The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

W e end up spending the night in Nate’s room because he has bunk beds, and both of us feel the need not to be separated after a long, strange day. Plus I have an instinct to stay close to my daughter, in case any other disasters strike. I’d hate to be in a different room if there was a pterodactyl attack, or the mattresses came to life.

We’re both wiped out and despite the sound of the wind howling outside, we sleep solidly until just before ten the next morning. As soon as I wake up, I lie in bed, disorientated by the bunk above me, and check my phone. Before I crashed out last night, I’d emailed the letting agency, asking if there was any wriggle room with the tenants.

I let out an audible sigh when I see the reply. They’d strongly advise against withdrawing at this stage, as everything is signed, deposits have been paid, and I could be sued for breach of contract. The agent also added a more personal note, explaining that the couple moving in are young, just starting new jobs, and really lovely. I’m frustrated but also a little relieved; I don’t want to be the kind of person who messes anyone around.

‘You okay?’ Sophie says, dangling her head over the side of her bunk, her hair flowing down like a curtain.

‘Yep. I just checked if we could go back to the house, and, well, we can’t. So that’s a bit tricky.’

She clambers down the ladder and sits next to me. She’s still wearing last night’s clothes, as am I. We probably both smell gorgeous. Matt had unpacked some of our stuff for us and even though we were too tired to root around for PJs, at least we have clean things to wear today.

‘I don’t want to go back anyway,’ she says quietly. ‘I know this hasn’t started off the way we’d hoped, but there’s still a lot to like. I mean, it’s beautiful here, and the people are lovely, and I … well, I think we should stay.’

I knew she would. This whole crazy plan was her idea, and she’s not ready to let go of it. She’s probably feeling bad about everything, and I sit up and give her a quick hug.

‘I know you do,’ I reply. ‘But the reality is more complicated than that.’

‘No it’s not. We go and stay with Gabriel. For a bit, anyway. He can’t be as bad as you think, and we’ll probably barely even see him. It’s not like it’s for the whole time, is it? Plus, he was kind of hot, in a wild-man way. Looked a bit like Poldark, didn’t he?’

‘A bit, yeah, but he was also rude, and didn’t really want us to come, and he called me fat, and basically he can stick his tricorn hat where the sun doesn’t shine as far as I’m concerned.’

‘He called you fat?’ she repeats, looking shocked. ‘That’s out of order. It’s okay for me to call you fat, but not for someone we only just met!’

‘Well, technically he called me “not small”, but that’s what my brain translated it to. And that doesn’t matter anyway. I just don’t know, love. Maybe we could find an Airbnb or something.’

I sound unconvinced as I say this, because a very quick look last night revealed that our choices in this area are limited. We could have a shepherd’s hut with a double bed and an outside loo, or a luxury villa with swimming pool and tennis court that costs six gazillion quid a night.

‘Anyway,’ I announce, pushing her off the bed so she falls onto the floor—something about the bunks has brought out my inner child—‘I’m going to get a shower. I smell like a dead gerbil.’

She rolls around on the ground for a bit, pretending to be injured, and as I leave the room she shouts: ‘Mum, don’t forget to take your anti-asshole pills. I think you’re off your meds!’

I grin as I make my way out onto the landing, and karma immediately strikes as I trip over a random child-sized wellington boot that has been left outside the door. The whole landing is strewn with detritus: shoes, books, Lego, colouring pads, and chunky felt-tip pens. I pause and listen up—it’s quiet, which means the girls have gone to school. I’m guessing they set up base camp outside our door in hopes of waking us up and seeing us before we left. Laura probably banned them from knocking but they did their best anyway. It is a tribute to our exhaustion that we didn’t hear a thing.

I walk towards the bathroom, and both Gary and Midge come belting up the stairs to sniff me and tell me how excited they are. I’d expected Gary to want to sleep with us, but there was no budging him from Midge’s basket downstairs, where he’d curled up in a little ball with his new friend.

I give them both a fuss, do my thing in the shower, and feel like a different human being by the time I make my way down the stairs. Amazing how restorative a clean pair of knickers can be.

I find Matt sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and eating his way through a ginormous pile of fresh toast. The bread is obviously home-made, and it makes my tummy rumble. He gestures for me to join him, and I soon feel the not-so-gentle nudge of Midgebo beneath the table, waiting for scraps. Gary is by his side, looking mischievous.

‘Laura’s doing the school run then heading into the cafe,’ he says. ‘I’m opening the surgery later so I can get started on Hyacinth. Or arrange for someone else to get started on it, at least. You okay?’

Matt is the village vet, I already know, amused at how he ended up with such a boisterous dog.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Slept surprisingly well.’

‘Despite Ruby and Rose doing everything they possibly could to wake you up? Ruby was actually playing her recorder at one point…’

‘Gosh. I’d forgotten that recorders even existed. I suppose we were tired enough to block it all out. Was Laura all right this morning? She seemed so upset.’

‘She was, but now she’s okay. Now she’s on a mission. She’s worried you’re going to leave, and she’ll probably be heading straight to the café to have a pow-wow with Cherie about how they can persuade you to stay. I hope you do. Stay, that is.’

I nod, and butter some toast. I’m not quite sure how I feel right now, and silence seems the best option. As Matt isn’t exactly the chattiest of people, I fear we could be here all day without uttering a word.

‘I know it’s a lot,’ he continues, proving me wrong. ‘Moving here at all. You took a chance, and it probably feels like it’s backfiring right now. But I promise I’ll do everything I can to get Hyacinth ready for you as quickly as possible, and in the meantime, you could at least consider Gabriel’s offer.’

‘I don’t know him, Matt, and he seemed … well, he seemed a bit rude.’

‘I get what you mean; he can be abrupt. But people think that about me sometimes. Not everyone is a little ray of sunshine. It doesn’t make him an axe murderer either. I probably know him better than most around here—I’ve been out to see his donkey, Belle, and we’ve been to the pub a few times. He’s a decent bloke, and pretty funny when you get to know him. We wouldn’t suggest it if we didn’t think it would work.’

