The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

I wake up at just after six on Christmas Day itself. It’s still dark outside when I open my curtain, but the full moon is painting the fresh snow with a silver coat. I can see over to the green, and the cottages that surround it. Several already have lights shining from their windows, probably the ones that contain small children. Ruby and Rose probably never even went to sleep.

I might have considered staying warm and snug in bed for a bit longer, but my very first thought had been, I wonder where Gabriel is waking up today? Allowing myself to disappear down that rabbit hole wouldn’t be very festive, so I’m up and about before I accidentally slip down it.

I get my first few coffees down me, and then wake the kids up. There is a chorus of groans and swearing as I do this, and Sophie actually tries to kick me. I am too nimble and dodge out of her way, singing ‘Jingle Bells’ at the top of my voice. Finally. It’s revenge for all those years I was dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn to see if Santa had been.

They stagger down the stairs a little while later, and after a few gripes they soon get into the spirit of things. Gary goes first, opening his little doggie treat stocking. He tears at the wrapping paper and shakes it about ferociously in his mouth, like he’s trying to kill it.

I get a nice framed photo of the three of us from them both, which I immediately put on the mantle, and the traditional selection of things that smell nice. They open their gifts—a combination of cunningly disguised cash, video games and books—and I make us all pancakes.

Ben has us in hysterics after he calls his dad, when he tells us that Valerie bought him a Botox gift voucher for Christmas, and the morning passes in enjoyable laziness. Ruby, Rose, and their cousin Little Edie knock for us at about eleven, to see if Ben and Sophie ‘want to come out and play’.

They might technically be adults, but they’re wrapped up and out of the door like a shot. Of course they want to play! I take Gary to join in, and I find every child who is staying at the Rockery already out there. There are snowball fights and games of tag and a couple of them are even playing badminton. Every time the shuttlecock plummets into the snow, one of the dogs tries to run away with it.

We have been invited to Laura’s for Christmas dinner, and I make my way over to Black Rose to see if I can help. She shoos me out of the kitchen with a tea towel, and I end up on the squishy sofa with Cherie instead. There are far worse places to be.

The whole day passes off pleasantly enough, a blur of food and laughter and intermittent bad dog behaviour. Midgebo makes off with a mouthful of pigs in blankets, but the turkey remains safe.

‘I left those on the edge of the table on purpose,’ says Laura as she dishes up. ‘He’s not happy unless he’s managed to steal something, and it is Christmas.’

After lunch, Matt takes all the children outside to run off some steam, and us ladies find ourselves gathered in the big living room with a bottle of Baileys and an impressive selection of party hats from crackers.

The TV is on with the sound muted, and we all sit sipping our drinks staring at the moving pictures of a Christmassy-looking ballet on the screen. The post-dinner slump has taken hold, and the coal fire is making me sleepy.

‘It’s The Nutcracker , isn’t it?’ says Cherie, pointing at the television. ‘Look, there’s the Sugar Plum Fairy.’

‘I don’t know,’ Becca replies, watching intently. ‘I always wish I was into stuff like this. I always wish I was a bit more cultured. Like, I know this is a ballet and is supposed to be enriching, but in reality I’m just staring at the men’s willies in their tights.’

We all splutter with laughter at that comment, because I have a sneaking suspicion that we’ve all been doing the same. I look around the room, at the faces of these women who not so long ago were strangers. Now they’re my friends, and I have finally found my tribe, all thanks to Sophie deciding to reply to a random job advert she saw on the internet. I am grateful, but the gratitude doesn’t quite drown out the sadness that lies beneath the surface.

As the women all play a game of choosing which of the dancers they’d snog in a hot tub, my mind inevitably wanders. To Gabriel, and where he is and what he’s doing. I hope he’s not alone, and didn’t wake up in a sleeping bag. I think about Norman and Marjorie, and what Christmases were like on the Pumpwell farm. I’d guess ‘not a lot of fun’ from seeing photos of their parents.

I think about all the years I’ve been lucky enough to spend with my own children, and even about Richie. This time next December they’ll have a new addition, maybe one that is wearing a Baby’s First Christmas outfit. He won’t be able to smile at it, though, because of all the Botox.

I think about my own mum, and the way she used to look forward to watching the Eastenders Christmas Day special. As her illness drew her life smaller, she made the most of every pleasure that came her way. She used to hum along to the theme tune and pretend she was playing the drums during the ‘duh-duh-duh’ dramatic bit. ‘They’ll never beat that one where Dirty Den gave Angie the divorce papers on Christmas Day,’ she’d announce, every single year.

‘Come on, Max, which one is yours?’ Cherie asks, dragging me back to the here and now. I stare at the still-muted television, and randomly pick one of the dancers.

