Cherie and Frank bring the house down. They’re dressed in matching suits and bowler hats, and have just finished a slapstick Laurel and Hardy routine that involved a lot of arse-slapping, falling over each other’s feet, accidentally knocking each other’s hats off, and comedic dancing. They both end it with a chorus of ‘that’s another fine mess you got me into’, to tumultuous applause.
Edie, who has been set up on a mock judges’ table at the front of the space that’s been cleared in the cafe, is literally in tears of laughter. She holds up one of the Strictly-style paddles that Nate and Lizzie made her from cardboard, and gives them a Ten From Len.
So far, she’s been a very generous judge – in fact, everyone has received a ten. I’m beginning to suspect that everyone else will as well – Edie is definitely a little on the tipsy side, and her sherry glass is never empty for long.
Budbury’s Got Talent started at around seven pm, with Becca, who doesn’t drink, ferrying everyone over to the bay in her mum and dad’s motorhome. They’re staying at Black Rose looking after Little Edie, which is as good an excuse as any to get out of performing. I should have thought of it myself.
We’re all sitting at tables that have been decorated with teeny-tiny Christmas trees, and there are possibly ten thousand crackers strewn around, ready to be pulled. The room has been draped with twinkling fairy lights, and the main ones switched off, so the whole place looks like a fairy tale cavern. If anyone is walking on the snow-covered beach below, it must look like something magical is happening up here on the cliff’s edge.
Laura and Willow have set up a buffet area off to one side, trestles laden with cold meats and breads and pies and cakes and a whopping great bowl of trifle. Scrumpy Joe’s been in charge of the booze, and there is a half a cash-and-carry’s worth of beer, cider, wine, spirits and bubbly to keep us all merry and bright, as well as soft drinks for the younger crowd. Edie has her very own bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream on her judging table.
So far, the acts have been hilarious. Scrumpy Joe, his wife Joanne, and son Josh, did a routine that involved blowing across the tops of cider bottles filled with different amounts of liquid – managing to decently replicate Silent Night in resonant puffs of air.
Willow and her mum Lynnie, who is lucid and charming tonight, do an act that is part yoga, part acrobatics, with head-stands, hand-walking, and some scary looking moves that end with them both landing in the splits. They’re wearing matching black leotards and tights, as well as flashing cat ears – because, why not?
Ivy Wellkettle, who I don’t know that well as I’ve luckily not had any call to visit her pharmacy, is joined on the ‘stage’ by her daughter Sophie, who is home from medical school for the holidays. The two of them perform a bizarre ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ type game, where the donkey is actually a full-size picture of the human body, and each time the pin lands, Sophie gives us an educational talk on that particular organ.
Luckily they avoid any willies or boobs – it’s a rowdy crowd, not calmed any by the fact that Martha and Lizzie have tied a sprig of mistletoe to a broom handle, and are using it as a mobile device. They’re sweeping through the crowd with the Kissing Stick, as they call it, and encouraging random encounters – anything from full on snogs for Becca and Sam, enjoying their first baby-free night out together, to chaste pecks on the cheek between Edie and Matt. I knew I should have followed through on my death-to-all-mistletoe plan, and keep a careful eye on their wanderings.
Lizzie abandons the mistletoe broom when it’s her turn to get up and perform. This one’s a bit of a family affair – Matt on guitar, Josh on bass, Nate on bongos, and Lizzie on vocals. They’ve taken pity on Laura, and given her a pair of maracas, which she shakes at completely inappropriate times throughout their show.
The band is called The Dead Tulips, and as Lizzie is at the helm, decked out in finest Emo black, I’m expecting something with a tinge of Nirvana, or a hint of death metal. Shows what I know – instead, they launch into a fast, furious and occasionally entirely tuneless rendition of Barbie Girl by Aqua.
