By the time the others finally started to straggle back into consciousness, I’d been up for two hours, fiddling with my laptop and pretending to work.
I’m a freelance designer, which sounds a lot cooler that it is. I’m not coming up with cutting edge bathroom storage devices for Ikea, or creating the latest catwalk looks for Paris – I’m usually trying to produce bright, clear and attractive marketing materials for housing associations, charities and hospitals.
You know the kind of thing – that leaflet that tells you what to do if you can’t pay your rent on time; or what services the Patient Liaison Panel provides, or how doing a charity hike across the Pennines can help people with cancer. One day, I might even get to throw caution to the wind and indulge in something like a holiday brochure or a theatre programme, who knows?
What it lacks in excitement it makes up for in flexibility. I get to be my own manager, don’t always have to work in an office full of people I don’t like, and usually avoid the routine of pointless meetings and bitching sessions by the water fountain. Plus I get to be creative, in however limited a way.
It also means that I get to come away and stay in Dorset for a month without worrying about getting my leave signed off by a control-freak boss – because I am my very own control-freak boss. I’ve brought a few projects with me, but am not too worried about them – at this time of year, I’ve noticed, pretty much everyone goes quiet. Everyone becomes unofficially focused on the festive season rather than work, and projects, deadlines and delivery dates sneakily get pushed back to the New Year.
It usually drives me nuts – but this year? Well, I’m down with it.
I’m also down with being here, in the famous Comfort Food Café, now that Cherie has finally released me from her death grip and my face is no longer squished into her humungous chest.
We drove over here together and Lizzie, Nate and Laura were all three completely pipping with excitement about it. I have to admit, there was some pressure – the pressure of their obvious love for the place; the pressure of their anticipation that I’d totally share their love; the pressure to be as gah gah about the café as they are.
Me? I’m not especially good with pressure. With doing what’s expected of me, or acting appropriately, or basically doing what I know I should be doing. I have a contrary streak bigger than Kim Kardashian’s arse, and it sometimes gets in the way of what should be perfectly normal, pleasant situations.
So I was borderline anxious as we made the trek up the hill, pausing to admire the views on the way. The views, I have to say, did not disappoint in any way. Even without the sunshine, they are stunning – red and brown cliff faces sinking down onto golden sand; churning grey and white waves splashing onto the beach, the distant outline of the coast as it curves into Devon. Beautiful, even to a cynical old city girl like myself. I can imagine it all coated in snow, if the snow ever grows a pair of balls and gets to the sticking point. It’s going to be beautiful.
I paused to take a few pictures, even though my niece was literally pulling me up the path by the hood of my fleece, half-strangling me in her eagerness to reach the café.
When we finally got there – because, of course, after that, I had to insist on stopping every few seconds to take more pictures, just to childishly assert my independence – I was slightly out of puff, and slightly wary about what I was going to find at the summit.
We walked beneath the pretty wrought-iron sign that announced we’d reached our destination, and out into the Garden at the Edge of the World. Or at least the garden on top of a very steep hill, overlooking a pretty dramatic coastline.
The ground of the café garden is uneven, with picnic-style tables and benches dotted around on the slopes. I can imagine it’s packed out here in the summer, but this morning it was deserted, the faded grass and the wooden table tops dusted with frost, glistening in the pale sunlight.
I saw a few upright patio heaters nearer to the main café building, standing between more tables and chairs, and rows of fairy lights draped along the roof. A gazebo has been set up, which I know from Laura’s updates has been approved as a ‘licensed garden structure’, which will allow weddings to take place. Specifically, Frank and Cherie’s wedding. They got together officially on the night of his eightieth, and have moved fast – but I suppose at their age, you might as well.
It’s all incredibly pretty, and not a big stretch to picture this place lit up and luminous, with groups of friends huddled beneath the heaters, mittened hands wrapped around steaming glasses of warm mulled wine. All chattering and laughing and bursting into spontaneous renditions of ‘Jingle Bells’ while they admire each other’s Christmas jumpers.
That was way too festive an image for my liking, so I shook it off, and instead followed the troops into the café. The building itself was low and sprawling, and looked as though it was perched right on the cliff’s edge.
Lizzie pretty much barrelled her way into the place, so confident and sure of her place in this world, and I had a moment of such fierce pride that I wanted to go and hug her and tell her I loved her right there and then. She’s gorgeous, my lovely niece – blonde hair and big green eyes and a borderline Goth approach to eyeliner. She always was gorgeous, but now she’s happy again, it shows even more.
I know Laura had been starting to fret about Lizzie not eating enough, and I’d started to fret about her turning out to be more like me, which I wouldn’t wish on any parent.
Her dad’s death knocked her for six, and Laura’s ensuing emotional collapse knocked us all for about a thousand. Seeing her like this – spry and bolshy and carefree – is an absolute balm for the soul.
I follow her in, suddenly swamped with the kind of glorious warmth that makes you realise exactly how cold you’ve been. It was as though I hadn’t even noticed my shaking hands and chattering teeth until I walked through that door, and was wrapped up in the atmospheric equivalent of a fluffy blanket embroidered with pastel-coloured kittens.
Laura, I suspect, would have seen that as some kind of analogy for the café as a whole; a place you go to heal without even knowing you’re wounded. Sometimes I think she attributes it with almost supernatural powers. Me? I’m a bit more cynical than her. Always have been, most likely always will be.
But… I have to say, that hug from Cherie was a classic. I’m so tired, if she’d held on to me for a few more moments, I might actually have just snuggled up in her bosom and gone to sleep, like a snoozy rabbit.
‘My, my! I can’t believe there are two of you!’ she says, pulling back and looking me up and down. I return the favour and realise that Cherie Moon in the flesh is even more impressive than the Cherie Moon I’d seen in photos.
She’s tall – very tall – and big. Not fat exactly, but large and solid, built like the kind of woman who could run empires and carry milk buckets and colonise vast continents.
I know she’s in her early seventies, but she looks timeless, her skin tanned and weathered, her wrinkles worn without any attempt at hiding them. Her hair is long, brown and grey, and slung over her shoulder in a fat plait. She’s wearing an apron that says ‘I’m Sexy And I Know It’, and she smells so good. Of vanilla and sugar and freshly baked deliciousness. I would ask her if she could adopt me, if it wouldn’t upset my biological parents.
‘Yep,’ I say, smiling, because it’s impossible to do anything else. ‘Two of us. Our parents were very, very lucky people.’
‘That they were… though you look like you need a bit more flesh on your bones, my love. A few weeks here will sort that out – get a bit of your Laura’s home-made cooking down you!’
I see Laura at her side, also smiling, so relaxed, and think for the millionth time how fantastic it is that she made this brave move. That she ignored all the doubters, ignored our parents, ignored every sensible