The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

M y first day working at the Comfort Food Café is a mixed bag, but on the whole has to go in the ‘win’ column on the spreadsheet of life.

My usual working hours are set as eight until three, with every Monday off and one other day as well, sorted between us. When I arrive, Laura is already there, creating something that smells of apples and cinnamon in a mixing bowl. As soon as she sees me, she wipes her floury hands down on her apron, and comes over to chat.

‘How was your first night at Gabriel’s?’ she asks, a slight hint of concern in her voice.

‘It was fine,’ I say. ‘Ate your excellent lasagne. Watched badgers. Slept like a baby.’

The last part isn’t entirely true, but she doesn’t need to know that. It always takes me some time to settle into a new place. I’m the same even when we go on holiday. Every building has its own character, its own creaks and groans, and until I’m accustomed to them I seem to have some kind of adrenaline reaction. I did hear Gabriel as well, doors opening and closing, him coming up and down the stairs a few times. Gary is in with me, and every time it happened, he tried to get out and find him, which didn’t help. I suppose it will just take time, and we’re not going to be there for long.

He was already up and out by the time I staggered into the kitchen on my traditional coffee hunt, leaving behind a few signs of his presence: a single washed mug by the sink and the smell of toast in the air. I was relieved he wasn’t there, to be honest, because he’s unpredictable, and I’m not good in the mornings. Plus, I was wearing a ratty old dressing gown and looked like poo.

Sophie comes into work with me, and has a busy day planned. She’s taking Gary up into the village to explore ‘the shops’—which I can’t imagine will take her long—and then is coming back to set herself and her laptop up to do some school work. Her teacher has set her up for her online courses—psychology, English lit and history—and she seems very determined about it. I’m pleased. She’s been a little directionless of late, and it’s good to see her so motivated.

She could have found a uni course that would have accepted her with her lower grades, but came up with some very logical reasons why it wasn’t a good idea: the cost, mainly, and the fear of ending up massively in debt with a degree that wasn’t much use to her.

I’d assured her there was money in the savings pot if she wanted to go, but she still stayed at home. She said she just wasn’t ready but I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that she actually meant I wasn’t ready. I think she was worried about leaving me when I was vulnerable, and that is a topsy-turvy relationship dynamic that has always upset me. If nothing else comes of our adventure in Dorset, at least she’ll know that I’m now capable of change, of embracing life, of building something new.

She called in briefly to say hello to Laura, then disappeared off up towards the village, basking in a burst of autumn sunshine. It’s a glorious day, a vague chill in the air, but the pastel-blue skies make up for it. Down on the beach, I can see plenty of people walking and playing, dogs and toddlers and couples, already out and making the most of the weather. At this time of year, with October staring us in the face, every warm day feels like a gift.

Once she’s gone, Laura gives me a brief tour of the café kitchens, which I note with surprise are decked out with all mod cons. The main café itself might be quirky and cluttered, but the business end of things is a different matter.

‘We won’t get many customers in for another half-hour or so,’ she explains. ‘So for now, it’s all about the prep!’

I follow her instructions and start chopping salad and plating up sandwiches for the cooler, and putting jacket spuds into the potato oven for later. She’s making muffins, and has already got a raspberry cheesecake chilling in the fridge. As we work, she tells me about her plans to test out a Halloween menu, and completely loses herself in her enthusiasm for it.

I smile as she goes into ecstasies about pumpkin spiced soup and cookies in the shape of ghosts and Red Velvet cake designed so it looks like it’s dripping in blood. Laura is a woman who was born to do this job; I’m just a woman who can do this job, but will never feel it in my bones like she does.

We pass the time in pleasant companionship, and once I’m done in the kitchen, I go out into the café and check everything is shipshape. I notice more random items that hadn’t registered before: an antique sewing machine, a giant conch shell, a collection of tiny silver spoons, and a few framed photos from what looks like the Second World War.

When I ask about them, Laura tells me that one of the girls in the pictures is our very own Edie May, back when she was in the Timber Corps, which was like the Land Army but with more trees. Edie is apparently ninety-eight, which is astonishing—she seems fitter than I am.

Our first customer of the day is Becca, Laura’s sister, who calls in after dropping her daughter and Ruby and Rose off at school. She looks nothing like Laura, really, and it’s only the easy banter they share that tips you off about their relationship.

