The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

A fter those first few days, life settles into a busy but fulfilling routine. I head to the café with Sophie in the mornings, and it’s hugely enjoyable. It barely feels like a job at all apart from the aching back at the end of a shift.

I get to know the locals a lot better, learn how to make chocolate-bar milkshakes in the blender, and master the art of whacking the coffee machine with the hammer. I meet a lot of tourists from all over the world, and enjoy talking to them about their lives. I’m especially entranced by a fossil-hunter from Austin, Texas, who has come all the way here just to hammer at stones on the beach.

I manage to get down to the beach myself, and on clear days spend my half-hour break perched on one of the big boulders, zoning out while I listen to the waves. It’s incredibly peaceful, even when there are children playing and dogs barking in the background—somehow the sound of the water seems to override them. The hiss-suck-hiss melody of the sea racing into shore and then running away again is almost hypnotic.

Sophie carries on working hard, and also enjoying herself with her new friends. I suspect there may be a budding romance with the farming apprentice called James, but I don’t push on that. She’ll tell me when she’s ready. She helps out in the café when it’s especially busy, and to be honest she’s better at it than I am—Laura’s already recruited her to help with her Halloween menu.

Later in the afternoons and on my days off, I carry on at the farmhouse, and I am loving every moment of it. The work on Hyacinth has, predictably, taken longer than expected, but I don’t mind. In fact I’m secretly delighted.

In the last few weeks, we have achieved so much. Gabriel gave me the greatest gift a man can give a woman—a Farrow & Ball colour card—and mine and Sophie’s bedrooms are now complete with lining paper on the walls, painted in beautiful matching tones of pale green. The upstairs landing is in a colour called Brassica, a rich shade of lavender, and the floorboards up there have been sanded down and painted white.

We’ve stripped back the beams in the living room and painted them matte black, which gives it a bit of a Jacobean feel that works really well. All of the doors have been sanded, re-hung and had nice vintage handles added to them, and I’ve upcycled several pieces of furniture from the storage room. The big old sofa at the back is getting reupholstered in deep red velvet, and should be back with us soon, which means the recliner’s days are numbered.

Like the day we built the flat-packs, Gabriel and I work well together. We’re a good team. He is still quiet, still doesn’t like to talk about himself, or in fact about anything much other than the job at hand. But the silence is companionable rather than awkward, and I talk enough for two of us anyway.

I’ve found a few nice antique shops in the area and picked up some lovely items: pictures, vases, a set of vintage tea and coffee canisters in the same pastel green as the Smeg fridge. The little touches make me just as happy as the big jobs, and I’m planning on attending a few fairs and car boots as well.

In short, I am extremely busy, and extremely happy. I am so tired by the time I fall into bed that I sleep almost immediately, listening to the sound of the owls and wondering what the badgers are up to for a few brief moments before I drift off. I still get woken up by Gabriel moving around the house sometimes, but I’ve gotten used to it I suppose. I have no idea how he functions on so little sleep.

I still miss my mum, and find myself wishing I could bring her here and show her this place. She’d love it—the locals and their quirky sense of humour, the scenery, the cake. Mainly I think she’d love seeing me so content, doing things that I love in a place where I feel safe.

The dark cloud that Richie’s betrayal cast over my life has been chased away by the autumn sunshine, replaced with more of a sense of who I am without him. I think that was part of the problem: with no job, no mum to care for, no small children, no husband, I had no clue who I was. My whole life had been defined by those relationships, and once they disappeared, my foundations crumbled.

Now, slowly but surely, I’m building new foundations, ones that are based on my life, not other people’s. It’s pretty awesome, to be honest, but I don’t want to get too carried away in case some disaster occurs, or I wake up in Solihull and realise it’s all been a dream.

Today, after we turn the café sign to ‘closed’, I am having an especially nice time. Katie is here, enjoying a rare break as both her sons have been taken to work with their dad, and Cherie is on fine form. She got enlarged copies of the photos in the café, sunsets on the beach and snow on the fields, printed onto vast canvases for us to hang at the farmhouse. They are absolutely gorgeous, and I know they’ll look perfect.

‘They were taken by my late husband,’ she explains, ‘and he’d be thrilled to see them used.’

‘Frank?’ I ask.

‘No, the one before that, Wally. I’m like the black widow of Budbury!’