Lizzie ends it with a particularly menacing ‘come on Barbie let’s go party!’, before saying ‘thank you Budbury – we were the Dead Tulips, and you’ve been a fabulous audience!’ She drops the mike like a true diva, and struts off the stage to equal amounts of laughter and applause. The rest of the band follow her off, Laura still jauntily shaking her maracas and looking relieved that it’s all over.
Cal, sitting next to me, is creased in two with it all, as Edie combines all of her cardboard paddles and gives them every score between 1 and 10.
Next up is Becca and Sam, who have actually changed costumes for their turn. Becca is in a slinky dress slit to the thigh, still a bit of baby belly left, but looking sexy as hell, face made up, dark hair wild and sprayed with something glittery. Sam is in a tuxedo, but with the tie hanging loose around his neck, tall and blonde and surfer supermodel handsome. Nate, in charge of what might loosely be called ‘lighting’ – it’s a big torch – creates a spotlight as they walk up.
They strike a pose, and within seconds Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time is playing. Sam sweeps Becca into his arms, and they perform an extremely graceful and outrageously sensual dance. If I watched Strictly as much as Edie, I’d probably know the name of it, but I don’t. They swoop and whirl in and out of shapes, spinning and pausing and spinning again, ending with Becca in Sam’s arms, one long leg wrapped around his waist.
Edie is beside herself with glee, clapping her tiny hands, on her feet applauding.
“Oh my darlings!” she squeaks. “That was the most beautiful rumba ever! Even better than Jay and Aliona the other year!”
“Just for you, Edie,” says Becca, giving her a cheeky wink as they return to their seats.
Wow. That’s going to be a hard one to follow – which is a shame, as according to the set list that Cherie has chalked up on the board usually used to display the day’s specials, it’s now my turn.
“That was hot,” whispers Cal into my ear. “I’m feeling strangely aroused …”
“Don’t worry,” I whisper back before I get to my feet. “I have just the cure for that.”
I walk up to the stage area, taking deep breaths as I go, and pick up the microphone from its place on Edie’s table.
“Okay …” I say, clearing my throat nervously. “This is hard. I can’t sing. I can’t dance. I can’t act. I have very few talents, in fact – but this is one of them. I hope you enjoy it.”
Everyone is looking at me expectantly, a sea of happy and semi-drunk faces all smiling their encouragement.
One more deep breath, and I’m ready to go. I perform one of my very few specials – one I’ve been practicing for many years. I belch-sing the whole of Away In A Manger. Using skills I developed as a young and unpleasant child, I’ve completely mastered the art of swallowing in enough air, and expelling it in the right way, hitting just about enough of the notes for it to be recognisable as the carol.
As I’d hoped, it makes everyone laugh – there’s really no other response to a performance like that, and before long, the guffawing sweeps the whole room like a Mexican wave of amusement.
I nod, and drop a small curtsy, before exiting to applause, my face a fetching shade of beetroot. Edie flashes her ten paddle as I leave, which makes me strangely proud. Funnily enough, the teachers at school never used to like it that much when I did it during Christmas services. No wonder they all hated me.
I walk back over to Cal, and raise one eyebrow.
“Feeling less aroused now, stud?” I say, as I sit back down next to him.
“On the contrary,” he replies, in a deep-voiced James Bond-style delivery, laying one hand on my thigh, “that was magnificent … I never knew you had such hidden talents …”
It’s dim in our corner of the cafe, but I can see his eyes shining, and the half-smile forming, and the paler shape of the scar on his face. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, and for some reason, burping my way through a Christmas carol has left me on an adrenaline high.
“Oh I do,” I reply, laying my hand over his. “Talents you can only imagine.”
I say this in such an outrageously flirty voice that is so unlike me, it actually makes us both burst out laughing – which is probably for the best, all things considered. I’ve had way too much to drink, and it’s been an emotional day, and we’re both still ruffled by the rumba. I probably shouldn’t trust my judgement right now. Or possibly ever.