‘Mum and Dad want to know if they can have the girls for a couple of nights in half term,’ she says, sipping her coffee and perching on one of the tall stools by the counter. ‘I’ve told them they can have Little Edie permanently if they like.’

‘You don’t mean that!’ says Laura, flicking her with a tea towel. ‘What would you do without her?’

‘I’d watch TV that doesn’t feature cartoons or annoyingly perky presenters, read books, go for long walks, eat cake, have enormous soaks in the bath, go to art galleries, visit the cinema, take a trip to London and see a show, have lie-ins, go clubbing, learn how to ride a Segway, and have spectacular sex with my boyfriend without having to be quiet. Especially that last one. I’d do that a lot.’

I can’t argue with that list, and Laura gives up and laughs.

‘Okay, fair enough. Tell Mum and Dad it’s a yes from me. I also have a husband I’d like to enjoy some personal time with. Do you think they’d take Midgebo as well?’

‘No, because they’re not stupid. I think you’re stuck with your hooligan animal. You’ll just have to shut the door while you and Matt have a bonkathon. How’s it going, Max? Settling in? Overwhelmed by the Budbury madness? Feeling like the world and his wife wants to know every last thing about you?’

‘Well,’ I say, wiping down the counter in the absence of anything else to do, ‘I’m staying with Gabriel, so no to the last question.’

‘Ah yes. Gabriel Moran, Mystery Man. He’s quite the enigma, hidden inside a puzzle, and wrapped in a stud-muffin exterior. He’s nice enough, just takes a bit of getting used to.’

I nod, and leave it at that. I can already see Laura’s gossip antenna whirring inside her brain and don’t want to fuel it. I’m also strangely relieved that he’s not actually called Pumpwell.

After Becca, a few other people start arriving, fresh from early-morning walks and looking to warm up with a cosy hot chocolate and a treat. I make toast, and grill bacon, and serve up muffins, and generally make myself as useful as I can be. Sophie comes back just before lunch, and bags herself and Gary a little table in the corner, where she works at her laptop. It’s nice having them there.

The work is pretty plain sailing, and as it gets busier, I enjoy it more. Sophie was right about me, of course: I am nosy, and I do like chatting to people. I suppose I’d just forgotten that about myself, wallowing in self-pity as I was. I’m a far happier person when I have something useful to do, and ideally people to talk to while I do it. This isn’t unlike my old job on the tills, but with more cake and walking around.

By half past two, the lunch rush has passed, and we mainly just have a few stragglers coming in looking for sustenance. Pretty much all of the fresh food for the day has sold, and Laura is clearing up outside.

While she’s doing that, I’m attempting to make a takeaway latte for one of the last customers, which is probably foolish as I’ve had minimal training, and the coffee machine looks like something from a steampunk convention. It’s huge, intimidatingly loud, and has more metal tubes and buttons than I know what to do with.

Everything seems to be going well until there’s a big gust of steam, and the machine starts making a low-pitched hissing sound. I suddenly remember this bit from my instructions, but can’t remember what I’m supposed to do when it happens.

I faff around randomly pressing things, dodging the steam and apologising to the customer, all while the hissing noise is getting higher and higher. Much like my stress levels.

I’m about to run out into the garden and scream Laura’s name when Cherie appears at my side. She’s popped down from her flat a few times, but retired for a ‘siesta’ a while ago. She looks bleary-eyed now as she strides towards me, grabbing hold of a small hammer that’s hanging from a chain next to the coffee machine. She gives the machine a giant whack on the top, and the hissing sound immediately stops. Unfortunately, other sounds begin … like the sound of Cherie crying.

It starts slowly, a few tears trickling out of the sides of her eyes, followed by a sad sigh. Then she cries a bit more, and pretty soon she is standing there in front of the coffee machine, holding the hammer in shaking hands, full-on sobbing. I quickly finish up the latte for the customer, giving it to them on the house, and turn my attention back to Cherie.