‘You can’t have him!’ Laura bleats. ‘Becca’s already picked him!’

‘That’s okay,’ says Becca, winking at me. ‘I’m happy to share. Looks like there’s plenty of him to go around!’

This brings on more laughter, and more Baileys being poured. I put my glass to one side and stand up. They all stare at me, and I realise it looks like I’m about to make an announcement, or do a performance. Maybe a little pirouette.

‘I’m going to see Belle,’ I tell them. ‘I realise she’s a donkey and doesn’t know it’s Christmas, but still.’

‘Actually, as a donkey, her ancestors played a pivotal role in the nativity story,’ Becca points out. ‘You should ride around on her and pretend you’re the Virgin Mary.’

Anyone trying to ride around on Belle is pretty sure to end up dead, I suspect, but I pretend I’m giving it some thought just to entertain her.

I thank Laura for the lovely day and make my goodbyes. I’ve only had a very small glass of Baileys, so I’m still okay to drive. I’m usually happy to get tipsy at Christmas, but today I refused all offers of wine, partly because I didn’t want to risk becoming a morose drunk, and partly because I suspected I was always going to do this. I want to see my framed photo collage go home, where it belongs.

I grab what I need from the house, and check on the kids on my way to the car. Matt and Sam, Becca’s boyfriend, have organised some kind of rugby game, and I see Sophie tackle Ben to the snow with a spectacular ankle grab. All is well with the world.

The drive there is quiet, the winding country lanes completely empty of the traditional tractors, and as I pull into the courtyard I toot my horn. No idea why, there is nobody here but Belle, but it’s become an ingrained habit I suppose.

I’ve brought her some ginger biscuits, which donkeys love according to the internet. As I lean against the fence, she ambles towards me letting out a bray-scream. I love the pattern of her hoofs against the snow, and smile as she approaches. I lay a biscuit flat on the palm of my hand, and she hoovers it up. I scratch her ears, and she gives me such a gentle nuzzle I don’t even worry for the safety of my ear lobes.

I go inside, and it is so cold I shiver. I suppose he must have turned everything off before he left, and the kitchen doesn’t feel the same without the warmth of the Aga circulating. Nothing feels the same, I think, as I make my way through to the living room. The donkey jug is empty, and the curtains are closed, and there’s a thin sheen of dust on the shelves. While I’m here, I might give it a little spruce up. If I do end up seeing it on Rightmove, I don’t want it to look grubby.

He never did get around to buying a tree, and this place is the exact opposite of Laura’s home. That was cluttered and draped in tinsel and fairy lights, every available surface covered in dancing snowmen and a wind-up festive Elvis that sings Blue Christmas in a tinny voice.

I hammer in the picture hooks, and thread through the string. After a few minutes getting it perfectly even, I sit down on the sofa and admire my handiwork.

It looks perfect, I think, displayed above the cast-iron fire surround. I hope that Norman and Marjorie would be pleased, and even if Gabriel never sees it, it feels like the right thing to have done. Maybe I’m mad, bringing a Christmas gift for a house, but I don’t care. This was their childhood home, and even though life tore them apart, they’re back here together now.

I get out my phone, and take a picture of it. I compose a little message to Gabriel, and rewrite it several times.

Norman and your grandmother are waiting for you.

So am I. I love you. Happy Christmas.

This is normally the stage at which I press delete, but somehow, as I sit here in this empty house I poured so much heart and soul into, I can’t quite bring myself to do it. I stare at the words, at the jumble of feeling behind them, and before I can change my mind I hit send.

After that, I stare numbly at my phone for about seven hours … or at least that’s what it feels like, as I sit here bundled up in my hat and scarf. Every time the screen starts to fade as though it’s going to shut down, I tap it again to keep it alive. And every time I do, I see exactly the same result: nothing.

I know there are a million rational reasons why he wouldn’t reply straight away. He could be abroad, and in a different time zone. The signal here is patchy, so it might not even have gone. He could be asleep, or in the bath, or on a plane. He might just not have noticed it, as he is not a phone person and regularly lets it run out of charge. Like I say, a million reasons.

Or, a nasty little voice whispers in my head, maybe he just doesn’t want to reply. Maybe he’s ignoring me. Maybe reading those words, seeing that I love him, has pushed him over the edge and even as we speak, he’s contacting an estate agent and arranging to get the place valued so he never has to come back again.

I stare at Marjorie and Norman, and say, ‘I’m being stupid, aren’t I? So what if he never replies. You never replied to Marjorie, did you, after all those letters? But you still loved her. At least I haven’t left it too late, right? I’ve opened the door and it’s up to him if he walks through it or not. Anyway. No point in crying over sent messages.’

Neither of them answer, and I tell myself to get a grip. That it’s not the end of the world; it only feels like it.