‘He has a donkey?’ I ask, for some reason fixating on that. I bloody love donkeys. Richie once adopted one from a sanctuary for me for my birthday. There’s something about their grumpiness and their less-than-supermodel looks that just endears them to me. They’re like the poor relations of their leggy, glossy horse cousins.

‘Part donkey, part demon. She’s old and vicious and she’s lived on her own too long. Donkeys are social animals; they should be at least in pairs. They don’t do well alone.’

I wonder if he’s making some sort of subtle analogy to me, and decide I’m being paranoid. I carry on eating my toast, and weigh everything up in my mind. I can’t go back home. There doesn’t seem to be much accommodation within striking distance that I can afford. Sophie is desperate to stay, and I also now seem to be an integral part of some kind of Cherie rescue mission.

‘Who’s Frank?’ I ask, realising as I do that I’ve potentially given the game away—I was allegedly asleep when they were discussing him. ‘I heard someone talking about him last night.’

Matt raises his eyebrows, and I suspect he has some suspicions, but he replies: ‘Frank was Cherie’s husband. He died last year of a heart attack. It came as real shock, because he looked as fit as a fiddle even though he was in his late eighties. He was out in the fields at his farm when it happened, though, which is maybe the way he’d have wanted it. Him and Cherie … they found each other later in life, were friends for years before they got married. It hit her hard, and we’re all a bit worried about her. She misses him. We all do. He was part of this place, you know? Sometimes I still walk into the café and expect him to be sitting there, eating a burnt bacon butty and reading the papers.’

He is suddenly silent again, as though he has revealed too much. He’s a big, brawny man, but obviously a sensitive one. These people all seem so connected, so laced in and out of each other’s lives in a way I’ve never really seen before. I don’t know if I love it or hate it, but decide that I should at least probably give it a go.

‘All right,’ I say finally. ‘We’ll stay. With Gabriel. Unless it becomes unbearable, and then…’

‘Then,’ he says, grinning at me, his usually serious face lighting up, ‘you won’t be able to bear it, and we’ll all understand. But at least you’ll have tried. Thank you, Max.’

It takes a half-hour or so for us to mobilise, and then I drive first to the café to see Laura. The day has dawned with pure blue skies, sunshine, and not a whisper of wind. The legendary calm after the storm, I suppose. Sophie and I get to properly admire the view from the walk up the path, and it is breathtaking. The sea is almost turquoise, racing in to the golden sand, and if it wasn’t for the slight chill in the air I could almost believe we were in the Med.

Up in the garden there are signs of the storm—the upturned table, the loose fairy lights, a fence panel that’s blown off—but other than that, you’d never guess the destruction that Linda caused the night before.

Sophie stays outside. There’s a little paddock for dogs, and Gary wants nothing more than to chase Midgebo around it. Poor Midge doesn’t stand a chance—our Gary definitely has some whippet in him. We should have changed his name to Usain Bolt.

Inside, I find Laura with a group of people, some of whom I remember meeting the night before, some I don’t, and they’re giving the place a deep clean after the party. Everyone seems a bit subdued, which I guess is a combination of hangovers and a touch of sadness because Willow and Tom have left.

I get given a cleaning spray and some cloths to do the tables with, and while I work I chat to a heavily pregnant blonde woman called Katie. She has a toddler with her, and a nine-year-old in school. She’s married to Van, Willow’s brother, I soon learn. I start to understand why they need files to keep all of this straight in their heads. I might suggest name tags.

‘We’re all really excited for her,’ she says, looking on as her three-year-old son, Zack, helps Laura, and by ‘help’, I mean kicks the bin bag she’s trying to hold open and empty her brush pan into.

‘She’s had a hard time—they all have. Their mum, Lynnie, developed early onset Alzheimer’s years ago, and Willow looked after her. The other two—Van and Auburn—did as well, but not for as long. It’s complicated. But basically her older sibs were off travelling the world while she stayed back. Lynnie died six months ago and obviously they were all devastated. But it was one of those situations, you know, where if she wasn’t actually your own mum, you’d be thinking maybe it was also a bit of a relief? For Lynnie at least, because it was really bad by the end. For ages you’d still see flashes of the old her, knew she was in there somewhere, but then … well, lockdown, and cancer. It was awful.’

‘I can imagine. And I know what you mean. Even though they never wanted to lose her, there’s part of them that knows it was time, and then they beat themselves up about thinking that, and feel like the worst humans in the world.’

‘Exactly! Is it something you’ve been through?’

‘I’m still going through it,’ I reply, marvelling at Laura’s patience as she persuades Zack to hold the bag instead of jumping on it. ‘My mum passed away a year and a half ago. She had COPD, and selfishly I never wanted to let her go, even though she’d made her peace with it. Then I had all this free time, but whenever I tried to enjoy it, the guilt would come along and I’d feel like I’d been hit by the proverbial bus. Which I suppose is better than being hit by a real bus, even though it doesn’t always feel that way.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Katie replies, her hands on her belly as she rocks from side to side. ‘That’s terrible. I think they felt the same, especially Willow. All she’d ever known was looking after her mum, her whole life was regimented and built around it. Even after she married Tom, he moved in with her and her mum. It took us ages to convince her she could let go. That it was her turn to live a little, you know? So we’re all glad she’s gone, but we’ll also miss her. I’m glad you’re here, though. She made a little leaving speech this morning and said she knew we were all in safe hands!’

‘Oh lord, I don’t know about that,’ I reply, surprised. ‘But thank you. So, I need to go with Laura, and move us—temporarily—into our new accommodation.’

‘Oooh, where’s that then?’ says Edie, the elderly lady we met last night, who has approached us by stealth from behind. She’s carrying a tray of fresh pastries, which she places down on the nearest table before picking up a pain au chocolat as big as her face. I notice she already has one packed up in Tupperware to take home as well.

