Instead, Martha does the same as me – she simply gives in to it. After one touch, she seems to collapse into Cherie’s arms, and even endures it when she strokes her hair and mutters soothing noises into her ear. I even think – though I might be wrong here – that I see the glint of tears in Martha’s eyes when she is finally released.
Good lord, I think to myself – what’s going on here? Does this woman have supernatural powers after all? Maybe it’s like it happens in a film or one of those teen TV shows I’m technically too old for but secretly love, and she is a real-life vampire with the power to magic us all into submission…
Cherie spoils this potential illusion by letting out an enormous belch, giggling, and apologising.
“Sorry about that, ladies – there’ve been a few ciders too many, it seems! Anyway, come on, come on, I want you to meet everyone …”
I look at Martha and raise my eyebrows as Cherie walks towards the others.
“Normal enough for you?” I ask. She just shrugs, and looks as confused as I feel.
As we approach the rest of the horror movie cast, I notice a few more details about the hula-hoopers. The Monster is a tall man, bright blue eyes glinting in his painted face, his hair blonde and surfer-long. He’s bare-chested, and although the chest in question is green, it’s also totally ripped. Kind of Young Matthew McConaughey does Frankenstein.
He’s doing a mean hip swivel, keeping the bright orange hoop flying, even though he is creased up with laughter. Next to him is Count Dracula, dressed in a smart black suit complete with waistcoat and cloak, and I notice that he’s a lot older than he looked at a distance – 70s at least – but with a healthy, weather-beaten face that shines through even the white make-up. He’s also doing all right with the hoop.
The Mummy, however … well, she never stood a chance, as she’s approximately three years pregnant, and the size of a hippo. She’s pulled the bandages off her face, and they droop around her shoulders with her long dark hair. The hula hoop is, tragically, completely still – she’s looped it over her head, and it’s simply got stuck around her body, perched solidly on the top of her baby bump. She’s looking at it morosely, as though wondering how all of this ever happened to her.
Frankenstein stops swivelling, drops his hoop to the ground, and steps out of it. He lifts hers back over her head – there’s no way it’s ever going to go in the other direction - and gently kisses her on the lips. Ah, I think. That’s how it happened.
At this point, the devil dog spots us, and runs immediately over to investigate. He sniffs my Converse, and I give him a quick tickle behind his velvety ears. Martha, who isn’t that keen on people but adores dogs, drops straight to the ground to let him lick her face. He does so enthusiastically, his tail wagging at the speed of light, as a lady dressed as some kind of evil nurse walks over to us. She’s wearing a slightly slutty, blood-spattered outfit, but offsets the short skirt with a pair of leggings underneath – like she’s not quite confident enough to go full slutty.
She’s not tall, and she’s curvy, and pretty, and has exactly the same kind of crazy hair as me, except hers is brown. Mainly brown – there is one green streak in the mass of locks, curling at the side of her face, half grown-out.
She holds out her hand for me to shake, and smiles at me with such warmth and kindness that I immediately want to adopt her as my big sister.
“Hi – I’m Laura, and this,” she says, pointing at the dog, “is Midgebo. He has no manners at all, I’m sorry. Welcome to Budbury.”
I nod, and smile, and try to look less bewildered than I actually feel.
“Erm … nice to meet you, and thank you. And don’t worry about the dog – Martha has no manners either.”
There’s a brief ‘humph’ noise from beneath the tangle of teenager and Labrador which lets me know she heard that, which is fine. I intended her to hear it.
“Laura … why is everyone dressed like this?” I ask, gesturing at the party with my fingers. I notice a table set off to one side, laden down with bottles of cider and cupcakes with tiny icing skulls on top and bowls of gooey jelly with what look like eyeballs floating in them.
“Oh! Well, we always dress like this on a Sunday …” she says, grinning. “Right before we sacrifice a goat to the Sacred Lord of Darkness.”
Martha’s face emerges from the flurry of Labrador, and she looks interested. Laura notices, and quickly shakes her head.