I take the hammer from her hands, and put it back on its hook. She’s holding her face in her fingers, and the tears are streaming, and her whole body is trembling. She’s a large woman, but I try and put my arms around her and console her, patting her back and telling her everything is okay. I’ve no idea what’s going on, but her pain is contagious, and I’m desperate to comfort her. She lets out a soul-splitting cry and throws her head down on my shoulder, her arms around my waist.

I simply let her sob, stroking her hair and waiting until the moment passes. Eventually it does, and she pulls away from me, taking a deep breath and making a very obvious effort to calm herself down. Sophie is looking on in concern, and I give her a nod to tell her everything is all right.

Cherie smoothes stray strands of silver-grey hair from the sides of her face, and swipes at her eyes. She gazes down at me, and suddenly lets out a very unexpected laugh.

‘I’m so sorry, my love!’ she says, pointing at my T-shirt. ‘I’ve gone and got you all soggy, haven’t I?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ I reply, shaking my head dismissively. ‘It’ll save me having a shower later. Are you okay?’

‘Course I am … now. Snuck up on me, that one did. That was Frank’s job, see? Looking after the coffee machine. He could dismantle it and put it back together again quick as you like, that man. Always said it was temperamental, like a woman, the cheeky bugger. I need to replace it really, it’s old as the hills, but … well…’

‘It’d be like replacing a bit of him?’

‘Exactly, my sweet. You understand. And although I’m sorry you were on the receiving end of that little display, thank you for your kindness. I’ve spent years comforting other people in this place, and now suddenly it feels like I’m always the one in need of a soft word and a shoulder to cry on. I’m not sure I like it, to be honest. Makes me feel less super-human than usual!’

‘Well, your secret’s safe with me, Wonder Woman,’ I reply. ‘Don’t worry. I have two shoulders, and they’re both always available to cry on, all right? We all need a little weep now and then.’

She nods, and reaches out to stroke my cheek. It’s a gentle gesture, warm and motherly.

‘See?’ she says wisely. ‘I knew Laura hadn’t got it wrong about you. Now, tell me, what else have you got planned for the day?’

At that moment Laura walks back in, and does a quick scan of the two of us.

‘You both okay?’ she asks. ‘Do I need to crack out the emergency Baby Guinness supplies and get the shot glasses?’

‘It’s all good, love,’ Cherie says, winking at me. ‘There was just a bit of a malfunction. Mechanical and human. Max here was just about to tell me what she has in store for the rest of the day.’

‘Well,’ I tell them, ‘I was going to pick up a bit of food from the farm shop, and I was wondering if one of you could show me how to use an Aga at some point? I’ve watched a few YouTube videos but it’d be much easier with some pro tips, and I’m sure you’re both pros. Gabriel only uses the microwave.’

‘Oh I know!’ exclaims Cherie, horrified. ‘We send him out care packages, but he’s a prickly one, just like Mr Pumpwell was. Took us ages to wear him down as well. Nice bit of home-cooked food will be just what the doctor ordered. I’ll come, love. Laura’s got the girls, and I’m at a loose end. Shall I meet you there in an hour or so?’

Sophie and I make our farewells and drive home, calling off at the shop for some supplies on the way. I don’t mind the occasional TV dinner, but it seems a shame to have that beautiful Aga, and not use it. The kitchen is beautiful, and it should feel like the heart of the home. I can only hope that making some tasty meals will result in that, and not in me burning the place down.

I’ve bought some fresh carrots for Belle, and when she sees me at the side of the paddock she runs at me at top speed. It’s terrifying to be honest, especially when she bares her massive teeth, and for a moment I think she’s going to crash through the fence and eat me alive. Instead, she slows down right in front of me, and lets out a sound that’s half-bray, half-scream. I hold the carrot towards her and she snatches it from me, missing my fingertips by an inch. As before, while she’s distracted I stroke her head, and this time she stays for a few more seconds before she snubs me. Slowly, slowly, catchee donkey.

There’s no sight of Gabriel when we get back inside the cottage, so I make the most of the chance to jump in the shower and change clothes. It’s been a while since I did a day’s work, or did anything new, and I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty knackered. But in a good way. A satisfying kind of knackered.

I’ve just put the kettle on when Cherie arrives, tooting her car horn in a way I am starting to realise is traditional out in the wilderness, a way of saying, ‘Hi, I’m here!’

