Still, I don’t have much time to think about that, because just about then stage two of my party plan comes to fruition. I can tell that it has from the sheer amount of noise that suddenly erupts behind me.
Cherie raises her eyebrows at me in a question and I shake my head and smile, pointing to a table at the back of the garden.
The table where I’ve stashed all seven of Surfer Sam’s sisters. They run in age from thirty-three to fifty-one, and I am not even going to try and begin to remember all their names – although I know there is a Theresa and a Siobhan and a Denise in the mix, at least.
They flew in to Exeter from Dublin earlier in the day and are possibly the noisiest people I have ever met in my entire life. In a good way. I’m also struck by how many of them are, and the fact that Sam’s mum was basically producing babies for almost twenty years. No wonder she gave them all the odd pot noodle. I would too.
Sam has only now found them and has completely disappeared beneath a flurry of siblings, all of them screaming and yelling and laughing. It’s only the fact that he’s so much taller than them that allows me to still see his shaggy blonde head. His face is creased up in amusement and he is enthusiastically hugging them all back.
He may be ready for them all to leave again in a few days – once they’ve started nagging him and trying to persuade him to come home and marry a nice girl and settle down, which he says is their constant refrain. But right now, he looks thrilled – and I’m thrilled for him. He’s a great bloke and he deserves a bit of fussing from the women in his life.
Cherie is standing next to me now, looking on at the family reunion in front of her and glancing back at the family reunion going on behind her.
‘I assume this is all your doing?’ she asks, her tone amused, her feathers bouncing around in the slight breeze that’s blowing up from the bay.
‘It is,’ I say, nodding. ‘And I’m afraid you paid for at least some of it. Peter and Luke got here themselves, but I did shell out for all the girls’ flights from Dublin. I didn’t think you’d mind …’
I look at her cautiously, knowing that however much she is enjoying watching other people’s reunions, she might not feel quite the same in a few minutes, when I’ve forced her to endure her own.
‘Of course not,’ she says, leaning in to give me a one-armed hug. She needs the other to hold one of her crutches.
‘You’ve done a brilliant job. I knew you would, but even I never imagined all of this; you’ve outdone yourself … the look on Frank’s face when Peter and Luke walked towards him! Lordy, that was one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever seen … and the fact that Luke’s staying, it’ll mean so much to him … he’s been lonely. We both know that. And you understand loneliness better than most, I think, Laura … so, well, thank you.
‘Thank you for what you’ve done for Frank and Sam, and for me. Thanks for keeping the café going, keeping Edie company and becoming such an important part of our little world. And please don’t forget what I said – you are wanted here, my love. You’re needed. You can always change your mind. You can always stay.’
Oh God, I think, as she finishes her speech. So genuine. So heartfelt. So … premature.
‘You might not think that in a few minutes,’ I say, which instantly and understandably confuses her.
‘Why ever not?’ she replies, frowning.
‘Umm … well. It’d be easier to show you than tell you. Just promise me you’ll stay calm and you won’t have a heart attack, and you won’t scalp me with a tomahawk.’
‘I’m not planning on a heart attack, my sweet, but I’m not at all sure I like the sound of all this, so I’ll reserve judgement on the second one for now.’
I bite my lip and head towards the café, gesturing for her to follow me. She does, although we make slow progress – partly because of her crutches and the uneven ground, and partly because people keep stopping her to ask how she is, say how lovely it is to see her and compliment her on her frock.
By the time we reach the doors, I think I am possibly about to be sick.
I open them and step inside. It is dimly lit in here, still in semi-darkness and I know that from the outside we are shadowy figures as I lead Cherie to the table, where the sister she’s not seen for over fifty years, and the nephew she’s never met at all, are sitting and waiting.
Brenda stands up as we approach, Robbie towering at her side, ready to leap into action if needed. I meet his eyes and we both share a nervous smile.
