have sorted from the pile of mail on her lap. I glance at them and see pictures of beaches and castles and stately homes and surfers, all from different spots in Devon and Cornwall. I turn one over and see immediately that it is from Jean.
They are all from Jean. All eight of them. Cherie was right. She had thought about us again and it had mattered and it had made a difference.
I shove the postcards roughly into my bag to read later, blink sudden tears from my eyes, and leave.
Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 22