She seems a lot more together now, and is wearing a spectacular maxidress covered in sunflowers. She also comes bearing cake, of course, and lays it down on the table before she inspects the Aga.

‘Oh, this is nice,’ she comments, after poking and prodding it a bit. ‘The range itself is old, and I’d guess originally it used coal. But somewhere along the line it’s been converted to gas, which is a lot easier. It’s in good nick. Mr P must have looked after it. Just needs a bit of a clean … and to be honest, love, probably a service as well. You don’t want to mess around with this stuff, and I wouldn’t recommend using it straight away. Once it’s up and running, though, it’ll work a treat!’

She gives me a little guide on how to use it, and although there’s a lot to remember, it’s not that complicated really. She talks me through how the stove-top hot plates can be used, and the different functions of the various oven compartments. It’s a lot more versatile than the little four-ringed cooker we have at home, and I can see why it was beloved of olden-days families cooking all their meals from scratch. This is a mighty beast, made for multi-tasking and heating a home.

For the time being, we’re stuck with what we’ve got.

‘I’ll make a stew,’ says Sophie, peering into our bag of food. ‘There’s chicken and veg, and even Gabriel has salt and pepper. I can do it on the little hob thing. We can dip that crusty bread we got into it. It’ll be delish! Plenty for all of us.’

I leave her to it—she enjoys cooking—and accompany Cherie as she walks around the downstairs of the house. It feels weird having her here, and I wonder if I’m breaking some kind of rule by inviting a guest. Then I remember the things Gabriel said when he was talking in Laura’s kitchen that night; he is clearly fond of Cherie.

She pulls a face at the living room, and says: ‘Bit basic, isn’t it? I know he’s a man and all, but still. It needs more … everything!’

‘I know. It’s a gorgeous room, and so full of light. I’d get some new curtains for a start, maybe deep green velvet to go with the floor. I’d leave the stone walls—I think they look lovely—but the beams need a bit of attention. They’ve obviously been painted at some point in the past, and it needs stripping off. And look at that, just a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling! That’s barbaric! It needs a shade, and the whole room would be much nicer at night with some lamps, making it all cosy. Then I’d add a nice rug in the middle of the room, maybe even something a bit exotic, with an Aladdin vibe? The room’s big enough to carry that.’

I walk around, visualising it all, and add: ‘It needs some proper furniture, obviously. Doesn’t need to match, but you could easily have two sofas in here. Big ones, pale colours, don’t you think? And some bookcases. Pine would look best. You have some gorgeous framed photos of the coast and countryside in the café. Imagine bigger versions of those on the walls, maybe even canvas rather than frames? It’d be such a lovely combination: the traditional beams and walls, but with that modern touch? And flowers. Every room looks better with flowers, doesn’t it? You could have a little table here by the window, and vases full of them…’

Cherie looks bemused as I wander around the room, gesturing and imagining. I suddenly feel embarrassed, and shut up.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I do go on a bit.’

‘No need to apologise, love. Nothing wrong with a bit of passion! That all sounds gorgeous, and I’m a bit jealous. Everywhere I live ends up looking like a squat in Marrakesh. You clearly have a gift. Is there anything we can do now?’

‘Well, Gabriel did say there’s another room full of stored furniture and Mr P’s stuff, and he also said it was fine for us to see what we wanted … but I’m a bit concerned because this is his turf, isn’t it? His territory. He might not like me messing with it.’

‘You make him sound like a dog who’s cocked his leg everywhere! Why don’t we go and have a look? See what there is? If he’s not happy, you can put it back.’

I consider it for a few moments, then agree. Truth be told, I’m bursting with curiosity, and the state of this place is hurting me.

We head to the room he’s shown me, on the other side of the house in one of the extensions. Inside, we find pretty much the entire contents of a junk shop. I switch the light on, and sneeze as dust assaults me. Clearly nobody has been in here for a while.

It’s all arranged pretty sensibly, with larger items of furniture at the back and smaller at the front. It’s a big room, long and thin, lacking the charm of the older part of the cottage, but still useful. I spy a small battered bedside cabinet as soon as I venture in, and immediately hoist it up. It’s ugly but solid, and once it’s been painted it’ll look lovely. I put it outside in the hallway, and go back in to forage for more.