‘With someone called Gabriel, on Mr Pumpwell’s farm?’

Edie’s wrinkled little face breaks into such a big smile that her eyes disappear completely.

‘Oh, he’s so nice, that Gabriel! Such a lovely young man. He came round and fixed my sink for me, you know? I’d mentioned one day that the tap wouldn’t stop leaking, and that afternoon he just turned up. Lickety-split, he had it sorted. Wouldn’t let me pay him or anything. And while he was there, he noticed a few other things that needed doing, and he’s been coming back whenever he has the spare time. Always stays for a cuppa too. Doesn’t say much, mind, but he seems happy enough to let me witter on! Not bad-looking either, is he, if you’re into that kind of thing?’

‘What kind of thing?’ I ask.

‘Sexpots.’

‘Oh. Right. Well. I didn’t really see him for long; it was all a bit chaotic last night, as I’m sure you’ve heard.’

I go back to scrubbing my table, because it’s less confusing than talking to Edie. I had Gabriel firmly placed in the ‘bit of a dick’ category in my mind, and her version doesn’t quite sit with that. I suppose it’s possible that I overreacted, and I remind myself not to do a Pride and Prejudice and make assumptions. Like Matt said, not everybody can be a little ray of sunshine, and at the end of the day he did offer to let two complete strangers stay in his home just to be a good neighbour. He sounded rude, but maybe actions speak louder than words on some occasions.

I meet a few more people as the morning wears on, including Laura’s sister Becca, and Zoe who runs the bookshop, and a man whose name I can’t remember who turned up with a crate of home-made cider at lunchtime.

Sophie’s been in and out, and spent a bit of time with Martha, who is Zoe’s god-daughter. She’s older than Sophie, early twenties somewhere, but they bonded over a mutual love of David Bowie, Nandos, and the fact that they are wearing the same Doc Marten boots. Martha graduated from Oxford then started a post-grad degree before realising it wasn’t for her. She’s come back to Budbury for ‘the free rent and cake’ apparently, both of which seem like very valid reasons.

The clear-up soon starts to show every sign of turning into another party, with lots of food being wheeled out of the kitchens and the cider being cracked open, and I wonder if it just goes on like this: an endless cycle of party-clean-party. I suppose it could be worse.

Eventually, though, several hours later, Laura declares herself happy with the state of everything, and we set off to Gabriel’s place. She’s over the moon that we’ve taken up the offer, and as soon as Matt told her this morning, she got to work sorting out beds for us. Van, Katie’s husband, who presumably has a van as well as it being his name, was dispatched to ‘the retail park’. No idea where that is, but I’m assured it’s a veritable fleshpot of earthly delights, complete with a McDonald’s, a Pets at Home and several outlet furniture stores. Wowzers.

We follow Laura’s car out of the village, through winding country lanes that come with the most jaw-dropping views out over the coast and across the hills. It is gorgeous here, the kind of pretty that you see in films and on postcards. Every twist and turn we take plunges us even deeper into a wilderness of ancient woodlands and Iron Age hill forts and frothing rivers that are tumbling their way to the sea.

It’s probably only five miles away as the crow flies, but the roads here are like crows if they’d drunk a bottle of Baileys and then dropped some acid. They wriggle and curve through the landscape, past signs for places with names that sound as old as time: Nettlecombe, Powerstock, Dottery, Whitchurch Canonicorum. We drive up; we drive down; we drive in what feels like an impossibly random way along roads that sometimes turn into narrow one-way tracks. I’m sure I’ll get used to it, but for now I’m glad the traffic is light and we see little else but the occasional tractor, or a car at a passing place.

Finally, Laura indicates and turns in through an open iron gate, tooting her horn as she drives onto a gravelled courtyard. Off to one side is a small paddock, presumably home to the infamous Belle, complete with a little stable. There’s a run-down garage, and signs of recent building work: bags of cement, a mixer, a stack of dismantled scaffolding. A pile of tree branches, maybe torn off by the storm, is weighted down beneath netting.

As I get out of the car, I see that the cottage itself is a strange mix. The central part looks old, made of mellow gold stone with mullioned windows and a big wooden door freshly painted a deep blue. Around it are various extensions, which I’d guess have been added over generations of working and living, giving the whole building a ramshackle look with its different heights and different materials. A barn further back looks more run down, its roof sagging and one of the big wooden doors off its hinges. I can’t tell if it’s always like that, or a victim of the storm.

Despite the work-in-progress vibe, the location is idyllic, in the middle of lush fields bordered by hedgerows and drooping oak trees. We’re in the base of a valley, the road dipping suddenly down, surrounded by velvety green hills and grazing sheep. I see a flurry of swallows swooping in and out of the barn, and it makes me smile. They’ll be heading off to warmer climes soon, I’m sure.

Gary is running around having a good sniff at everything, Midge by his side, and both of them seem to be having a contest to see who can manage the final pee against the gate post. They came; they peed; they conquered.

As soon as the big wooden door opens, they both look up, ears cocked, alert for threats or treats or both. Midge immediately dashes over, obviously familiar with the human who emerges, and Gary cautiously follows. A small, petty part of me secretly hopes that he doesn’t approach him, doesn’t respond to him, but the traitorous beastie does his I’m-nervous-but-brave slink towards Gabriel, who is squatting down to put himself at dog height.

Within seconds, Gary is getting his ears scratched, and licking his fingers like they’re old friends. The swine.

I feel an instant bite of tension when he stands up and walks towards us, taking in the chunky fisherman-style sweater, the battered Levi’s spattered with paint, the scuffed steel toe cap boots. Despite the working gear, there’s an aura of something exotic about him, like he could have just left his artist’s studio. Maybe it’s the tanned skin, or the longer-than-usual hair, I don’t know. Somehow, he seems slightly too striking a creature to find in an old farmhouse in the English countryside—as though he should be migrating, like the swallows.

