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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       Chapter 10

      Laura glances around furtively, checking for interlopers, before heading in my direction. She’s bundled up in a thick, hot pink puffa jacket, hands wrapped in black gloves that have skeleton bones painted on the fingers. I suspect she stole those from Lizzie, and I also suspect that they might glow in the dark. It’s started raining outside, and her hair is bursting out from her hood in frizzy strands. She tugs the hood down, revealing a severe case of hat head.

      ‘Hi!’ she says, her voice shrill and way too perky. ‘Is there anyone else here?’

      ‘No,’ I reply, coming out to her side of the counter. ‘Auburn just left.’

      ‘I know … I was hiding around the corner and saw her go.’

      ‘Okay,’ I say, calmly. Of course, I’m wondering why she was hiding, and why she sounds so weird, but I don’t push. I’ve worked in healthcare the whole of my adult life, and sometimes people just need a little space. If they want to talk, they’ll expand to fill the silence.

      ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask instead, in that ultra-British way that actually means ‘I’m worried about you and don’t know what else to do.’

      She stares at me for a minute, slowly peeling off her skeleton gloves, and shakes her head.

      ‘No, thank you. I’m just … well, I just thought I’d pop in and see how things are going?’

      She doesn’t even sound convinced by this herself, and I see her automatically reach out and pick up a cookie from the plate. She takes a bite and pulls a face.

      ‘Not as good as they could have been,’ she says, frowning. ‘I made these at home to take to the café, and Midgebo ran into the cottage being chased by a cat. Poor thing was terrified.’

      ‘The cat?’ I ask, not unreasonably, as Midgebo is a very large, very lively black Labrador.

      ‘Oh no – Midgebo! The cat was a monster! Seriously, the biggest ginger tom I’ve ever seen. It chased him around the kitchen, trapped him in a corner, then as soon as his job was done, gave me a look, like “yeah, puny human, your kingdom is mine”, and strutted back out again. I’ve never seen him before, but I suppose people must have cats … I mean, a lot of us have dogs, don’t we? And Becca has those goldfish. But perhaps other people have cats …’

      She’s wittering now, and doesn’t seem able to stop. I recognise the wittering for what it is: self-distraction.

      ‘Laura, are you all right? Auburn said you’d left the café because you didn’t feel well. Is there anything I can do for you?’

      I’m thinking it might be bowels. The great British public seems, as a race, constitutionally unable to say the word ‘bowel’ in public without at least attempting to whisper it.

      She bites her lips viciously, and I’m horrified to see tears springing up in her eyes. Laura is one of the most cheerful people I know, and seeing her crying simply does not compute. I know she’s had her share of hardships and tragedy, but since I’ve known her, she’s been such a happy soul. Kind of like Mary Poppins in café cook form, always upbeat and positive, and carrying a big bag full of everything you could ever need in life.

      ‘Yes. No. Maybe … is the chemist like a doctor? Or a priest? Or Vegas?’ she asks, in a tumble of words, all falling over each other.

      ‘You mean, are there rules about confidentiality?’