“We’ll continue this discussion later,” he says, still grinning. “So hold that thought. But right now, duty calls …”
Duty, I see, feeling bereft as he moves his hand from my body, comes in the shape of Martha. She’s not wearing the Postman Pat hoodie tonight – it is a party, after all. She’s fished out a black dress that I know was Kate’s, but is wearing it with deliberately tattered black leggings and her new boots, making it look more grunge than LBD. Her hair is pouffed up into a semi-beehive, the love child of a can of hairspray and some furious back-combing, and her eye liner is now well and truly in place. She’s wearing red lipstick, vivid against her pale skin, and she looks truly beautiful.
She’s perched on one of the high stools that usually line up next to the cafe serving counter, holding the mike in her hand and looking not at all nervous – though I know she must be. Cal has grabbed his guitar from its case, and is jogging over to join her. He’s kind of dressed up too, in well-worn Levis and a black shirt, the belt I gave him between them.
He sits on another stool next to Martha, and nods at her, letting her know he’s ready. I’m excited to see this – I know they’ve been rehearsing hard, and it’s got to be better than my Sing-Along-A-Belch.
Martha holds the mike to her face, and Cal starts to strum, and it takes me a few seconds to recognise it. When I do, when I understand what I’m about to hear and see, I feel tears immediately sting the back of my eyes, and know that I am going to be helpless to resist. I grab up a napkin from the table, hoping it’s not coated in trifle – because I’m going to need it over the next few minutes.
Cal is playing the song in a way that’s super slowed-down, an artful acoustic version, done at about half the pace of the original – but those opening chords are still uniquely recognisable as he expertly plucks the notes. The opening chords of David Bowie’s Rebel Rebel.
Martha comes in, her voice slow and pure and absolutely note perfect, drawling out the words and phrasing it in a way that has the whole crowd suddenly silent and awe-struck. The two of them work it perfectly – her singing, his playing, the power of the song itself. It’s easily the best thing we’ve seen all night, although I may be biased.
I was right about the tears, and don’t even try to stop them. I just let them roll, let them come, let them gather in a pool at the bottom of my neck. This performance – this song, and all the memories it holds, of Kate, of Martha, of the past – deserves some tears, and I don’t really care how soggy I get. I knew they were going to come at some point today – and this seems like the perfect moment. I’m overwhelmed: the singing, the playing, missing Kate, loving Martha, loving our new home here, even loving Cal, I admit to myself.
I do love him, there’s no doubt about that – I’m not quite sure how I love him, but I do. He’s watching me as he plays, a gentle smile on his face, knowing the effect this is having, concentrating on what he’s doing but also on me. I try and smile back, but it’s a crooked thing.
They play on, and in an obviously rehearsed move, when she gets to a certain line, Nate turns the spotlight of the torch onto me, and everyone’s eyes follow it.
“Hot tramp,” she sings, slowly, achingly, pointing at me in exactly the same way we did that night in The Dump, seven hundred years ago, “I love you so …”
Cal picks up the famous guitar riff from there, and Nate mercifully moves the spotlight away again. I see, as it wanders over the faces in the room, that I’m not the only one crying. Not the only one moved by this. Laura has given into it completely, leaning her head on Matt’s shoulder and weeping; Becca is holding her face in her hands and blinking away tears; Cherie is spellbound, her face damp and shining, gripping Frank’s hand in hers.
Well done Martha, I think – you’ve reduced the entirety of Budbury to emotional rubble. I almost laugh – almost, but not quite. I’m still flooded with emotion, and don’t really know where to put it all. I’m sad and happy at the same time; proud and moved and raw. Mainly, though, I feel lucky – lucky to be here, with these people, with Cal and Martha. To have them in my life. To enjoy the privilege of being Martha’s fake mother, and Cal’s friend, and of carrying Kate’s memory with me.
We’ve come a long, long way since the last time we danced to that song – and I’m incredibly grateful.