As I carry out a visual survey of the furniture, Cherie is having a fine old time rooting around in boxes and drawers, occasionally holding up random items and making comments. Some of them are funny—a spectacular pirate’s hat, a half-deflated blow-up flamingo, a massive jug with a donkey’s face on the front—and some of them are a bit sad. Like a pill box that still rattles, and stack of unused blood sugar testing strips. A half-filled in crossword book. The signs of age and solitude.

I concentrate on the more practical stuff, because if I go down that rabbit hole, I’ll never escape it. I find a small round coffee table with turned legs that I salvage for Sophie’s room, and a couple of dusty but usable velvet footstools in a surprising shade of deep pink. Nearer the back, I see a nice old wardrobe that would definitely be useful, and a long dark pine sideboard that would look fantastic in the living room.

I make a mental inventory, and then shout to Sophie to come and help. Between us we manage to clear a path and carry the sideboard through, and I place it under the window. Leaving Cherie to her explorations, I go outside to the wildflower meadow. It’s autumn, so most of them are fading now, but there are still some plentiful patches. I don’t know their names, but they’re vibrant in yellow, purple, and white. I gather some up, and spend a few minutes trimming and arranging them in water in the donkey jug.

I smile as I place it on the sideboard, delighted with the way the sunlight streams through the window and casts floral shadows on the wood.

Back in the storage room, Sophie is just as thrilled when she comes across a huge old dirt-streaked television, one of the chunky ones with a massive plastic back.

‘It’s a CRT!’ she says, clapping her hands together.

‘Does that stand for crappy random tat?’ says Cherie.

‘No, it stands for… Actually, I don’t know what it stands for. But these are brilliant for gaming. And before you say, Mum, yes, I’ll keep it in my room so I don’t disturb you old people while you discuss the weather and play lutes or whatever!’

I was about to suggest that, damn her. Apart from the lutes. I tell her I’ll help her carry it upstairs later, and continue rummaging. I find a lovely antique-looking lamp with a brass stand and lavender-coloured glass panels, and take that through to the living room. Amazingly it still works, and I set it up in the corner nearest to where Gabriel reads. If I could only get rid of that ugly recliner, we’d be set.

Right at the far end of the long storage room, I come across a tall wing-backed chair. It’s a Chesterfield style with brass studs, made from deep burgundy leather. It’s gorgeous, and I get Sophie to mule-train it out for me. Once it’s in the living room, I wipe over the leather, and place one of the velvet footstools in front of it. Now two people can sit in here in comfort. Though I wonder if that’s one person too many for Gabriel.

All of this takes some time, and before we know it, Sophie dashes to the kitchen and announces that ‘the best stew in the world’ is ready. We all wash our hands and settle down at the table, and I wonder out loud if Gabriel might want to join us.

Cherie nods and gets out her phone, presses call, and says: ‘Gabe, darling, where are you?’

I can’t hear his reply, but she says: ‘Right. Well. I’m sure the fence will still need repairing tomorrow. I’m currently sitting in your kitchen and dinner’s ready. Come and join us, you grumpy sod!’

We leave the stew on the hob while we wait for him, and I realise I feel nervous about the small changes I’ve made to his living space. He did give me permission to look for things, but this is different.

When he walks through the door to an enthusiastic welcome from Gary, he stares at the three of us, standing frozen.

‘Yes, there are people in your kitchen,’ says Cherie breezily. ‘Just go with it. Wash up and join us.’

There’s a moment where I see him considering a refusal, but Cherie is hard to say ‘no’ to. Once he’s sitting, Sophie dishes up, placing a big platter of crusty bread in the middle. There’s enough wine left for a small glass for us three, and he cracks open a can of Fosters. Sophie puts some music on her phone—presumably a playlist for awkward dinner parties—and we tuck in.

Cherie declares that is the best stew ever, and even Gabriel nods appreciatively. The next hour passes by far more easily than I’d expected, the conversation flowing in the way it does when three chatty women are in a room together. Even Gabriel chips in, telling us about the place he lived in the south of France, where he renovated an old property and worked as a handyman. Sophie asks him if he speaks French, and he tells us he can have a fluent conversation about plumbing and replacing windows, but not much else.