“No, sorry – I was kidding! No goat sacrifices here, I’m afraid. At least not as far as I know. It was Frank’s birthday party last night. That’s Frank, over there, the hula-hooping Count Dracula. It was his 81st. We always have a big fancy dress bash for him. Last year was the Wild West, this year was horror legends. We had all these outfits left over, and the food, and it was pretty much the last day of the holiday season, and we knew you guys were coming, and … well, any excuse for a party, in all honesty.”
I nod, as though that makes sense, while I hold out one hand to help Martha back up to her feet. Predictably enough, she completely ignores it and struggles up alone, leaving my hand hanging. I feel a mild flush flow over my cheeks – one of the many curses of The Ginger Brethren – and take a deep breath. What did I really expect? That we’d move to Dorset and Martha would suddenly turn into a model teen? She hadn’t told anyone to fuck off yet – I had to accept the small mercies and move on.
Laura also notices that, of course, and gives me a sympathetic smile. She points at the zombie pack, who I now see, closer up, are all teenagers – Martha’s age, maybe 14 through to 18 or thereabouts.
“The blonde zombie over there,” she says, gesturing at a petite girl with a long ponytail, “is my daughter, Lizzie. She’s almost 16. Next to her – the zombie in the beanie hat - is her boyfriend Josh, he’s 17, and a couple of their mates from the village.”
“Wow,” I say, gazing at them. “It’s impressive – the way she’s managed to incorporate black eyeliner into her zombie outfit.”
“Oh yes,” replies Laura, looking on proudly, “she wouldn’t be caught dead without her eyeliner – or even undead! And over there is my son Nate, he’s 13. He’s the junior Frankenstein. The pregnant Mummy is my sister Becca, and the cutie with her is Sam. Or Surfer Sam, as he’s known for obvious reasons. Frank is married to Cherie, in case you were wondering. And the girl with the pink hair is Willow, and Catwoman is Edie May. She’s 91, but don’t let that fool you – she actually won the hula hoop challenge, the others were just playing for the losers’ spots …”
It’s a lot to take in. A lot of names, and information, and stuff to remember. Details to file away. None of which seems to be easy at the moment, as all I can see in my mind’s eye is a 91-year-old Catwoman hip-swivelling her way to victory.
This place isn’t just weird – it’s super weird.
The thought must have come across on my face, because Laura is laughing at me, and Martha is edging away from me. For a change.
“Don’t worry, I know it seems a lot. And it’s all pretty strange – I only moved down here myself last summer, and it took me weeks to remember everyone’s names. I’ll be around to help you settle in, as much or as little as you like. I live here at the Rockery, and so does Matt. That’s Matt, over there – the scary doctor.”
She goes a little dreamy-eyed as she says this, and I can’t pretend I don’t see why. Matt is sitting off to the side, an elderly Border Terrier at his feet, strumming away on the guitar.
He’s big and beefy and even dressed in a white coat covered in blood, looks like the kind of doctor who would immediately raise your blood pressure. In a good way. Floppy chestnut brown hair, hazel eyes, all-round handsome. As though he senses us watching, he looks over, and waves at Laura. She waves back, and they give each other a smile that makes me feel like I don’t exist. That nobody else in the world exists. It’s sweet and lovely and intimate, and it straight away makes me feel lonely. I don’t think any man has ever smiled at me like that – certainly not while sober
.
I drag my mind away from that thought, as it is bordering on self-pity, and instead look around to see how Martha is reacting to all of this insanity.
She is standing behind me, hands shoved in her pockets, and studiously ignoring the nearby zombie teenagers. My heart falls a little, and maybe breaks a little as well. I had hoped, as soon as I saw them, that it might make the difference – seeing people of the same age, of the same eye-liner inclination, of the same footwear tribe (most of the zombies are wearing Doc Martens, which never go out of fashion, even after the apocalypse). I suppose I’d hoped that she would see them as potential friends – but instead, she’s pretending not to see them at all.
I am gazing at Martha, and feeling sad, when Laura slips her arm into mine and links me.