As I gather my things and stand up to leave, I notice something that is out of place. Just from the corner of my eye, I spot a single paperback back left out on the little side table. I pick it up, discover that it’s a James Patterson thriller. Maybe it’s what he was reading before he left, and he forgot to take it with him.

I flick through it, a weird part of me wanting to touch something that he has touched, and the scrap of paper he was using as a bookmark flutters out. I am trying to put it back in the right place when I notice that it is a receipt from a service station in Dover, dated the day before. I stare at it, screwing up my eyes as I double- and triple-check the tiny typed numbers. No matter how many times I look, it still says December 24th.

I am instantly on high alert, looking round like a bloodhound. Is he here? Was he here? Where is he? Am I pleased, or scared, or now deeply embarrassed about the message I just sent?

I climb to my feet, seeing the room in a new light. There is no sign of the fire being lit, and the house is cold, but that means nothing. This is Gabriel we’re talking about, a man who has so little regard for his own comfort that he lived on microwave meals for more than a year. The house has an old-fashioned water boiler that you can switch on and off as needed, and he may well have been here, used it, and left again.

I go into the kitchen, and open the fridge. The little light comes on, and inside I see a four-pack of Carlsberg and the kind of pie you get at a garage. I slam the door shut, and say ‘Shit!’ out loud. He’s here … or at least he has been.

I shout his name just in case, but get no response. Cautiously I creep upstairs, realising that he could simply be asleep after a long journey. I check the bathroom, and the smell hits me. Lemon and basil. He’s not only been here, he’s had a bath. My heart is racing by this point, and as I approach his room, I have no idea what I want to find. Part of me even wants to run while I still have the chance.

I open the door a few inches, and see that he is not there. The blast of disappointment tells me that no matter how conflicted I feel, I was hoping he would be, hoping to see him there huddled beneath the duvet, or even in his old sleeping bag. I have no idea what I’d have done if he was, but I am disappointed.

The bed is neatly made, and his rucksack has been dumped next to it. I see a few crumpled up sheets of his stupidly small note paper scattered across the duvet, and can’t resist smoothing them out and looking at them.

There are four, and each one starts with the same words: ‘Dear Max.’

One gets as far as ‘I hope you’re well,’ and another says ‘I just wanted to say,’ before annoyingly tailing off without any indication at all of what he actually wanted to say. The fact that he’s discarded them obviously means he wasn’t happy with his words, and I wonder if this is his version of what I’ve been doing, writing messages and then deleting them.

What was it that he wanted to ‘just say’? That he was leaving forever? That he’s coming home? That he’s joining the bloody circus? This is too frustrating, and I head back downstairs, forcing myself to be calm and think logically—to think at all.

I glance through the window, see that it is almost dark. The badgers, I think. Maybe he’s gone to see how his mammal friends are doing. I get a torch from the cupboard, and grab one of the fleeces that he’s left hanging on the back of the door. It’s cold out there, and I didn’t expect a trek through woodland. I’ll probably trip over a branch and turn into a human ice cube.

It’s a tricky hike through the snow and windswept trees, and more than a little creepy. I’ve become much more used to the countryside sounds in the last few months, but my city brain keeps setting off alarms about mad axemen and muggers. It’s also a complete waste, because when I reach the hide, there’s no sign of him. Or the badgers for that matter.

I sigh in frustration and pick my way in reverse over the fallen branches and snow-covered tree roots, all the way back to where I started. I check the garage at the side of the house, and see that his Land Rover is gone but there are marks on the floor from his tyres. No tracks outside, because fresh snow has fallen in the last few hours. I feel like a detective, a really rubbish one.

Belle lets out a low bellow in the darkness as I emerge from the garage. She’s like a guard donkey. Even the mad axemen and muggers would run for their lives if they heard that.

I’m freezing cold by this stage and can’t feel any of my extremities. I get into my car and put the blowers on, holding my chilled fingers in front of the heat. Okay, I think, let’s be rational. I almost laugh out loud at that point, because none of this is rational. I feel hyped up and wired and desperate. I need to see him, even if it’s just so that he can tell me it’s over. I’ve lived in limbo since he left, and I can’t go on like this.

As I gaze out of the windscreen at the pitch-black night sky, another idea forms. What if he’s gone to the hill fort to look at the stars? Didn’t he say it was his favourite thinking place? And judging by those scrunched up sheets of tiny paper, he’s definitely been doing some thinking.

I check my phone again, and see that nobody has messaged or called. Which means the kids are still alive, at least.

I sit there and chew at my lip for a few moments wondering what to do, then reach a decision. I’ve come this far, I might as well see it through. Of course, there’s every possibility he’s simply in the pub, or even hiding from me at the back of the barn. This will be the last place I try, I tell myself, as I pull out of the gate.

