Sunshine at the Comfort Food Cafe: The most heartwarming and feel good novel of 2018!. Debbie Johnson

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      He nods, but doesn’t look entirely convinced. By my response, or the thought of the proposed invasion of the village people.

      ‘I’m not that good,’ he says, slowly. ‘With big groups. With people I don’t know. Or people I do know … just people, really. I’m okay with dogs, and with machines, and technology. People? Not my strong suit. Not to sound too macho, but they scare the shit out of me. I just don’t understand normal people.’

      ‘Ah, well that’s where you’re in luck – none of these people are normal. You’ll be fine, I promise. And you seem okay with meeting me.’

      He looks at me, and grins. He looks stupidly handsome, and it’s hard to reconcile the way he looks with what he is – a socially awkward nerd-man. In another life, he could have been something entirely different. Like an actor or a politician or one of those people who model for romance book covers.

      ‘I do seem okay with you, don’t I?’ he says, laughing. ‘Weird. I think it’s because you own a magical dog named after something even lamer than mine. And you have pink hair, and dress a bit like Doctor Who’s assistant.’

      I glance down at my Docs – silver spray-painted – and my odd socks and the tattered fishnet tights I have on beneath the socks, popping out beneath my Minions leggings. Right. He has a point there.

      ‘Plus, you seem so relaxed,’ he adds. ‘Like you could sit in these woods all day drinking tea and chatting to a stranger. Like you don’t have a care in the world.’

      ‘Yep,’ I reply, shrugging. It would be cruel to spoil his illusion with the nitty-gritty of my life. ‘That’s me. Little Miss Sunshine. Anyway … I can’t sit here all day, and I have a confession to make. I don’t think we’re strangers. I think we’ve actually met before.’

      ‘No way,’ he says quickly, looking confused. ‘I’d definitely have remembered you.’

      ‘I didn’t have pink hair back then,’ I answer, easing myself into the subject. ‘In fact, I was only eight, and you were a few years older. It was summer – maybe the first one you’d been at Briarwood – and … well, maybe you don’t remember. But one day, my brothers and sister convinced me the room you lived in was haunted, and they dared me to come in and find out for myself. So I opened the door, and you – I think it was you – were sitting there, at your desk, making something, which does add up now. And then …’

      ‘And then you screamed your head off, and ran away! That was you? Really?’

      ‘Yes. That was me. So you remember that, do you?’

      ‘Remember? I was scarred for life. I should probably have had counselling. In a bad year, it was one of the absolute highlights. My parents were dead, the rest of my family was … well, unavailable. I was living here, surrounded by other kids I had nothing in common with and couldn’t talk to, and then you happened. A screaming little whirling dervish. I’m lucky I didn’t drop dead that second. I saw you later … you were with those other kids, weren’t you? Your mum worked at Briarwood?’

      By this stage, I’m holding my face in my hands, partly in shame and partly in amusement. I’d always suspected that incident all those years ago was a bit like the thing grown-ups say when you see a spider – it’s more scared of you than you are of it.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ I wheeze out between laughs. ‘Honestly, I am. I was thinking about it today – I was actually a bit scared to go into that room, and I was feeling guilty, about freaking you out like that. What can I say? I’m the youngest of four. They were evil, and they made me do it. And yes … my mum worked there. You may have enjoyed one of her chakra-cleansing workshops at one stage or another.’

      ‘Definitely not,’ he replies firmly, grinning at the memory. ‘That would have involved leaving my room. Although she did visit me up there sometimes, tried to get to know me. She was pretty intuitive actually – brought me technical drawing pads instead of sketch pads, and gave me books with weird inventing stuff in them. She tried with Frankenstein, but when that didn’t catch she brought me biographies – George Stephenson, Isambard Kingdom Brunel. You know, your average cool kid stuff … but she was nice. I was just too wrapped up in myself back then to respond properly. Is she … you know, still around?’

      He says this tentatively, knowing that we have reached the age where it’s not always a given.

      I nod enthusiastically. ‘Oh yes! Very much so. And I’m glad she helped … maybe it’ll offset some of the bad family karma I earned by making you poo your pants.’

      I stand up, planning to get back to work – plus avoid any more questions about my mother, as that’s too big and too private a subject for now – and he stands next to me. He’s so tall I have to look up at him, which is an unusual feeling for me. I don’t entirely hate it.

      ‘I didn’t poo my pants,’ he replies, as we walk back to the camper van. ‘I’d just like to state that for the record.’

      ‘Noted and recorded. I’ll add it to the typed transcript of this conversation when I next see my secretary.’

      We climb up into the van with empty mugs in hand, and sure enough, Bella is flat out on the bed. She’s fast asleep, all four paws sticking out, jerking slightly as she dreams. Rick is squashed into the remaining floor space, his gaze turned towards Bella and only Bella.

      ‘Shit,’ says Tom, taking in the scene. ‘He was my one friend in the world – and he’s abandoned me for a vampire Border Terrier.’

       Chapter 5

      I picked my mum up from the café, where she was reading poetry out loud to Edie May, staying only long enough to give everyone a quick update on the House on the Hill, and eat some cake. I’m busy, but there’s always time for cake. I was peppered with so many questions I could barely spoon my Black Forest Gateau in. I kept it mysterious, just for fun – I rarely know more than the ladies at the café do, so I enjoy my brief moment of power.

      After that brief and calorific restorative, we came home for our tea. My mum, Lynnie, is lying on the sofa, with her latest notepad creation spread in front of her. She goes to a day centre twice a week, and they helped her make her new cover.

      Not everyone takes to this kind of thing but it was practically invented for her. She was always one of those women who could whip up a fancy dress outfit for school from an old curtain, a roll of tin foil and some paperclips.

      The first page is, as always, taken up with the practical information that helps her get through the challenges of her day. The rest will, bit by bit, become filled with memories, thoughts, and notes. I try to respect her privacy, but I do occasionally crack and sneak a peek – usually if she’s been particularly agitated or too quiet, both of which are signs that something is wrong and she either doesn’t feel comfortable talking to me about the problem, or simply can’t quite find the words to explain herself.

      The cover of this one is decorated with the glued-on petals of pressed flowers she’s been squashing between the pages of her weird hardback books about stone circles for days now. It’s a bright collage of cow parsley, bluebell, foxglove, wood sorrel and the beautiful pale yellow trumpets of wild daffodil. It’s like spring СКАЧАТЬ