Brenda, of course, has the advantage. She knows exactly who she is, why she’s here, and who is standing in front of her. She’s had time to process the idea, prepare herself and plan what she wants to say and how she wants to react.
Cherie has had nothing of the sort and to start with she simply looks at the two people in front of her, bewildered. She looks at me, as if to ask what’s going on, and then squints some more at Brenda, which makes me wonder if I should go and flick the main lights on so she can see her better.
And then, after a few more moments of silence, where Brenda simply smiles at her and waits for her brain to imagine the unimaginable, Cherie’s mouth forms into a silent ‘O’ of surprise.
Her hands fly to her cheeks in shock and sudden tears begin to slide down her cheeks. It’s going to ruin her make-up and for that alone I might deserve a good tomahawking.
‘My Lord … is it you, Brenda?’ she stutters, sobs wracking her body. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Aye, it is, you daft moo,’ says her sister, shuffling forward to put her arms around Cherie.
Cherie is by far the taller and bigger of the two women, but there is something about the way Brenda holds her, stroking her back and pouring out comfort, that feels somehow stronger. Older. She’s still the mature one even now, after all these years.
Seeing Frank and his family was emotional. Seeing Sam and his girls was sweet. Seeing this – seeing Cherie weep on her sister’s shoulder, wobbling on her crutches, clutching Brenda to her as though she will never let her go? This destroys me.
I feel my own floodgates begin to open and scrunch my eyelids up tight and shake my head. This is not my drama. This is not my reunion or my rollercoaster, or my turn in the spotlight.
This is for Cherie and for Brenda, and nobody else.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry …’ I hear her saying. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I’ve been, all these years … I was such a selfish little idiot and I’ve regretted it so much … please forgive me!’
She is speaking between sobs and sounds breathless with emotion.
Brenda pulls away and looks up at her big sister’s face. She wipes the tears away and smiles at the feathers in her pink-tipped hair.
‘There’s nothing to forgive, Cheryl,’ she says. ‘We’re too old and too ugly not to realise that there are more important things in this world than grudges from a lifetime ago. Now sit down, before you fall down.’
Cherie – for pretty much the first time since I’ve known her – does as she is told and sits down at the table. Brenda sits opposite her and the two touch fingers across the tablecloth.
They spend a while just looking at each other and I wonder how strange it must be. To have last seen your sister’s face when you were in your twenties and not to see it again until now. To fast-forward from youth to maturity, bypassing all the shared experience and life events that got you there, instead skipping straight to the wrinkles and grey hairs and broken hips.
It must, I think, unable to imagine this happening with me and Becca, be unbelievably strange.
‘So,’ says Brenda. ‘This is my son, Robbie.’
‘It’s lovely to finally meet you, Auntie Cheryl,’ he says and I hear Cherie take yet another gulp of desperate air. She doesn’t seem able to stop crying. I think I may have broken her, but in a good way – a way that will allow her to heal even better than new.
I turn and decide that it is safe to sneak away now. There is a lot of raw emotion in the room and a lot of catching up
to do, I am sure, but nobody seems like they will be having a heart attack or going on a killing spree.
I will talk to Cherie again before I leave – and leave for good – but for now, my work is very much done. I leave them to it and silently walk back out into the party, closing the door behind me to give them their privacy.
Out here, it’s a different world. The Honky Tonk Fossils are playing something loud and fast that involves fiddle-playing and a lot of stomping. One of them is standing in front of the hay bales, leading the crowd in a line dance. I see Sam and his sisters yee-hahing with the best of them. I see Scrumpy Joe busting some shockingly good moves.
I see Willow whooping it up with gusto. I see Lizzie and Nate and the other teenagers joining in at the back, where they can still look cool. I see Frank and Peter and Luke, all with pints of cider in front of them, talking, Frank’s face still lit up with happiness.
I see Willow’s mum, Lynnie, smiling at it all from her specially laid-out corner of the garden. I wanted her to be able to come and for Willow to be able to be here with her, so I have set up a small yoga area with mats over to one side. It seems to be Lynnie’s natural inclination to go back to that time in her life, so we worked with it.