By the time we wave Cherie off just after eight, it’s dark outside. She seems to have enjoyed herself, and there was no sign of her earlier grief, so that’s a job well done if nothing else.

Sophie enlists Gabriel to help her hoist the CRT television upstairs, and I know she’ll be happily lost in a world of treasure-hunting and puzzle-solving and coin-gathering for the rest of the night.

When he comes back down, I say: ‘Um, I made a few changes in the living room. If you don’t like it, I’ll rewind.’

He nods, and walks through into the lounge. I’ve left the lamp on instead of the overhead light bulb, and personally I think it looks lovely. I see him take in the new additions, and stare at the donkey jug full of flowers, and wait tensely at his side.

‘It’s … nice,’ he says finally. ‘I love the donkey. And it feels better with the dimmer lighting.’

‘Yes!’ I reply, relieved. ‘Less like a prison cell! I’m so glad you don’t mind.’

‘Were you worried I’d be furious and demand you turn it back into a prison cell?’

I nod, and bite my lip.

‘I’m not an idiot. I can see how much better this is,’ he says, wandering over to the new chair and stroking the leather. ‘It’s not even changed that much, but somehow it has… Did you find all of this in storage? I mean, I remember lumbering stuff in there, but I wasn’t paying much attention. None of it looked like it had much potential.’

‘Well, that’s all in the eye of the beholder. I like doing this kind of thing. I’ve got a few more items I’d like to use, if it’s okay. Bit of sanding, lick of paint, that kind of thing. And a wardrobe for upstairs if you can help with that. Plus, if you’re okay with it, I could maybe get some new curtains, do a bit of decorating when I have time…’

He nods firmly, and answers: ‘Yep. Fine by me. Keep track of costs and I’ll reimburse you. You’ve obviously got a flair for it.’

I feel a little warm glow at the praise, and then tell myself off for being so needy. I am good at this; there’s no need to be over-modest.

‘Sounds like a plan. It’ll be my way of thanking you for letting me stay. Do you want to see any more of the stuff? Or will it be weird, because he was your family?’

‘I don’t really believe that blood is thicker than water, and I never even met him. I’ll come and look, see what else there is.’

As we walk back through, past the stone stairs, I hear Sophie in her room shouting: ‘Mario, you crack whore!’

He raises his eyebrows at me, and I shrug. Let him think what he will.

Back inside the storage room I point out a few more items I think can be saved, and he makes a note of them on the little pad he always seems to have. There’s a sofa at the far end that is currently adorned in hideous tasselled green velvet, but the bones of it are good enough to reupholster. There are some wooden chairs which I can paint and re-cover for the bedrooms, and quite a few items of pottery that I think might be worth getting valued.

I find a writing bureau hidden beneath a pile of old bedding, a beautiful thing made of golden oak. Even Gabriel can see that one is special, and I can only imagine he was in some kind of fugue state when he started storing things in here.

I pull open the front panel, and it lies flat to make a desk, little compartments behind it. I see a few old bills, and a file that turns out to contain copies of insurance documents going back decades. Even Belle was insured, presumably against third-party damage. There’s a pile of receipts, including one that tells me when the Aga was last serviced, and paid invoices for deliveries of hay. Right at the back, I come across a big envelope tucked away on its own. As I pull it out, a small pile of photos flutter to the ground.

Gabriel picks them up and flicks through them, and I see his face register surprise.

‘These are pictures of me,’ he mutters, staring at them. ‘One when I was a baby. A school photo. When I joined the Army, my wedding… This is weird.’

I blink away my surprise at the mention of a wedding, and lean over to take a peek. He looks serious in his school picture, a strained grimace revealing a gap where his front teeth should be. The Army one is different; he’s in full uniform, his dark hair cropped, and he looks young and happy and confident. The wedding photo … well, that’s pretty special too. I’d guess he was somewhere in his mid-twenties, still in his Army uniform but with a few more pips on his shoulder and a medal pinned to his jacket. The bride is stunning, blonde, elegant, gazing up at him with adoration.

‘You never met him, but he still has these?’ I say, deliberately not asking about his wife. Of course I’m almost incandescent with nosiness, but I understand that we have come across these clues to his past by accident, and it might not be something he wants to discuss.