“Don’t worry,” she says, quietly, following my gaze. “It just takes time. Give her a chance to get used to it all, to us. To the fact that you’ve dragged her kicking and screaming away from her friends.”
I tear my eyes away from Martha, and back to Laura. It sounds so simple when she says it, but I’m not so sure.
“Maybe,” I reply. “I hope, anyway. She’s … well, she’s been through a lot.”
“I know,” Laura answers, simply. “Cherie told me. And you might not know it to look at her now, but Lizzie was the same. She lost her dad. I lost my husband. We were broken when we arrived here, and she hated me for making her come. These days, she’s … well, she’s still a pain in the arse sometimes; she’s impossible to get out of bed, she’s addicted to her phone, she swears too much, and she punches Nate in the kidneys most days, but … well, that’s all normal pain-in-the-arse stuff, isn’t it? Nothing we can’t cope with.”
Wow, I think, looking at Laura through fresh eyes. I’d been standing here, feeling jealous of her and Matt, and assuming that I was looking at one of those perfect families. Mum, dad, two kids. Lashings of love all around.
And while I was right about the love – that much is obvious – I’d been wrong about the circumstances. Laura is a widow, and Lizzie and Nate have suffered the same kind of loss as Martha, and nothing is as simple as it seemed on the surface. Maybe, just maybe, this place will do the same for us – sprinkle some fairy dust on our lives until we reach the point where all I have to worry about with Martha is her lazing around in bed. Not, you know, overdosing in a nightclub toilet.
Martha herself has taken a walk, obviously not into the whole meet-and-greet party vibe, and is starting her new life in Dorset the way she probably intends to carry on: alone. I watch as she mooches from cottage to cottage, pausing to look at the names they all have engraved on slate plaques outside them, frowning as she does. She looks forlorn, and isolated, and very, very young. It’s like a kick in the teeth, and I suddenly wish we hadn’t come. Somehow, being surrounded by everyone else’s happiness – even if there is sadness just a layer beneath – feels like too much.
I have an urge to change my mind right then. To scoop Martha back up, and load her in the car, and drive us to the nearest pub, where I will happily let her use her fake ID and allow us both to get absolutely shitfaced.
Before I can give in and act on the impulse, Martha turns back, and joins us. Her face is slightly more animated than it has been all day, and she’s pulled her bobble out so her black hair is flowing over her shoulders.
“What’s the name of our cottage?” she asks, abruptly.
“Erm … Lilac Wine, I think?” I reply, frowning in confusion.
She nods, as though she’s just figured something out.
“Right. Jeff Buckley. And there’s Cactus Tree, which is Joni Mitchell, and Poison Ivy, which is the Rolling Stones, and Mad About Saffron, which is that hippy dude Donovan. Plus over there there’s one called Black Rose.”
She raises her eyebrows at me expectantly, and I answer: “Thin Lizzy?”
All of the cottages at the Rockery – a name which now makes much more sense – are named after songs. Quite cool songs as well, in a retro kind of way.
“Wow,” says Laura, shaking her head in awe. “I can’t believe you figured it out that quickly, and you know all the songs as well … you two are way cooler than us!”
Martha glances at her, glances at me, and replies: “Well, one of us is at least.”
It’s cheeky, and could have been nasty, if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s almost smiling. Not full on – not grinning or anything crazy like that – but definitely almost.
“We’re in Hyacinth House, behind the others and next to the pool,” says Laura, and waits a beat for us to figure that one out.
“The Doors,” I say, at exactly the same time as Martha. I resist the urge to offer her a high-five – I think we all know how that would end – and instead satisfy myself with a small, internal whoop of joy. Perhaps this will all be okay, after all. The healing power of rock music might at the very least have given us a chance.
Cherie wanders back over to us – I’ve seen her watching me and Laura, as though she’s giving us the chance to get acquainted before she butts back in. She’s perched her plastic fangs in her hair, and they look a bit like they might come back to life at any moment and start gnashing down on her head.
“Martha figured out all the cottage names straight away,” says Laura, eyes wide as though Martha has performed some kind of miracle.