I suspect that later, when even more of the free bar has been drunk, she may get some customers – although I’m not sure how good they’ll be at the balancing poses.
I see Edie May sitting on one of the tables, tapping her feet on the bench, and I see Scrumpy Joanne sitting with her, sipping a drink and looking vaguely unhappy to be surrounded by so many people. Her feet are still tapping, though, so the Fossils are doing something good.
And finally, as I lean back against the door of the café and swallow down the feelings that are threatening to choke me, I see Matt. And he’s headed right towards me.
Chapter 35
I can’t run and I can’t hide. I can’t even dash off and pretend I’m busy, as this party is very clearly already doing just fine without me.
All I can do is plaster a smile on my face and hope to get through this in one piece before I can run away and lick my wounds.
‘Hey,’ he says, simply, as he approaches. His eyes flicker, briefly, to my cleavage, and I am reminded that I am looking pretty slutty and that he is only human.
He’s also, truth be told, looking awesome himself, in his usual snug-fitting Levis and a denim shirt that is stretched tight across broad shoulders, pearly buttons open deep enough for me to see a slither of muscular chest. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and he is wearing it well. As, of course, you would expect from a young Harrison Ford.
‘Hey,’ I say back. ‘How are you? I’ve not seen you all day.’
‘Yeah, I was … busy. You know how it is.’
As I have been using the excuse of being ‘busy’ for some time now, I do know exactly how it is. I wonder if Matt is also using it as an excuse and he is as keen for me to leave as I am to go. If perhaps this thing has become too complicated for him to handle as well. For some reason, this hurts, even though it is also totally hypocritical.
‘I do know how it is. Did you see Frank?’ I reply.
‘I did. It’s pretty much the happiest I’ve ever seen him. He introduced me to Peter and Luke and they’re going to call into the surgery next week some time. Once they’ve all slept off their hangovers.’
‘I think there might be a lot of hangovers in Budbury tomorrow,’ I say, looking around at the line-dancing, the packed bar and the amount of discarded plastic cups already spilling out of the bin bags that are tacked to each table.
‘Not you, though, I take it? You seem decidedly … sober.’
I nod. Avoid looking directly into his eyes, not wanting to make this moment any more intimate than it needs to be.
‘Early start tomorrow. Don’t want to be doing it under the influence.’
‘Right. What time are you thinking of leaving?’
‘No later than six,’ I reply. He nods and doesn’t look shocked – he is probably the kind of sensible person who also sets off on journeys at stupid o’clock to avoid traffic as well.
‘Okay. Makes sense. Look, we haven’t seen much of each other recently, and I … well, I have something for you. It’s in my van, down by the beach. Walk with me? One last time?’
I feel my eyes widen and my pulse rate speed up, and hastily take a long, deep breath to calm myself down. I don’t really want to go for a walk with Matt. I don’t want to say goodbye, I don’t want to hold his hand and I don’t want him to kiss me. Because any one of those things will be just too much.
I cast my eyes around, desperately looking for an excuse in human form. All I find are happy people having fun. Damn every last one of them.
‘I know you’re looking for a reason to say no,’ he says, sounding half-annoyed and half-amused. ‘And that’s just plain rude. Now I’m going down to the van and I’d like you to come with me.’
I bite my lip and simply nod. I am being a bit of a prick, I know.
Together we take the longer route down to the bay, following the winding path that curves around the hill, rather than the steps. Even with the fairy lights I don’t fancy the steps.
By the time we reach the bottom and the car park, the noise from the café is slightly less vivid. Still very much there, but muted by both the distance and the sound of the waves coming in to the bay.
I follow Matt to his truck and wonder what he is going to produce from it. The Picasso is pretty much full already, so I hope it is small and can potentially be squashed into the corner of a roofbox or crammed into the glove compartment.
