A Gift from the Comfort Food Café: Celebrate Christmas in the cosy village of Budbury with the most heartwarming read of 2018!. Debbie Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ Saul’s head, and I blink rapidly in response.

      ‘It’s a Spanish doon!’ Saul says, spinning it around on the table top. He looks so thrilled, it momentarily distracts me from Van, my mother, and wondering what the hell is going on back at home.

      ‘A Spanish doon? Wow!’ I say, widening my eyes in suitable awe. ‘That’s amazing!’

      ‘Shop?’ he asks, hopefully, his tone slightly wheedling. He might think it’s a Spanish doubloon – or doon, I should say – but clearly still expects to be able to exchange it for a carton of juice and a chocolate bar.

      ‘Later, sweetie,’ I respond. ‘I’ll take you to the shop later. Right now it’s time for me to take you to see Lynnie and Willow while I go to work. How does that sound? You can show them your Spanish doon.’

      He ponders this, and I see him weigh up the pros and cons with his little boy brain. On the one hand, no shop. But on the other – fun times! Luckily, he lands on the side of Lynnie and Willow, which is exactly where I want him. Life is much easier if you don’t have to argue with a toddler. I mean, I usually win the arguments – I am technically the grown-up – but it’s tiring.

      ‘Lynnie will love my doon,’ he pronounces, pulling up the hood of his coat in the way he does when he wants me to know he’s ready to go somewhere. It’s like his signal – I’m ready for action, Mummy!

      I nod, and cram as much toast in my mouth as I can without choking. I swill it down with my mocha, feeling disrespectful – it deserved better than that. Life with a small child often leads to indigestion, I’ve discovered.

      I glance at Cherie apologetically, feeling bad for my lack of appreciation, but she just nods and gives me a ‘don’t-worry-about-it’ wave as I put my coat on. I’m wondering already how I’ll manage to call my mum, and plan to try and fit it in on the walk to Lynnie’s cottage. I have a few hours to do at the pharmacy, while he’s on his weirdly formed playdate.

      ‘I’m heading back,’ says Van, now wrapped up in a navy fleece jacket and wearing a beanie hat that makes him look a bit like he should be in some mountainous ski resort in the Alps. ‘I’ll walk with you, if that’s okay?’

      I see Laura watching us, pretending not to, and know that she’ll be thinking what a nice couple we make. Laura is a great believer in happy endings, despite all her own trials and tribulations. I catch her eye and raise one eyebrow, and she at least has the grace to blush and start bustling around with a cheese grater.

      ‘Okay,’ I say simply, as Van waits for a reply. I mean, I could hardly say no, could I? Even if I wanted to.

      We say our farewells and start the short walk to the cottage. It’s a beautiful day, cold but sunny, with that fresh, crisp light you sometimes get in autumn. Dazzling blue skies hover over the sea, the colour so bold and solid it looks like you could reach out and touch it.

      The coastal pathways are slightly muddy from the melted morning frost, and the sound of birdsong is melodically present in the background, along with the gentle hiss and hum of calm waves lapping the sand.

      We leave the cliffs behind us, and emerge onto footpaths that criss-cross Frank’s farm. Tucked between glorious green hills, the fields are literally covered in seagulls and other birds, hovering and flapping over the ground like a living carpet made of fluttering wings.

      ‘Why all the birdies?’ Saul asks, tugging at Van’s sleeve and looking up at him inquiringly. He correctly assumes that I wouldn’t have a clue.

      ‘Ah,’ replies Van, pointing across at them. ‘That’s because it’s after harvest, and we’ve been getting the fields ready for their new seeds. We spread muck on it – cow poo! – and then we plough it and all the soil gets squished and turned over. When we do that, lots of worms come out to play, and the birds come along for an extra big dinner time. It’s like the Comfort Food Café for seagulls, but instead of cake, they eat long, wriggly worms!’

      Saul immediately giggles at the mention of cow poo, obviously. I know from my dealings with men that this will be the case even when he’s thirty. He watches the birds and makes wriggling gestures with his fingers, making them into worms and laughing.

      He’s trotting along, feet squelching, one hand in mine and one in Van’s, occasionally asking us to ‘give him a swing’. We usually oblige, and his squeals of delight as he flies up into the air are joyous to hear. Anyone looking on would assume we were a young couple out for a stroll with our son, and the thought chokes me a little.

      Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s an underlying worry about my mum, but I’m quiet as we walk. Smiling, so I don’t look like a complete misery-guts, but not exactly chatty either.

      ‘Are you all right?’ asks Van, giving me a sideways glance. ‘You seem a bit … off, today.’

      I snap myself out of my fugue state and reply as breezily as I can: ‘Yes, I’m fine. Sorry. Just a bit tired, you know?’

      ‘I can imagine. Maybe you need a night off. Maybe … we could go for a pint. Together. Like grown-ups do, or so I’m told. I don’t know many of those.’

      ‘Oh … well, I don’t think I could. I wouldn’t have a babysitter.’

      He sighs, and when I look up at him, his blue eyes are crinkled at the corners. He looks partly amused, partly exasperated. Wholly gorgeous.

      ‘Katie, you have a whole village full of babysitters. Saul could stay over at the cottage. Becca and Sam would have him for a few hours. Edie would sit in with him. Cherie and Frank would love to have him. Laura would probably see it as a treat and bake a whole oven full of cupcakes for him. There are several teenagers who would be desperate to earn a tenner for the privilege of sitting on your sofa using their phones. Babysitting isn’t a problem.’

      ‘Right,’ I say, trudging on, half wishing that Saul would fall face first into a cowpat or something so I could use the excuse to end this particular conversation. He remains annoyingly upright, singing a song to himself about a worm that lives at the bottom of his garden. I recognise it immediately, and find myself singing along: ‘And his name is Wiggly-Woo …’

      Saul giggles again, and carries on singing. Van is quiet, but not in an annoyed way – coming from his family, I’m guessing he’s used to eccentric women who randomly burst into song. I know Willow does it all the time, often serenading us with her highly individual versions of Disney classics.

      ‘Right,’ I say again, brushing my hair away from my face and feeling annoyed with myself. I don’t know quite why, but I feel silly, for a whole variety of reasons.

      ‘Well then,’ I continue, trying to stride ahead but not managing it, as Van is so much taller than me. ‘Maybe I will come out for a drink some time. Maybe I won’t. I suppose what I’m saying is that I’ll do it when and if I want to. Is that all right?’

      He grins, and then laughs. I’m not sure I expected him to laugh, but it’s better than him being offended.

      ‘I love that thing you do,’ he answers, looking on as Saul trudges off to investigate a pile of Wiggly-Woos.

      ‘What thing?’

      ‘That thing where you say stuff in a quiet voice that makes you sound apologetic and shy, but when you actually look at what the stuff you said was, it’s the opposite of СКАЧАТЬ