“I’m not surprised,” replies Cherie, reaching out to smooth Martha’s hair behind her ears and somehow, amazingly, managing to keep her hand. “I could tell right away that this was the right place for these two.”
Chapter 10
Our first night in Lilac Wine is neither a roaring success or a complete disaster. On a scale of 1-10 – with 1 being ‘please pass me the Valium’ and 10 being ‘zippety-doo-dah’ – it’s probably about a 6.
The cottage itself is lovely; all exposed beams and chintzy furniture and comfy cushions. There’s a gorgeous old fireplace that I can imagine lying in front of on colder nights, accompanied by a bottle of gin, and a battered pine dining table laden down with gifts of wildflowers and home-baked bread and cupcakes and organic wine. These people are definitely feeders.
There are two bedrooms, both of which are en-suite, which is excellent news as it means Martha and I can avoid seeing each other naked by accident. There’s also, bizarrely, a TV in my bathroom – which, I don’t know, might be a good thing? Maybe I can watch Antiques Roadshow while I’m having a poo. Take that, Fiona Bruce.
Most of the other cottages are now empty after the end of the main summer season, although there are some holiday lets coming up – I expect to be seeing strangers wandering around at some point or another, and vow to try not to scare any of them with my feral appearance. I mean, I’m hardly the epitome of groomed style and sophistication when I’m at work – it can only get worse now I’m a country bumpkin.
Lilac Wine looks out onto the main green area, and at the moment, the only people living at the Rockery are us, Laura and her kids, and Matt, who it turns out is the village vet and lives in the big house called Black Rose. They seem to share custody of Midgebo, the dog, which I suppose is a good a way as any of taking baby steps towards something more official.
Cherie and Frank live at his farm, and the others at various places in the village itself – which I presume is where they all take themselves off to by the time their welcome party dies down.
I unpack my things, allowing myself a small surge of optimism as I do so, hoping that I’ve made the right call. That Martha will ever forgive me.
She is quiet and moody as we mooch around the grounds and the cottage, taking it all in with sad, dark eyes, as though all of it has nothing to do with her at all. But … well, she isn’t actively hostile, and I have to take that as a positive. There are no tears, no tantrums, no self-harm or Zoe-harm, all of which I possibly expected. I tell myself that it will be fine – but somehow a disconnected Martha feels almost worse than an explosive Martha.
After a night of watching crap telly and drinking m
ost of the wine that was left for me, all alone on the sofa, I finally give in and go to bed. I’ve been putting it off for some reason. Maybe part of me was hoping that Martha would emerge, and we could talk. Or listen to music. Or anything at all. I suppose I’d forgotten, though, exactly how good teenagers can be at sulking – especially ones like Martha, who have plenty of reason to.
As I sip the wine, and watch the crap telly, and ponder everything that’s happened to us both, I feel like sulking myself. I miss Kate so much it feels like a throbbing pain in my chest.
Eventually, when I recognise the signs of a morbid drunk coming on, I make my way up the stairs, learning the new creaks and groans and noises that all older houses come with. I pause outside her room. The door is open, just a tiny crack, and I push it a little.
I see her, bundled up in the covers, black hair splayed across her forehead, a ghostly light cast over her face by the phone that sits next to her on the cabinet, plugged in to charge. She’s frowning even in her sleep, her legs occasionally jerking like a dog having a bad dream. I love her so much, and I’m so desperate to reach out, to help her. To get her through this.
I glance around the room, the moon shining in through the still-open floral curtains, and see her suitcase abandoned in a corner. Still zipped up and bulging, as though she hopes she won’t be staying.
Quietly, sadly, I tip-toe across the carpeted hallway to my own room. I fall onto the bed, fully clothed, and pray to a God I’m not sure I even believe in.
Chapter 11
Martha’s first day at college rolls round quickly, and I cling to it like it’s a lifeboat all made of hope. Perhaps, I think, this will change everything. Perhaps she will be inspired by her new teachers; enthused by her A-levels; won over by new friends. Perhaps she will finally decide to give this place a chance, and stop acting as though she’s been sentenced to death by Dorset.
Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café Page 6