The smile he had for Gary and Midge fades as he approaches, and he meets my eyes and gives me a single nod.

‘Nice dog,’ he says gruffly, and although it’s not much, it does melt me a little. Your dogs are like your babies, aren’t they?

‘He is,’ I agree, deciding that I will always match him word for word. He speaks two, I speak two. If we keep it like that, there’s no chance of things going wrong.

‘Van’s already been round. We moved the stuff up to the rooms.’

Ah, shit. I realise that this will be harder than I thought. If I have to count his words every time he speaks, I’ll miss what he’s saying. How many was that?

‘That’s great!’ says Laura, saving me the effort. ‘Did he bring everything? I asked him to call into Dunelm and get duvets and things.’

‘I don’t know what Dunelm is, but he brought a lot of stuff with him. Are you any good with building flat-packs?’

Laura laughs out loud, scaring up a few nearby magpies, and replies: ‘Of course I’m not! That’s one of those times when I think sexism is a really good idea, and declare it’s a “man’s job”. Sorry!’

‘Mum is,’ Sophie pipes up helpfully. ‘She’s an absolute whizz with them. Give her a screwdriver and a set of instructions in Swedish, and she’s in her happy place.’

Laura looks surprised, and Gabriel simply nods.

‘Good,’ he says.

‘Great,’ I mumble.

‘So,’ Laura continues, obviously realising she needs to fill a conversational void, ‘I need to be getting off to collect the girls from school. Matt had a roofer out, Gabe, and he agrees with you on the estimates, so hopefully we’ll have Hyacinth restored to her former glory before long. I’ve brought some food obviously, because I’m me. I’ll leave that with you and be on my way. Is eight okay for you tomorrow morning, Max?’

‘That’s fine. I’ll see you there. And thank you, for everything.’

She makes hush-now noises as she retrieves several containers full of food from the car, stacking them up on the floor before she departs in a flurry of curls, Labrador woofs and honks on her car horn. In response, I hear the sonorous boom of a donkey hee-hawing, and see the famous Belle amble towards the edge of her paddock.

‘Oh my God,’ Sophie mutters. ‘A donkey! Also her happy place.’

I can’t argue with that, and I walk over to meet her. Gary runs by my side, and takes a tentative sniff at the fence before deciding it’s a no for him and retreating a few feet away.

Belle is not, to put it bluntly, the prettiest of animals. She’s old—her teeth are terrifying—and one of her ears points out at a wonky angle. I don’t care; she looks gorgeous to me.

‘Be careful,’ says Gabriel, at my side. ‘She doesn’t like people. I’ve tried winning her over, but?—’

‘Your natural charm has failed?’

There’s a hint of a smile at that, and I realise it’s the first I’ve seen from him—aimed at a human, at least. There’s a bag hanging on our side of the fence, containing carrots and apples, and I decide on a carrot. Less chance of losing my fingers.

Belle lets out a ferocious roar, the kind of sound you could use in a TV show set in the bowels of hell, and batters Gabriel’s shoulder out of the way with her bulky head. I ignore that, and offer up the carrot, making soothing noises as I do. She turns her attention to me, and her teeth seem to get even bigger. There’s a stand-off for a few seconds, then she grabs the other end of the carrot and starts gnashing it in her mouth. While she’s distracted, I manage a quick stroke of her head, running my fingers gently over the thick, bristly hair.

I don’t push my luck, and back off straight away afterwards. She glares at me with shining brown eyes, and shows us her substantial rear.

‘That’s closer than I’ve got in over a year,’ Gabriel says, shaking his head.

‘Mum has a lot in common with donkeys,’ Sophie replies. ‘They’re like her spirit animal. They’re both grouchy, stubborn, sometimes affectionate. Short, stumpy legs, awful hair…’

I throw a handful of hay in her face and she splutters as she swipes it off. Maybe I do have more in common with Belle than I thought.

I run my hands over my hair, suddenly self-conscious. There’s nothing wrong with my hair, I tell myself. It’s normal hair—dark with a few hints of grey, long, thick. Okay, it has no style whatsoever, but I’ve started to think that’s much easier; no need for trims or colours or trips to the salon for me. Here in Budbury, I fit right in. It’s when I’m comparing myself to women like Valerie that I come off badly.

Gabriel has watched our interaction without comment, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets as though protecting them from the donkey. He waits until we’re finished, then strides off back to the house. I assume we’re supposed to follow him, even though he doesn’t say a word. Sophie and I exchange a brief ‘WTF’ look, and go after him.

The door opens straight into the kitchen, and I stand still for a moment admiring the room. There’s an old Aga that looks like an original, with pretty cream enamel doors. The floors are made of stone, and that’s even older than the Aga; you can see all the little indentations and smoother shining paths where countless feet have walked it down over the decades.

The walls have been stripped back to bare brick and whitewashed, and I can tell the cupboards and counters are new, even though they’re made of antique-looking pine to fit in. The ceiling is freshly plastered, little spotlights shining down on us. A big pine table sits in the middle of it all, and I run my fingers over it. I’m guessing this came with the house, and bears the scars and bruises of many mealtimes.

‘This is beautiful,’ I say, spinning around to soak it all in. ‘Did you do the work? I love the Aga!’

Gabriel looks borderline embarrassed, and replies: ‘I did. And as for the Aga, have at it – I’ve no clue how to use the thing. I stick to the microwave, the toaster, and that.’

He points at a little two-ring electric hob that he has set up on the counter.

‘Can we see the rest of the house?’ Sophie asks. I see her phone in her hand and suspect there will be pictures before long.

He shrugs, and takes us through into the living room. It’s big and roughly square, with a low beamed ceiling that he has to duck under. The floorboards have been sanded down and painted a very pale shade of green, almost white but with a hint of apple, and the windows look out over the darker green of the fields beyond—it’s almost like they match. I’m sure an interior designer would say something clever, like ‘bringing the outside inside’.