She lets out a guffaw at this, so I’m not concerned about her. Katie laughs along, picking at a slice of chocolate fudge cake and looking enormous.

‘When are you due?’ I ask, glancing at her bump.

‘December 20th. The other two were both late, though, so knowing my luck I’ll be spending Christmas Day with contractions. I can’t wait to meet him, though.’

‘Is it a boy?’

‘It’s always a boy. I’m doomed to putting the toilet seat down for the rest of my life. It’ll be hard work, I know, having three … but I love it. I just need to get through the sleepless nights part.’

‘Is Van not much help on that front?’ I ask, surprised, because now I’ve met him a few times, he seems like the perfect dad.

‘No, he’s not. He’s brilliant in every other respect, but somehow, he just never wakes up, no matter how much crying is going on!’

‘Ah. Yes. Well, I suspect that’s biological. Men seem to be programmed to be able to sleep through a crying baby.’

‘But,’ says Laura, joining us, ‘somehow they can hear a bra strap being unhooked from three miles away!’

At that point, Sophie walks into the café, looking flustered. She stares around the room, looking for something, and we all watch as she walks around searching. It’s entertaining, and none of us offer to help.

‘I’ve lost my purse,’ she announces. ‘I went up to Auburn’s chemist shop—eye-liner emergency—and only realised when I got there. She let me have it anyway.’

‘You’ve lost your purse again?’ I ask, shaking my head. This is a common occurrence with Sophie, and can be frustrating.

‘Yes, but don’t use that disappointed tone, Mum! I’ve only lost a purse, not a stock of decommissioned Russian uranium!’

Cherie snorts at this, and I try not to laugh myself. Sophie eventually emerges triumphant, having found her purse tucked down the side of one of the sofas. She waves it in the air, and comes to sit with us.

‘What are you lot up to?’ she asks suspiciously. ‘Plotting world domination?’

‘Just chatting,’ I say. ‘And eating cake. Obviously.’

‘Lame. Can I have some money to pay for my eye-liner?’

‘I thought you’d just found your purse?’

‘Yeah, but it turns out to be empty. I need to get a job…’

I see Laura and Cherie exchange looks, and Laura pipes up: ‘You can work here if you like.’

‘Why? Is Mum screwing up?’

I give her a gentle slap on the back of the head, and she threatens to call Child Line. I am a bit concerned, though. Are things not going as well as I’d thought?

‘No, not at all,’ says Laura. ‘She’s doing brilliantly. All the customers love her. We got a review on Tripadvisor the other day that specifically thanked her for the welcome. But you’ve been helping me with the Halloween menu, and then there’ll be a Christmas menu, and you’re really good at it. I know you’re busy with your studies as well, but if you wanted to pick up some shifts here, they’re available. Maybe that could free your mum up a bit to do more of her … renovations .’

Somehow she manages to imbue this perfectly innocent word with a world of innuendos. Carry on at the Comfort Food Café. I know it’s driving her mad, having a spy in the Gabriel camp and me not reporting back to her with every detail. She’ll ask me questions about the work on the house, which I’m happy to discuss, and then randomly throw in something like: ‘Oh, you painted the window ledge? Very nice. But do you ever bump into him wearing nothing but his boxer shorts?’

Laura is a very happily married woman, but she definitely has an appreciation for the male form. Cal, the Chris Hemsworth cowboy, is one of her idols, and I suspect she feels the same about Gabriel. I always deflect, even though the answer to that question is ‘almost, yes’. A few days ago, I came out of my room just as he was emerging from a shower, and there was an awkward moment where we danced around each other in the confined space. All with him wearing nothing but a white towel tied around his waist.

I now know that he is an extremely lithe and well-muscled man, and that yes, he does have chest hair. I stare at my fudge cake and try not to blush at the memory. Some things you cannot unsee. My relationship with Gabriel works fine just as it is. Anything more would unbalance it.

‘How’s it going, the work?’ Cherie asks, as she makes us all a fresh coffee.

‘Good!’ I reply. ‘Really good. He’s put adjustable lighting in the living room, and is considering underfloor heating in the bathroom. We’ve done a lot of the decorating, and … well, it’s coming along.’