‘Yeah. Like I said, weird. There are letters here too. I don’t know whether to read them or bin them.’

‘What! How could you consider binning them? They’re part of your history. Don’t you want to know who wrote them, and what the family rift was all about?’

‘I’m not sure I do, no. What good would it do? Nobody’s left alive.’

‘Other than you, Gabriel. You’re very much alive, and… Look, it’s up to you, obviously. But to me that’s like buried treasure.’

‘That’s where we’re different, Max,’ he replies, passing me the bundle. ‘I just see the emotional version of an IED. It might mess with my head, and my head doesn’t need any more messing with. You read them if you like. Then if you think I should know, tell me.’

‘No. That’s too much responsibility. I either read them and tell you what’s in them, or I don’t. You can’t expect me to decide what is or isn’t important. That can’t be my choice.’

He considers it and nods, obviously unsettled by the whole thing. He announces that he’s going upstairs for a bath, and I head to the kitchen. There’s cake, and I might need it.

I make a mug of tea, and sit down to go through the contents of the envelope. I set the pictures to one side, and find that the letters are all dated. Apart from one, all of them are addressed to ‘Dear Norman’, who I assume is Mr P. All of them are signed ‘your loving sister, Marjorie’.

I take a deep breath, put them in order, and plough straight in. It’s a strange thing to be doing, immersing myself in the lives of these dead strangers, and it takes me over an hour to read and digest all the nuances, piecing the tale together. When I’m finished, I get two cans of lager out of the fridge, and walk into the living room. I heard him come down earlier, and find him on his recliner, hair damp, reading a Stephen King novel.

I hand one of the lagers to him, and take a moment to appreciate how warm and cosy it feels in here now, the remains of a fire smouldering in the grate. He looks up at me and raises one eyebrow. I sit down on the leather chair, and plonk my feet up on the velvet footstool.

‘So,’ I say, sipping my beer. ‘Do you want the long version of the short version?’

‘Short, for now.’

‘Well, some of this I’ve put together from the dates and contents of the letters, and some of it is conjecture, just to be clear. Without bringing in a psychic, I can’t be certain about any of it.’

‘Understood.’

‘Okay. Your great-uncle—Norman—was two years younger than your grandmother, Marjorie. Sounds like neither of them wanted to stay and run the family farm. He wanted to go to university, had his heart set on being a doctor. Marjorie was engaged to a local man called Philip, and he came from a family who owned another local farm. It seems like some kind of deal had been reached: she’d marry Philip and the two farms would merge; that way it would stay in both families. Except she didn’t go through with it.’

‘She called the marriage off? My grandmother?’

‘Not exactly. Sounds like she met another boy she liked better, a visiting archaeologist who’d come to do a dig at one of the hill forts.’

‘That fits,’ he replies, nodding. ‘My grandfather passed away before I was born, but he was an archaeologist. Gran’s house was like a cave of wonders, filled with artefacts and aerial photos of sites. I used to love going there as a kid. So, how does this relate to Norman?’

‘Well, she—Marjorie—eloped with her beau. Ran away to London and got married before anybody could stop her, and that left Norman stuck at home, with the burden of the farm now resting on his shoulders. It’s hard to imagine now, isn’t it? A young person accepting that kind of fate? But from the tone of your grandmother’s letters to him, she knew that once she left, he wouldn’t be able to. He was fifth generation on this land, and the pressure piled on for him to continue. Seems like he didn’t have a choice: one of them had to stay, and she’d taken that decision out of his hands.

‘She didn’t start writing to him until the eighties, so it’s not like this was a rash decision on her part. It seemed to just take her that long to ask for him to forgive her. As far as I can tell, they had had no contact at all before that, and there’s reference to the fact that their parents essentially disowned her once she eloped, and never spoke to her again.’

‘Right. Well, I was born in 1981, and her husband had died in 1980. Maybe that’s what started it?’

‘I think so, yes. Her first letter mentions both of those things. Apparently you looked like Winston Churchill marinated in a vat of port when you were born, by the way. I think it was a crossroads in her life, and she decided to reach out. She basically apologised, and said she knew what she was leaving Norman behind with, but she hadn’t been able to sacrifice herself to a loveless marriage just for the sake of a farm and some history.’