Only one wall has been painted, the rest is exposed whitewashed stone, rough and characterful beneath my fingers. Looking around, I see what amazing potential this space has, but right now it feels empty and unloved.

There’s one small two-seater sofa, the type that has a button you press for the feet to pop up, and stacks of books. And … that’s it. There’s a huge coal fire grate with a beautiful old surround that’s made of cast iron—the kind you’d pay a fortune for at an antiques place—but literally nothing else. No art, no photos, no TV. Just one small coffee table next to the sofa. It feels spartan, unused, like nobody even lives here.

I glance at Gabriel, and see him in a slightly different light. Maybe he’s the one who has things in common with Belle, not me—living this solitary life, miles away from anyone. I picture him sitting on his recliner after a long day of work, rewarded with a microwave meal and a mug of tea. That’s probably exactly the way he likes it, but somehow it makes me sad.

I tell myself off—I’m projecting—and remind myself that this is the life he chose. I’d be lonely, but then again, I’m really quite pathetic.

‘Where’s all your … stuff? Where’s your telly ?’ Sophie says, looking incredulous.

‘I don’t have one. And this is all my stuff. There’s another room on the other side of the building. Loads stored in there, plenty of old furniture and things from when my relative owned the place. There might be a TV, I don’t know. I was just leaving it there while I worked on this. You can look if you like, makes no difference to me.’

He’s clearly uncomfortable at the scrutiny, and turns back towards the kitchen. A narrow, steep set of stone stairs leads up to a spacious landing, still carpeted in some awful seventies pattern that is a relic from the last owner. He shows us into the rooms we will be using, and both are similar—medium sized, bare floorboards, paper stripped from the walls but not replaced. Both have big windows that offer the kinds of views that make the presenters on Escape to the Country sigh in delight.

I see the flat-packs and bundles of bedding, and say: ‘Shall we get started? I can probably manage to do it on my own—Sophie wasn’t lying—but it’ll be easier with two if you can spare the time.’

At that point, after consulting her phone, Sophie pipes up: ‘I think you’ve got this situation handled, grown-ups. Is it okay if I go back to the village for a bit? Martha’s invited a few of her friends to the pub and I’d like to meet them.’

I feel immediately unsettled at the thought of her leaving. Partly because I’m protective, partly because I’m not sure how I feel about being left here alone with Mr Chatty. One look at her pleading face overrides the second concern, but the first still remains solid.

‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go to the pub and drive back,’ I say. ‘These roads are going to take some getting used to.’

‘Well, I won’t get used to them if you never let me drive them! And I promise I won’t drink, not even the two I’m allowed. I’ll stay totally sober.’

‘And if it’s dark when you come back, will you remember to put your headlights on?’

‘Of course! I never forget that.’

She always forgets that. But I can see how keen she is, and understand that much as she loves her dear old mum, meeting people of a similar age is important to her.

‘I don’t know why you even bother meeting in a pub,’ I say. ‘All you’ll do is look at your phones.’

‘Ah, that may be true, but when we see an especially good TikTok, we can lean across the table and show it to each other. There’s not much of a Wi-Fi signal here, and you can’t expect me to quit cold turkey, that’s child abuse! Please please please!’

‘Okay, jog on then, but be back before midnight, or I’ll beat you to death with a pumpkin, all right? And reply to my messages!’

I’ve noticed with both of my offspring that while they are permanently glued to their phones, they seem to have a magical ability to ‘not see’ my WhatsApp messages.

‘Will do!’ she yells, already running back down the stairs. Gary goes with her, then runs straight back up when she leaves. He looks giddy with all the new stimuli.

Gabriel ignores all of this, staring at the boxes, and says: ‘I can spare the time. Back in a minute.’

He comes back up bearing a Stanley knife and some tools, and gets to work cutting open the boxes. Unusually for a man, he takes the time to look at the instructions before we begin, passing the sheet to me once he’s done.

Without even a word being shared between us, he slices the boxes open, and we pull out the various mysterious sticks of wood and bags of screws. I love doing this stuff; it’s just like a big puzzle that needs to be solved, and at the end you win the prize of fully-assembled furniture.

We work silently, and with surprising ease. Both of us clearly know what we’re doing, and we quietly get on with it, passing parts and holding legs and tightening screws. It’s almost choreographed, as though we’ve done it a million times before, and it’s a deeply pleasant way to pass some time. The silence isn’t awkward because we’re busy, and while we might not be compatible on a social level, we’re a great match when it comes to DIY.

We get the first one done in just over an hour, complete with mattress, then move to the other room to repeat it all over. I lose the tip of one fingernail and he trips over some discarded plastic packaging at one point, but other than that we escape pretty much unscathed. It’s definitely easier with two, and by the time we finish, although my back is sore and I’m sweating, I feel the familiar sense of satisfaction I always get when I’m working on a project.

‘I love doing stuff like this,’ I announce, as much to Gary as to Gabriel. ‘I don’t know why, but it always makes me feel really peaceful.’

‘It’s because the results are there, right before your eyes,’ Gabriel replies, crunching down the cardboard for recycling. ‘It’s tangible. You work hard; you achieve something real. The rest of life isn’t like that.’

He’s right, I think. That’s exactly it. When we moved into the new house it was an absolute shit-show, and so was I. I was still reeling from Richie, and losing my job, and beneath all of that, there was the slow, poisonous current of grief over my mum. I had zero self-confidence, and no hope for my future, but working on the house gave me the perfect distraction.

I bought it partly because it was cheap, and fitted my new financial circumstances, but also partly because it hadn’t been decorated since the eighties, and still had an avocado bath suite. It still does, I just tarted up the whole bathroom and made a feature of it, going for a kitschy vibe with framed pink flamingo prints and old-fashioned cocktail shakers as toothbrush holders. Still an avocado bath suite, but now it looks like it belongs in a quirky themed hotel in Vegas. It’s the kind of bathroom Frank Sinatra would have had.