The performance draws to a slow, perfect close, and everybody gets to their feet. They stomp and clap and cheer and wipe away tears, and Edie holds up her paddle – she’s used a marker pen to change the ‘10’ to a ‘100’, which seems about right.
Martha gives me a jaunty salute as she walks off stage, but doesn’t come over – I suspect she’s feeling a bit emotional as well, and can’t take the mush overload. Instead, she heads towards Lizzie, who wraps her up in a hug and sits with her quietly for a few minutes while she calms down. I’d like to run over there and give her a big kiss, but I know I need to give her space. She’s not alone, and that’s what matters.
Neither, I remind myself, am I – as Cal looms over me, a sheepish grin on his face, guitar in hand. I stand up, and kiss him on the cheek.
“Thank you,” I say. “Really. That was … well, it was amazing.”
“Are you sure? Because it looks like you’ve been crying.”
“I have. But in a good way. It was beautiful – the best Christmas present ever. Kate would be so proud of her – and of you.”
He looks flustered, makes a kind of ‘aw shucks’ face, and puts his guitar back in its case. Budbury’s Got Talent has drawn to a close, which is probably a good thing – nobody was going to top that last act.
Someone has put music on, and tables are being cleared off to the side to make a dancefloor. Edie is on her feet, Becca at her side, doing a lively bop to Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Cherie joins them, and starts shaking her wild hair around like the rock chick she is.
Cal slips an arm around my shoulder, and I slide into him, wanting to savour every moment. I have no idea what the future holds – whether we’ll stay here or go back to Bristol; and even less idea of how my world will look once Cal leaves for Australia. But for now, tonight, in this one moment, everything feels as perfect as it possibly could. I wish I had some kind of magic pause button that I could press, to hold everyone in the here and now. Frozen in time, hanging in a glittering capsule of loveliness.
I don’t have that magic button, of course – nobody does – so instead I look at all of these people, at my new friends, and try and lodge everything about them in my memory banks, ready to whip out and smile about when I’m feeling down.
Cal seems to feel the same, and we stand there for a few moments, surveying the madness of our current kingdom, enjoying the spectacle of a group of drunk people celebrating the coming of baby Jesus in their own special way.
“Come on,” he says, as we both hear the distinctive opening sounds of Last Christmas by Wham!, “they’re playing our song …”
“I got my heart broken to this at a school disco in 1993 …” I protest, as he drags me towards the dancefloor. “I still haven’t got over the trauma.”
“What happened?” he asks, ignoring my objections and pulling me in for a slow dance. The pace has calmed, and there’s actually a distinctly old school disco feel to the cafe right now – Becca and Sam getting all handsy with each other; Laura actually being lifted off her feet by Matt as they smooch around; Frank and Cherie moving together under the fairy lights. Even Edie is in on the act, doing some kind of ballroom-type shuffle with Scrumpy Joe.
“Well,” I reply, settling into his arms, letting my face rest against his chest, “I had the hots for this kid called Jason Doyle. He was so handsome – tall, hunky, way less acne than most of the boys that year. Looked a bit like Robbie Williams, which was as cool as it got back then. He asked me to dance to this very song, and we had an extremely bad teenaged snog during it – you know the kind, all tongues and enthusiasm, no skill at all, like two snakes trying to swallow the same mouse?”
“I know the kind,” he says, laughing. “We’ve all been there.”
“Well, I was ecstatic – thought this was the beginning of a whole big love affair. Kate was sitting it out, watching from the PE benches, giving me the thumbs-up and making rude gestures behind his back. I was already thinking that I’d maybe let him get some over-the-bra booby action on the walk home – don’t know about your adolescence, but during mine, everybody seemed to get their early sexual awakenings either on the walk home, or in the park … anyway. Even after that snog to Wham!, he didn’t walk me home – he walked Sally Aimes home instead! Would you believe it?”
“My God!” replies Cal, sounding horror-struck on my teenaged self’s behalf. “The bastard! How could he? So, what happened?”
