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 for sore eye drops. They seem remarkably cheerful considering their shopping list, and set off again in a flurry of chatter and clattering boots and those weird walking poles that are probably helpful on hills, but out of place on pavements.

      After that, Scrumpy Joe Jones, who runs the local cider cave, arrives to pick up a prescription Auburn’s made up for his wife Joanne, who has ‘one of her headaches’. He rolls his eyes at me as he says this, as though I completely understand what hell that implies for him.

      As Joe leaves, I get a visit from the Teenagers, who roam Budbury in a relatively benign pack – less likely to vandalise the bus-stop than to walk your dog for you.

      There’s Martha, Zoe’s kind-of-daughter, who is seventeen, and Lizzie, Laura’s daughter, who is in the year below at college.

      The girls look very different – Lizzie blonde, Martha dyed black; one on the short side and one getting that tall, willowy look that young girls take for granted. They both, though, feature heavy black eyeliner use, Dr. Martens boots, and various shades of black, purple and green clothes. They look like they could form a band, and be the star attraction at Wednesday Addams’ birthday party.

      With them is Josh, Lizzie’s boyfriend, and the son of the just-gone Scrumpy Joe. Like his dad, he’s tall and skinny and dark, with big brown eyes and an ever-present beanie hat. Nate, Laura’s son, is a couple of years younger than them but has learned to fight for his place in the pack.

      Like my Saul, I suppose, he’s been without a dad since David died – but the menfolk of Budbury stepped in and he now never goes short of a footballing friend or someone to act macho with.

      Last week, Laura caught him having a wee in the grid outside their cottage, and his response to her outrage was to tell her that Cal ‘says it’s manly’. I think it’s fair to say both Nate and Cal were feeling a bit less manly by the time Laura had finished with them, and there will be no repeat performances.

      Tailing along is a new face – Ollie, Martha’s relatively new boyfriend. He’s eighteen, and looks an unlikely boyfriend candidate for a Goth princess, with his surfer-dude blond hair and the kind of clothes and build I associate with adverts for Abercrombie & Fitch. For some reason, even though he’s called Ollie, he’s always known as Bill. I daren’t ask why, in case they tell me.

      They all mooch around for a while, sniffing the candles and briefly perusing the abandoned sex aids catalogue until I manage to wrestle it from Martha’s amused grip. Eventually they all buy a whistle pop each and disappear off down the street, trying to perform the theme tune from In The Night Garden entirely with sugar whistles. I watch them go, a flurry of pushing and shoving and giggling, and think how weird it will be when Saul is that age. And how my life will look by the time he really starts his.

      He’s already at nursery, with his little friends and miniature social life that consists of parties at soft play centres, and he’ll actually be starting in reception at primary school next September. It’s so weird with babies and little kids – every day of amusing them seems to last forever, but in the blink of an eye a whole year has gone. It must still seem like yesterday to Laura that her two were tiny, and now they’re part of the Budbury Massive.

      At the moment I’m measuring Saul’s progress in small things – like when he’ll be able to reach the light switch, or write his own name with the ‘S’ facing the right way – but before long, it’ll be much bigger things. Like his first day at little school, then big school, then maybe Uni or work. One day he’s stretching on his tippy toes to try and put the lights on, next he’s walking down the aisle and becoming a father.

      As all parents probably know – and I’ve just this second realised – that way madness lies. It’s not worth thinking about, apart from as a reminder to perhaps tend to my own life a tiny bit more.

      Once you have kids you lean towards not noticing your own birthdays, or time passing – you’re so focused on theirs. This is natural, and right, and good – but it doesn’t mean I should forget about myself entirely.

      All of these thoughts are hurting my brain a bit, and by the time I lock up the shop and finish for the day, I’m trying really hard to think less and do more. I’ve had a message from Auburn saying that Lynnie has gone for a nap, and Saul is helping her make jam tarts, and there’s no rush to get back for him.

      Usually, I’d still rush – reluctant to believe that everything was actually fine, that Saul was behaving, that I didn’t need to go and relieve them as soon as humanly possible. That relying on people was a necessary evil to be reduced to the absolute minimum.

      But I’ve been here for a while now. These people are my friends. I’ve just helped one of them find out that she’s having a baby. I help Auburn and Willow with Lynnie when I can. I sometimes clean Edie’s windows for her, after I saw her climbing on a stepladder as I went past one day, cloth in her 92-year-old hand. I helped Cherie talk sense into her hubby when Frank sprained his ankle and was insisting on carrying on working on the farm. I babysit for Little Edie so Sam and Becca can have the occasional night out.

      I do things for them, because I want to – because I like them and because I enjoy helping. Being part of their world. But so far I’ve been so selective with how much a part of their world I allow myself to be; always backing off when things have felt too intense.

      Like Edie’s ninety-second birthday party earlier in the year – it had a Strictly Come Dancing theme, as it’s Edie’s favourite show. Cherie organised ballroom lessons for us at the café, and I attended all of them. I love dancing. But when it came to the big night, and everyone else was dressing up and heading to the party, I cried off. Made an excuse and stayed at home. It felt too big, too overwhelming, too public.

      I think I have to start making more of an effort to change that. To believe that I am welcome, that these people like me, and that every favour doesn’t make me a burden or leave me with a debt they’ll demand to be repaid.

      So, instead of doing my normal mad dash over to the cottage to act apologetically about ever having gone to work at all, I head to the café. I check my phone as I go, and see a text from my mum: ‘Sorry not answering, love. Bit busy. Don’t worry about me. See you soon.’

      I tap out a quick reply, asking her if she’s sure she’s all right, and try not to worry too much. I remind myself that my mother is not exactly averse to creating a little drama around herself, and that maybe it’s just because I haven’t paid her enough attention recently.

      And I haven’t, really, I know that – I’ve been busy and haven’t spoken to her as much as I should. I haven’t been back to visit in a couple of months either. I feel bad about that, now. I mean, she can be a bit of a nightmare, but can’t we all, in our own way? She’s still my mum, and I still love her. I’m sure she’s always done her best.

      I try not to hold onto anger about the way I grew up, because it does me no good at all. Wishing it had been different won’t make it different. Fantasising about a childhood where my family was happy doesn’t create an alternative reality. It all happened, it all had an effect, and none of it can be changed – all I can change is the way I build my own life, not the way my parents built theirs.

      I shake my head as I climb the path up the side of the hill that leads to the café, and put my phone away. Thoughts for another time. Or not. Mum says not to worry – so I need to try not to worry.

      After I make my way under the wrought-iron archway and into the garden, I pause for a moment and look out at the bay. It’s still drizzling, and the sky is fifty shades of grey, but the sun is trying desperately СКАЧАТЬ