‘Do you fancy doing Hyacinth after?’ Cherie asks, passing the drinks over. Katie’s off caffeine and has an enormous hot chocolate instead. ‘I know it’s dragged on, but the roof is almost done, and the damage to the upper floor is on its way to being repaired. But to be honest, it needed a refurb anyway, and you’ve obviously got a knack for it. I’d be paying someone else to do it, and I’d rather pay you.’

‘She has got a knack,’ mutters Sophie, nose deep in her own fudge cake. ‘It’s like her superpower. The Amazing Doer-Upper.’

I’m surprised by what Cherie has suggested, but also intrigued. It’s never even occurred to me that I could earn money doing what comes naturally to me, even though I’d never actually accept cash from Cherie. She’s done enough already.

‘But there are lots of cottages at the Rockery,’ I say eventually. ‘Wouldn’t you want to do it wholesale, so they had a theme?’

‘Good lord no!’ she says, shivering in horror. ‘Why would I want that? I hate things that all look the same. I’m more of a mismatched kind of gal! Have a think about it anyway. As for Gabriel’s, tell him we’ll be expecting a grand house-warming party once everything’s done, won’t you?’

‘I think you can tell him that yourself, Cherie. I can’t imagine it’ll be top of his wish list.’

‘I know, but it’ll come better from you, my love. You’re like … the Gabriel Whisperer! You’ve clearly won him around with your home cooking and your domestic skills.’

‘And her huge boobs,’ adds Sophie, cheekily.

‘Gabriel is not interested in my boobs!’ I snap. ‘Gabriel’s type isn’t scruffy chubby women from the Midlands.’

‘Oooh,’ says Laura, leaning closer and smiling. ‘What is his type then? Please say it’s scruffy chubby women from Manchester!’

I suddenly feel pinned down, trapped, and way too much in the spotlight. This is probably how he feels all the time. Of course, the only thing I based that comment on was seeing the wedding photo by accident, and catching a glimpse of his beautiful, tall, very slender, very blonde wife. But that is not something I would ever share with these ladies, no matter how lovely they are, because that is not their business, and I would never betray Gabriel’s trust.

I know the letters between his grandmother and Mr P have had a profound effect on him, and he’s said that he might go and visit Edie to find out more, as she was around at the time. It was probably a huge scandal when Marjorie ran away with a visiting archaeologist, and even thinking those words makes me realise how fantastical it sounds, like something from a film. I know he’s interested, almost against his will, because he loved her so much. It was easy for him to disconnect from his great-uncle because he never knew him. But his gran is different.

If and when he decides to talk to Edie is up to him, although he has now read the letters for himself. The one that described his mother’s death obviously affected him, and he disappeared off to his room for the whole night. I think Mr Pumpwell’s story has also really moved him, as it did me. Knowing that the man had lived a tough and solitary life, but that his last few years were enriched by the café, by the community, by the women currently sitting around me speculating on whether Gabriel is a breast man or a leg man.

‘We should do a test,’ Laura announces firmly. ‘We can arrange a lineup. Auburn is all legs, and Max is all boobs, and Becca’s a bit of both. Get them all dressed in bikinis and see which one he stares at the longest.’

‘It’s too cold for bikinis!’ Katie points out, as though that’s the only possible problem with this scenario.

‘You’re right,’ Laura says, frowning. We’re well into October, and the temperatures are plummeting along with the leaves. ‘Maybe they can all wear slutty nurse outfits for the Halloween party?’

I shake my head, and ignore them. It’s Halloween next week, and shockingly, they’ve decided to have a party. I have quickly realised that anything from a birthday to somebody recovering from a nasty cold is cause for a celebration here.

They chat among themselves, moving happily away from Gabriel’s sexual preferences to safer subjects like cocktails—apparently Cherie will be whipping up a batch of her ‘famous’ Pumpkin Spice Punch, along with some jugs of Murderous Martini. Sophie is planning on making chopped-off fingers from marzipan, and Laura is speculating about the best way to make eyeballs float in the trifle.

As the talk moves on to costumes, I find that my mind has drifted to Hyacinth House. To a seaside theme, with nautical touches in the bathroom, and driftwood from the beach on the living room shelves. To cupboards that look like onboard cabinets, and pale blue curtains, and sea shells that let you hear the sea when you hold them to your ears. I can see it all clearly, and know how great it could be.

‘I’ll do it,’ I say, interrupting a debate about whether Twilight is a horror film or a comedy. ‘Hyacinth, I mean. I’d love to do the refurb for you, Cherie.’