Doing that work didn’t just distract me, it gave me something positive to focus on, something I could control, that I was good at, that was building a brighter future for me and the kids. And now here I am, doing it all over again.

‘I’ll leave you with the duvets and covers,’ he says, hefting up the cardboard. ‘That’s girl stuff.’

I raise my eyebrow at him, wondering if it’s at all possible he just made a small joke.

‘What?’ he responds. ‘Laura can be sexist but I can’t? Anyway. I’ve got my own work to do. Barn door needs fixing.’

I shout a quick ‘thank you!’ to him as he clumps off down the stairs, because I have manners. I spend the next few hours in blissful productivity, unpacking the bedding and making everything up. Van has obviously hedged his bets and opted for plain white duvet covers and sheets, and only made one mistake: buying king size when the beds are double. No big deal, and I’m grateful for the effort that everyone has gone to to make this happen for us.

Laura has given me the impression that Cherie is quite the sneaky entrepreneur, owning several properties and businesses, and that the expense isn’t something I should worry about, but all the same, I appreciate it. If I was at home I’d have washed and dried everything first, drenched it in fabric softener to make it feel and smell nice, but I’m very much not at home, and I don’t even know if Gabriel has a washer.

I make a couple of trips outside, and finally get to unpack, at least for a while. There aren’t any drawers or wardrobes in our rooms, so for the time being I simply fold everything in piles, and vow to take him up on his offer of going through the old furniture he has in storage. At the very least I need a bedside table; where else am I going to put my glass of water and my Rennies?

I venture into the bathroom in a state of high trepidation, but am delighted to see that he’s already worked on it. In fact it’s gorgeous—a big old claw-footed tub in one corner, and a nice shower with a fancy rainforest setting on the sprinklers.

As I expected, there’s not much in the way of personal belongings—a toothbrush, and an old-fashioned bar of soap. On the corner of the bath, though, I spot a bottle of luxurious-looking liquid—green glass, and a label that tells me it contains organic oil of basil and lemon. Looks like Gabriel has at least one human weakness: he likes a nice soak in the bath. The well-thumbed paperback copy of a Michael Connelly crime thriller next to it gives me a hint as to what he likes to do while he’s soaking.

I add mine and Sophie’s bits and bobs, and it completely changes the feel of the room. The simple presence of Lush shower gels, brightly-coloured bottles of shampoo and conditioner, our small box of fizzy bath bombs and the pink towels I brought from home transform it. Whether that’s something Gabriel will appreciate or not remains to be seen.

As I walk back out onto the landing, Gary at my side, I can’t help taking a quick sneaky peek inside the last room, the one that must be his. Part of me knows this is wrong, an invasion of his privacy, but the rest of me is so nosy I can’t resist. I can hear the whizz of a power drill outside, so I know he’s busy, and I guiltily push the door open a few inches and stick my head around.

My quick glance takes in a bookshelf, full to busting, with more books piled up beside it. One of those portable hanging frames, with a few shirts dangling from it. An ugly chest of draws, and a bedside cabinet—graced by a book, but no Rennies, the lucky devil.

The whole room is dominated by a huge bed, bigger than king size I’d say, with a very old and intricate brass bed-frame. It’s a beautiful thing and wouldn’t look out of place in a stately home, but what really catches my eye is the fact that there is no duvet, no blankets, no sheets. Just a thick khaki- green sleeping bag. It looks so incongruous, so out of place; a tiny scrap of comfort swimming in all that space.

I close the door quietly behind me, and steady my breathing. I feel unsettled by what I’ve seen for some reason. What does it matter to me how Gabriel sleeps? Why should I care if he prefers a sleeping bag to a duvet? It’s none of my business, and I am reminded, not for the first time, that being nosy is sometimes a dangerous thing. Because now I feel sorry for him, and I’m sure that’s something he would hate, and also gets in the way of my decision to simply tolerate him for the next few weeks.

Gary follows me down the stairs, and I let him outside to do his business. It’s nice to not have to use a lead, and it makes me smile as he scampers around investigating everything, making sure he gives Belle’s paddock a wide berth.

I get out my phone, and call Ben, who shockingly actually answers. He’s walking from one place to another, surrounded by traffic on a busy road, the sound of car horns and sirens in the background. It couldn’t be more different from my current location.

‘Ben! Look, there’s a donkey!’ I say, holding up the phone towards the field. Right on cue, Belle spots me, and rumbles over, screeching at the top of her voice. I pull back the phone, laughing. It’s entirely possible she’d have crunched it with her mammoth teeth.

‘Jesus, Mum,’ Ben says, grimacing. ‘That’s not a donkey. That’s some kind of lab experiment gone wrong. How’s things? Sophie said your house fell down and now you’re living with some bloke who doesn’t talk.’

‘Um, yeah. Well, he doesn’t talk much. So far anyway.’

‘It’s good that you can talk enough for two then, I suppose. Can I call you back later? I’m late for a lecture. I was up late at bible study class.’

‘By bible study class, do you mean you were getting hammered in the college bar?’

‘I can neither confirm nor deny. But I have got to go. Love you! Don’t get eaten by a mutant donkey!’

I grin at Belle, and she glares at me in return. I think she likes me. By this time Gary is disappearing off around the side of the building, and I follow him.

He has run straight over to Gabriel, who has apparently managed to reattach the barn door and is swinging it backwards and forwards to check it’s working okay. He’s taken off his chunky sweater, and is wearing a plain black T-shirt beneath. I don’t want to notice the muscles flexing in his arms as he moves, or notice how snugly it fits across his shoulders, but I do anyway. He’s good-looking, and has one of those fit bodies that comes from being active, not going to the gym, and I am only human. I must forgive myself the occasional lapse from sainthood.

His dark hair is loose on his shoulders as he leans down to pet Gary, and again I see the full wattage smile that only seems to come out for canines.