It’s a hefty drive in the dark and the snow, and it’s only thanks to directions from my phone that I find it at all. I end up parking in a different spot, the map-reading lady who lives inside the satnav assuring me I am at the right hill fort but on the other side. I feel uncertain as I gaze up at a white mass ahead of me, concerned that I will tackle Dorset’s version of Mount Everest and then find out I’m in the wrong place, or he’s not even there at all.

I pull my hat down as far as it can go, puff in some breath for later and switch the torch on. The path from this side of the hill is just as winding as the other, but maybe a little less steep. I pass a few people on my way up, obviously heading home, and exchange Christmas greetings. They probably think I’m mad, and they may just be right. After that, it’s just me and the grazing sheep looking at me curiously before they scatter.

When I’m almost at the top, I stop and look up. I look at that sky, at that dazzling landscape of stars, and sigh at how beautiful it is. I tell myself that whatever happens, those stars will still be there, and so will I. I’ve been so wrapped up in my quest that it is good to stand still for a moment, to try and let some of the calm up there in the heavens soak into my soul.

I carry on with my climb, and am exhausted by the time I reach the plateau. It’s strangely bright up here, the moonlight and the glimmer of the stars reflecting from the flat white sheen of the snow. It’s surreal, like walking through the Aurora Borealis.

I gaze around, scanning the area and doing a sweep with my torch. I’m about to give up when I spot someone, on the far side of the hill. I freeze solid for a moment, suddenly unable to move. It might not even be him—but then again, it might. And if it is, what am I going to say to him? I’ve been concentrating so much on finding him that I managed to leave myself unprepared for this part.

I’ve been acting a role since the day he put that letter through my door. I’ve been faking it, for the kids, my friends, even for myself. I’ve been pretending I am okay when I’m not okay at all. I know I will survive without him, but I don’t want to just survive—I want to live. I want to be with him, to hold him and touch him and laugh with him. I want to accept him with all his flaws, and for him to do the same with me. I want it all, and even though I might not get it, I have to try. I realise that Cherie was right: life is too short for missing out on love. He might reject me, but I have to at least give him the chance, and not do the rejecting for him.

I set off, my boots crunching on the snow, filled with adrenaline and hope and dread in equal measures. Flurries of snowflakes fall around me and on me, but I don’t even feel them.

As I get nearer, the figure stands up, and I know immediately that is him. He spots me, and starts to run in my direction. I run as well, feeling like I’m flying as I stumble and trip, desperate to reach him. I drop the torch and don’t stop to retrieve it, leaving it casting an eerie gleam along the hilltop.

We reach the mid-way point, and I don’t speak; I just throw my arms around him. Seeing him again is like a physical relief, the sudden lifting of a weight. All my emotional aches and pains clear away as soon as our bodies touch.

He grabs hold of me, pulls me tight, almost lifts me off my feet. My hands link behind his neck, and I snuggle into his chest. Everything is right with the world, at least for these few seconds. I smell the lemon and basil, and feel his heart beating fast beneath my cheek, and know that I was right to do this, whatever happens next.

‘Max,’ he mutters, squeezing me so hard I lose my breath, ‘I was just coming to find you. I got back in the early hours, and didn’t want to intrude on your Christmas. Then your message landed, and I decided I didn’t care.’

I look up at him, the moonlight shining on his beautiful face, his hair tumbling out from beneath his beanie hat. I reach up, run my fingers along his cheekbone, and say: ‘You could never intrude. You’re part of me, Gabriel. I’ve missed you so much.’

‘Me too. I went to see my dad, then was heading for France. I made it as far as Calais and then got on the next ferry back. I realised I was miserable without you, and I don’t want to be miserable anymore. I was running away, and I’ve been doing that for too long. I can’t run away from myself, and I don’t want to run away from you. You’re the only thing in my life that makes sense. I love you too, Max, and if you want me, I promise I’ll never leave again. I know I’m a mess, and I know I’m not easy, but if you want me, I’m yours.’

‘I want you,’ I reply without hesitation. ‘I want your mess. I want everything about you. I know there will be problems, but aren’t there always? You’re a human being, not an android, and whatever problems there are, we can face them together. I love you, Gabriel, all of you.’

We stand and stare at each other for what seems like forever. I can’t get enough of looking at his face, of touching him to make sure he is real. To make sure that he is actually here, on this moonlit hill, holding me close.

A big, fat snowflake lands right on the tip of my nose, and he laughs as he wipes it gently away. He lifts my chin so I am gazing up at him, and his eyes are shining.

‘Shall we go home?’ he says simply.

‘I already am,’ I reply.

He smiles, and his lips touch mine. We kiss like we have never kissed before, wrapped up in our blanket made entirely of stars.