“Well, I walked home with Kate, which was probably more fun anyway, especially as she didn’t stick her hand up my top. And the next day, I Superglued Jason Doyle’s bike wheels to the concrete floor of the bike shed. They had to cut it off, and there were bits of rubber left there for the rest of term.”
“So … ultimately a happy ending, then, Zoe-style?”
“I suppose so,” I say, smiling at the memory. Funny how things that happen to you at that age seem so big, so enormously important, that you don’t realise that a few years on, today’s trauma will be nothing more than tomorrow’s amusing anecdote. Maybe it’s that way until you’re 90, who knows?
We dance our way past Laura and Matt, and I see her eyes widen as she notices us. Her Mills & Boon mind will be going into overdrive now. I laugh, and relax, and enjoy the moment. Cal is big and solid and warm, his arms have me squeezed comfortably into his body, and I can feel his heart beating beneath my cheek. He smells good, and feels good, and it’s all a damn sight better than 1993, without a doubt. I’m guessing that Cal’s a better kisser than Jason Doyle anyway – he certainly knows how to hold a woman on a dancefloor, that’s for sure.
I’m blushing slightly as I ponder this, my hands on his back, where I can feel the lean muscle of his body bunch and release as we move, the press of denim-clad thighs against mine, and am grateful for the dim lighting. My body is enjoying this a whole lot more than I’d like it to.
Just as poor George is vowing that next year, he’ll give his heart to someone special, Cal stills. He stops dancing, and freezes solid on the spot. I drag my face away from its cosy spot on his chest, and look up at him, wondering what’s going on. He’s grinning, his gaze falling behind me.
I turn around to see what’s happening, and am confronted with a now fully-recovered and mischievous looking Martha – the Kissing Stick gripped solidly in her hands. Lizzie’s next to her, giggling, and together they look like the embodiment of pure evil.
I open my mouth to say something – possibly something that involves swearing – but before I can get any words out, she’s thrust the broom handle towards us, the mistletoe branch dangling above our heads. She stares at me challengingly, and I return the stare with interest. Little minx.
I’m fully prepared to break with tradition and ignore it, but Cal has other ideas. He smiles at me, slow and slightly dangerous, dark eyes flashing, and says: “Looks like it’s time to put the ghosts of 1993 to rest …”
He tilts my chin up with one hand, gently brushes my hair back from my face, and leans down to kiss me. It’s an absolute killer of a kiss – long, slow, deliberate, and very, very effective. One hand bundled into my curls, another on the small of my back, crushing me into him, he takes his time – and there’s nothing at all platonic about it.
I momentarily forget that I am standing on a dancefloor in front of a cafe-full of people; forget that my teenaged almost-daughter is looking on, steps away; forget that I’d sworn this would never happen. I forget everything, apart from the touch of Cal’s lips on mine; the feel of his broad shoulders beneath my fingertips; the joy of his hands in my hair and his heat engulfing me. I am filled with sudden need, and mould myself into his body like liquid.
When he finally lets me go, I gasp slightly, from excitement and nerves and the need for oxygen. His eyes meet mine, intense and for once serious, and the rest of the world seems to disappear as we somehow manage to speak without words. The cafe disappears, the people disappear, even George disappears … there’s just me, and Cal, and the lingering sensation of the spark that still seems to be leaping between us.
We might have spoken, eventually – once either of us was able – but we didn’t get the chance. I’m still in his arms, trembling and slightly terrified, when the whole room bursts out into riotous applause. I glance around, and see that everyone else has stopped whatever they were doing, and is clapping their hands and whooping and stamping their feet. Becca’s fanning her face in a ‘wow, that was hot’ gesture; Martha is laughing so hard she’s dropped the Kissing Stick, and Edie has retrieved her scoring paddles, holding up a 10.
Cal keeps me in his arms, correctly sensing that I might flee in panic, and laughs along with them. Laura walks over, and punches me lightly on the arm.
“Well,” she says, clearly delighted, “it’s about bloody time …”