‘What’s in there?’ I say, making my presence known. I walk up to him, peering inside the open door and seeing only murky darkness and the outlines of unidentified objects.

‘Old machinery at the moment,’ he answers, standing up and arching his back in a way that says it aches. ‘A rusty tractor, a very old combine, pitchforks.’

‘It sounds like something from a horror film. Like when the teenagers go somewhere scary on Halloween, and the ones who snog first get hacked to death?’

He looks at me as though I’m mad, and I remind myself that this is a man who lives in the middle of nowhere without a bloody telly. He’s not likely to get my pop culture references.

‘If you say so. Better warn your daughter. Eventually, I’m going to get it cleared. It’ll fetch something for scrap, and some of it might even be of interest to the agricultural museum.’

‘What will you do with it then? It’d make a lovely conversion.’

He frowns, as though this is a conversation he’s had with himself before, and replies: ‘It would. But if I’m planning on staying here, I’m not sure I’d want anyone living that close.’

‘And are you? Planning on staying? Is this, like, your ancestral home?’

He actually laughs at that, and his whole demeanour changes. It’s like he’s a different human being, a softer one. A happier one. As quickly as it happens, though, it stops, and he slips back into his resting grump face.

‘No. I grew up all over the place—military family—and I never even met him.’

‘Mr Pumpwell?’ I ask, trying not to giggle at the name, because it might well be Gabriel’s too, and that would be rude.

‘Yeah. He’s technically my great-uncle, but it was a complicated family situation. My mum died when I was sixteen, and she never even mentioned him. Neither did my grandma, who outlived her, and he was her brother. Nobody ever talked about that side of the family. My dad’s still around, but we don’t speak much. I do remember him saying my gran was the “black sheep” of her family, and he knew no more than that.’

‘Oh gosh,’ I say, intrigued. ‘How weird … and fascinating. I wonder how you could find out more? Maybe Edie knows?’

‘Maybe she does, but I have zero interest in the subject. The past is the past, no use poking at it. It was a surprise, when the solicitors finally tracked me down. I was living in France at the time so it took a while. When I first saw the place and the state it was in, I was just going to sell it. But … well, you know what this place is like.’

I nod, because I do, even though I’ve only just got here.

‘Let me guess. You called into the café for a cappuccino, and before you knew it, you were persuaded to stay?’

‘Espresso, but yes, that’s about the size of it. I suppose it came at a good time for me. I’d just … well, again, that doesn’t matter, it’s in the past. But I spent one night here, nursing my first donkey bite, and realised it had potential. That the location is perfect for me. That I had nothing to lose. I can still sell it. I’ll just be selling it for more once the work is done.’

This is, by far, the longest conversation we have shared, and I can tell it is making him uncomfortable. He swipes his hair back from his face, takes a swig from his water bottle, and announces that he’s going to clean up. Without a backward glance, he marches off, back to being borderline rude again.

I tell myself that I don’t care, and have a little walk around the land that surrounds the farmhouse. From what Laura told me, it was once part of a much bigger family farm, but the late Mr Pumpwell never married or had kids, and sold most of it off.

By urban standards, though, it’s huge. I have a tiny courtyard barely big enough for a small table and chairs. This is a whole different way to live, and the autumn sunshine makes it look enchanted. The light is filtering through the red and gold leaves on the trees and dappling onto the grass, and there’s a whole section of garden that’s been taken over entirely by late-blooming wildflowers. I can hear skylarks singing, and the mild breeze is rustling through the branches like a whispered lullaby. Somewhere nearby, there’s a brook or a river, the water gurgling away in the background.

It’s like a patch of land that time forgot, and if you squint, it looks completely untouched by modern life. If you don’t squint, though—and you can’t do that for long or your eyes hurt—then it’s not quite as perfect.

There’s a lot of debris, piles of bricks, and mysterious metal objects heaped under tarps. The side of the barn looks like a scrap yard, and there’s a metal skip filled with the old kitchen cupboards, the shell of a bath, the wreckage of a lawn mower. It’s a combination of English countryside idyll and building site, and I actually find that even more exciting. It’s a place in flux, in a state of change. Waiting to be moulded into something new and lovely.

Gary disappears off into the patch of woods at the back of the barn, and comes back bearing a stick so big he can barely carry it. He drops it at my feet and woofs, reminding me that he needs feeding. As do I, now I come to think of it. Before I go back inside I take a few pics to send to Ben, and then see a message from Sophie, an old-fashioned text one to make up for the fact that we don’t have much Wi-Fi out here. ‘I am alive’, it says, followed by a string of random emojis. That’ll do. I tap back telling her to make sure she eats something other than crisps, and head back inside the house.

I can hear the sound of Gabriel moving around upstairs, and wonder if he’s going to have a soak in the bath. Then I wonder what he’d look like naked and wet, and then I wonder if he has chest hair, because I really like chest hair. Then I wonder if I should shoot myself in the head. I’m sure there’s a shotgun in the barn.

I give Gary his dinner, and busy myself in the kitchen. I don’t know how to use an Aga, but I’m sure Laura does. I’ll ask her to give me some tuition so I can cook properly. For the time being, I root in the fridge, which is clearly a new addition, one of those gorgeous curvy Smegs in pastel green that looks like it belongs in the Fonzy’s kitchen.

Inside I find all of the tubs that Laura left for us, along with what I presume are Gabriel’s rations. And ‘rations’ is the right word, as the entire contents add up to nothing more than butter, cheese, some bacon, and a six-pack of lager. The fruit bowl is full, though, with wonky-looking apples and pears that suggest they’ve come straight from the tree.

I investigate Laura’s donations, and am thrilled to find a home-made lasagne, bowls of salad with a lemony dressing, and some slabs of ginger loaf. She’s also left some granary bread and a bottle of wine. What more could a girl want?