Matt stops and turns to face me. His expression is serious and he looks over my shoulder a little, which I always know means he is nervous.
‘You don’t have to keep this present, I’d just like to stress – if you don’t want it, and I completely understand if you don’t, then I am happy to keep it myself,’ he says, avoiding my eyes in the same way I did to him earlier. ‘There is no pressure here, either way.’
‘Okay,’ I reply simply, feeling more twitchy by the second.
He nods and opens the boot, and I immediately realise that there is no way I am going to squash this particular gift into the corner of a roofbox, and I definitely won’t be able to cram it into the glove compartment.
Looking up at me is a puppy. A black Labrador puppy, with eyes so big and so dark that liquid light seems to reflect from them. He makes a little yipping noise and tries to chew his way out of his crate.
A completely involuntary ‘aaaah …’ noise escapes my lips and I offer my fingers for him to nuzzle through the bars. He stands up and I see that he isn’t a complete baby – he’s definitely older than Jimbo was when we got him.
Matt opens up the crate and lifts the dog into his arms. I look at him there and wonder how I am supposed to resist this – a gorgeous man in a cowboy hat, cuddling a Labrador puppy. I mean, it’s all obscenely cute.
‘He’s four months old and he’s called Midge. He was part of a litter bred by some people I know over in Exeter. That’s where I’ve been all day. He was on the small side when he was born and he never got picked when buyers came … so. He’s yours now. Or mine. Or ours, even.’
I reach out and tickle the back of Midge’s ears and they are as velvety soft as I expect. He leans his face into the palm of my hand and licks me. He is adorable.
He could be mine. He could be Matt’s. Or he could be ours.
I try to process these words as Matt hooks up Midge to a lead and starts to walk towards the beach. I follow, on auto-pilot, catching up with him as he disappears into the darkness.
The tide has recently been in and as we walk I feel the sand solid and damp beneath my boots, and the occasional crunch of shells. The moonlight is shining across the water, coating every ripple with a shimmer of silver, and the cliffs are dark, shadowy outlines in the distance. The café, lit up and loud, is a beacon of activity in the otherwise sleepy bay.
Silently, we walk, both of u
s watching the ambling puppy as he tugs at his lead and strains, sniffs and pees on just about everything he comes across. This is a small beach – but a big wide world to a little dog.
After a few minutes, we reach the rocks and Matt sits down on one of the boulders. I stand and stare at him for a little while, then sit by his side. Midge jumps up and paws at my knees, so I lift him up to sit on my lap too. I never was any good at instilling discipline in dogs. Or children, now I come to think about it.
I absently stroke his ears, smooth the fur of his head and feel him sink quietly into a semi-doze. If he was a cat, he’d be purring.
I look out at the sea and the moonlight, and the sheer wondrousness of sitting at what feels like the edge of the world.
‘You haven’t said a word,’ says Matt, finally breaking the silence. ‘About Midge. About anything.’
‘I’m not sure I have any words left, Matt,’ I reply, sadly. ‘I’m just all worded out. This … this is a lovely thing to do for me. Everything you’ve done for me has been lovely. You are lovely. But lovely isn’t enough and I’m not sure about anything any more …’
I stop talking because I wasn’t lying when I said I’d run out of words.
‘None of us are sure, Laura,’ he replies, when he realises I have finished.
‘Anybody who claims they’re sure about life is either lying or stupid. But I am sure about one thing – I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to leave and I don’t want Nate and Lizzie to leave either. I don’t know what the future might hold for any of us, but I owe it to you and to myself to at least tell you that much.
‘We have something here, don’t we? I’m not saying it’s for life or that it will ever be the same as what you shared with David, but it’s … something. It’s special. I feel it and I know you feel it too. So don’t go. Stay here, with me. With Midge. And give us a chance.’
‘But why?’ I ask, sounding a little bit like a petulant child. ‘We hardly know each other!’
‘Really?’ he replies, his tone gentle and steady – probably exactly the way you should deal with a petulant child.
Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 27