He cracks open his beer, and stares into the red embers of the fire, taking it all in.

‘Like you say, it’s hard to imagine,’ he repeats. ‘But it was what happened. Norman Pumpwell didn’t become a doctor. He didn’t follow his dreams; he stayed here. He ran the farm, and presumably looked after his parents as they aged, and then he aged himself. I know he sold off most of the land, just kept a few animals for company. So the irony is that the farm ended with him anyway.’

He looks around the room, soaking up its age and its history, and adds: ‘It’s so strange to think of my grandmother living in this house as a child. She was a lovely lady, a lot of fun. She basically raised me, and I still miss her now.’

The barely concealed sadness in his voice is hitting a little too close to home for me, and I don’t want to start blubbing so I push on.

‘So, by the eighties, she’s had your mum, who in turn has produced you. Your grandfather had gone, and maybe Marjorie just felt lonely? Started thinking more about the past? This is all pre-internet, so it meant letters, sent to the place where she last knew her brother lived. She talks about all kinds of things in them—her life in London, your mum, you. Mainly you. I bet she spoiled you rotten!’

He grins a little, and nods.

‘Didn’t he ever reply to her? Did you get the feeling that she was answering back, or was it all one-sided?’

‘The latter I’m afraid. She just carries on with her news, and there’s never any hint that he’s responded. She’s just writing into a void. Until the last letter in the envelope, which isn’t by her. It’s by him, Norman, your great-uncle. That one’s a bit of a heartbreaker to be honest. It’s dated early in 2022, which is maybe the year he died?’

‘It is. And the year after she died. He never knew it, but he was writing to a ghost. And he obviously didn’t send it, either.’

‘No, he didn’t, and it’s a shame he didn’t do it earlier. Maybe you’d have had a chance to meet him. So, his letter basically says he’s forgiven her, was sorry he’d ignored her for so long, and that he would love for her to bring you for a visit. He said he’d been living alone too long and got “set in his ways”, that he was basically a recluse until “those terrors from the village” dragged him back into the world.’

‘The visits from Auburn?’ he says, obviously knowing a bit about it.

‘Yes. Then Cherie started sending out care packages and organising events at the café. She told me he was dead set against it at first, but eventually they won him over.’

‘That sounds about right,’ he grunts, a smile offsetting his words. ‘Hard to refuse, aren’t they? You fit right in.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I didn’t necessarily mean it as a compliment.’

‘Well, I choose to take it as one. Anyway, I don’t know why he didn’t post the letter. Maybe he had second thoughts, or maybe he got sick? And from what you’ve said it was too late anyway. It’s all a bit sad, isn’t it? All those lost years. But I suppose there’s proof he still always loved her, the fact that you’re here now. Doing this place up. It’s nice in a way. Do you believe in God?’

‘That’s an unexpected question. And the answer is I don’t know. Why?’

‘I don’t know. I’m the same as you I suppose. But it would be nice to think that maybe they’re up there somewhere together, and looking down on you bringing their childhood home back to life? Even if you just decide to sell it in the end, you’ll have brought it back to life.’

He gets up and pokes the fire, sending up a shimmer of hisses and sparks.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, worried about his earlier IED comment.

‘Yeah. Just a bit shaken. So much history I never knew about. I wish I’d met him. Auburn says he was a curmudgeonly old git, but she always smiles when she says it.’

‘Wow. The genetics must run strong in your family.’

‘Ha! Fair point. And thank you, for doing that. I’d have probably chucked them in the fire if you hadn’t been here, but I’m glad I didn’t. I like the idea of doing what you said.’

‘What did I say?’

‘That I could bring this place back to life. I’m not a sociable man, in case you hadn’t noticed, and there’s a real risk I’ll also end up as a hermit with no company but a murderous donkey. Maybe it is genetics, maybe it’s coincidence, but I wouldn’t be shocked if that was my fate. Before I reach that stage, though, I think I would like to bring this place to life again. For the memory of my gran if nothing else. I think it’s pretty obvious that I need some help on that front. So, I suppose what I want to ask is, will you help me?’

I look around at the bare room. At the man standing before me. I feel a little sliver of excitement curling in my tummy, and I’m not sure which causes it.

‘I’d love to,’ I say firmly.