I put the lasagne in the microwave, and rummage around the kitchen cupboards, familiarising myself with the locations of the mugs and plates and cutlery. There’s more than I expected—Gabriel seems like the sort of man who would function perfectly well with one of each—and some of it is really nice. There’s part of a Wedgwood dinner set, and some cups and saucers that I swear could be Clarice Cliff. I’m basing this on my extensive watching of Antiques Roadshow , so I can’t sure, but the vibrant colours and geometric patterns have me convinced.

It’s odd, delving into all of these small mysteries, the combined wordly goods of a man I barely know, and one I will never meet. But as I bustle around, I realise that I am also quite content. I haven’t thought about Richie since we got here, which is a minor miracle as he’s usually always hovering in the back of my mind. As soon as I think his name I chase it away like the woman with a broomstick in Tom and Jerry cartoons. Begone, foul beast, this is my new start, and you have no place here.

I realise as Gabriel walks into the room that I have said the last few words aloud, and he looks understandably confused.

‘Not you!’ I say quickly. ‘You’re not a foul beast, and this is your house. I was just, umm, thinking aloud. Do you want lasagne? It smells amazing.’

His hair is damp on his shoulders, and he smells even better than the lasagne—basil and lemon, I suspect, which perfectly complements tonight’s menu.

I wonder if he’ll say yes, and how we will go about this business of living together as strangers. Will he set the table and pour us a glass of wine? Will we sit in silence, or snark at each other, or chat? I know he said he wanted us to stay out of his way, but it’s not always going to be that easy.

‘Yes, please,’ he says, his nostrils twitching. ‘But I’ll eat in the other room.’

His tone isn’t rude exactly, but it is dismissive. As though he wants to nip this communal nonsense in the bud before it gets the chance to take root. Maybe he’s worried I’ll want company, or that he’ll have to act as my nanny.

I nod, and silently go about the business of dishing up. He duly takes his plate away, and I sit down at the dining table, like a civilised person. I add in a glass of wine, like a civilised person. Then I wolf down my food like a very uncivilised person: I was starving, and this is delicious. I’m glad Laura will be doing most of the cooking at the café, because there’s no way I’ll match this level of culinary skill.

When I’m done, and my dishes washed, I get out the files that Laura gave me, the ones that will allegedly tell me everything I need to know about both my new job and the people I will be serving. Some of it is mundane—hours, responsibilities, menus, instructions—but some of it is captivating.

I learn all about the various regulars and their comfort foods, and a lot about their lives. The files come with photos, so I can put faces to names as well as see the ghosts of parties past. Once I’ve absorbed as much as I can, I read through the Game of Thrones style document that Willow compiled, laughing at all the various comments. It was obviously created a few years ago, typed and printed out, but someone—Cherie, Laura?—has kept it updated with little scribbled additions.

Some of the additions are lovely: Tom and Willow getting married on the same day as her sister Auburn (the singer with the long red hair) and her boyfriend, Finn; Katie and Van moving in together, and Katie giving birth to Zack; Laura’s daughter Lizzie getting a first in her Marketing degree; her son Nate getting accepted to veterinary school; Martha graduating from Oxford; Becca’s daughter, Little Edie, starting school. It’s all there, the love, the laughter, the sense of community as these people’s lives grow and evolve.

But the flip side of that evolution is darker, and sadder, and altogether too poignant. There are losses as well as gains, including a photo of pink-haired Willow and the lady I presume was her mum, Lynnie, and a grey-muzzled Border terrier on her lap. ‘Always missed, Lynnie and Bella Swan’, says the caption.

That makes my eyes swim, and the next thing I see pushes me over the edge. It’s a little broken love heart that someone has doodled next to Frank’s name, along with his dates of birth and death and an RIP followed by kisses. I sit at the kitchen table with my glass of wine, and feel overwhelmed with emotion.

As ever with these things, they creep up on you. One minute I’m laughing at a photo of Sam—the surfer-looking man who is the partner of Laura’s sister, Becca—holding his comfort food, a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle, aloft. The next I’m weeping at the death of Willow’s mum. Then, of course, I’m crying about everything else as well, because tears have no mercy, and they do not discriminate.

By the time Gabriel walks into the kitchen, I am lost, a soggy mess of a woman. He takes one look at me and seems to consider turning around and heading in the other direction. I really wouldn’t blame him. Nobody wants to deal with this level of dysfunction.

‘I’m okay!’ I say weakly, gathering up the scattered papers. ‘You don’t need to worry!’

He freezes in the doorway like a hunted animal, then seems to come to a decision. He walks in, and gets a glass of water from the tap. Then he leans against the big Belfast sink, and looks at me.

‘I’m not an expert on these things,’ he says, after sipping his water, ‘but you don’t look very okay. Has something bad happened?’

‘Probably, to someone, somewhere. I’m just … upset. Laura gave me all this stuff to read. About people who go to the café, and people who live in the village, and it was all lovely but also a bit upsetting, and … well, I’m actually crying because I’ll never get the chance to make Frank his burnt bacon butties, and that was his comfort food, and now he’s gone, and Cherie’s heart is broken, and Van and Katie’s kids will never get to know their grandmother, Lynnie, and … well, it’s all so sad!’

It all rushes out in a jumble of words, and even I can see how mad I sound. Gabriel shakes his head, and says: ‘You’ve probably become more involved in this community in one day than I have in over a year. I can’t say you’re a good advert for it right now, though.’

‘I know! I’m sorry. I was laughing earlier, I promise. What can I say? I’m better at building beds than I am at managing my emotions.’

‘You and me both, Max, you and me both. Look, I’m not the right person to comfort you. I’m rubbish at all this stuff. But I’m also not quite as much of a prick as I might first appear. I’m not made of stone.’

I choke out an unexpected laugh at this comment, and at the blunt language he uses in his self-assessment.

‘I never said you were a prick.’

‘No, but you thought it, and that’s okay. I think it too, sometimes. Have you got wellies with you?’

This is an unexpected turn for the conversation to take, but I nod dumbly.

‘Right. Well, get your boots on, and come with me.’