My mum senses that a new project is afoot, and joins me at the kitchen table. I have my laptop open, and am working on the Budbury Bible for Tom. I’m also quite excited, now I’ve started – this will be a lovely keepsake for the future: a snapshot of life in the village as it is right now. A lot of our residents are elderly, and despite the fact that they all seem in exceptionally good health, they won’t be around forever.
I’m also maybe more aware than others of the value of these records. Now, at this stage in my life, I have no problems with memory or mental confusion beyond my normal accepted levels – I’ve always been on the fuzzy side, and that’s okay.
But one day, this might matter – I might be able to look back at it and remember all the brilliance that went on. We all take so much for granted, and if my mum’s situation has taught me anything, it’s not to make that mistake.
It also makes me realise what a weird and wonderful collection of people we have here. Everyone is different, and different is okay – some people throw themselves into a new social situation with ease and openness, like Laura did when she first moved here. Others, like Tom, are practically paralysed with fear at the prospect. We’re all different, we’re all flawed – and there’s a place for everyone. Or at least there should be.
‘What are we doing, Willow?’ Mum asks, sliding her chair in to get a better look. She’s used my name in every sentence tonight, which she does when she’s feeling okay, and wants to reassure me that she knows who I am. She needs to wear her specs for this, and I anticipate a full-on hunt for them first. Instead, I notice that they’re already on her head, perched in a nest of curls. Score one for Team Longville.
‘We’re making a kind of … history. A living history, of the people who live here. It’s for my friend, Tom. The one who I told you about, who invented the flange bracket.’
‘Oh yes,’ she replies, popping on her glasses and peering at me over their tortoise-shell patterned frames. ‘Tom. You like him, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I do,’ I answer, wondering if we’re about to wander into ‘inappropriate conversation’ territory. This happens occasionally, when she thinks I’m a female friend of the same age, or her younger sister. I’m an open-minded woman, but seriously, nobody wants to hear their mum’s sexual conquest stories, do they?
‘But do you like like him?’ she asks, clearly trying to keep a straight face.
‘Have you been watching the Disney Channel again?’ I ask, staring at her through narrowed eyes as she grins at me.
She’s developed a weird obsession with teen TV shows, like The Suite Life of Zack and Cody and Good Luck Charlie. She often sings the theme tunes, but always get them amusingly wrong – I will forever remember the time she changed the lyrics of a programme called Jessie, crooning along with her own words: ‘Hey Jessie! There’s a sausage sticking out of your face … Hey Jessie!’ It was priceless.
‘Might have been,’ she replies defensively. ‘Damn that Disney Channel. I know it’s wrong, but it feels so good … anyway, I get the feeling that the inventor of the flange bracket is definitely more than a friend. Is he hot?’
I sigh, and lean back, my arms crossed over my chest.
‘Mum, I’m not a fifteen-year-old cheerleader. And I barely know Tom – he’s just a nice guy who gets nervous around new people, and I thought this might help him. He’s a man who functions better with all the information.’
‘Nobody ever has all the information,’ she replies, quite accurately. ‘He’ll only have our version of the information. And I think you do like him.’
I chew my lips, and decide to ignore her. Partly because there’s a tiny bit of me that suspects she’s right, and that’s a scary prospect. Budbury is full of attractive men, but I’ve just never responded to any of them in that way.
With Tom … well, I’ve noticed his attractiveness a little more than usual. I tell myself that it’s simple biology – I’ve not had a boyfriend for well over three years. I suppose I was bound to crack at some point and give in to a little harmless window-shopping. But I need to keep it at that; between my jobs, my mum, and trying to save a bit of head-space for myself, there just isn’t time for anything else.
Everything hangs together in such a fragile way already, throwing an affair into the mix would bring it all crashing down around me. It’d be like the last plastic bucket you attach to Buckaroo’s back – just one item too many for a poor donkey (i.e. me) to bear.
‘You can think what you want,’ I reply, opening up a Word document. ‘I can’t stop your lurid fantasy life, Mum. But it’s getting late now, and I’m going to crack on. Do you want to help?’
She glances through the window, and sees that it is dark. She follows that up with a look at the page-a-day calendar.
‘Springtime,’ she says. ‘I love springtime. Every day, it’ll stay light for a little bit longer … I always think that’s magical. Okay. Let’s get to work then! Just give me a minute to set the right atmosphere …’
She’s big on atmospheres, my mum. We all grew up using aromatherapy oils, in a house scented by nature, often with weird sounds in the background. Other kids might have had Now That’s What I Call Music 1998, but we had whale song, Gregorian chanting, and Ravi Shankar’s greatest hits. I only remember the toned-down version of her – my older brothers and sister have more vivid recollections of living on the commune with her, when getting naked and painting yourself blue for a night round the campfire wasn’t unusual.
Mum gets up, and lights a couple of candles. I recognise the smell as chamomile and jasmine. She puts a CD in – thankfully her collection of ‘Music Inspired by the Ocean’ rather than Ravi Shankar – and sits back down with me.
It’s really nice, doing this together. It’s been another busy day, and I’ve not had anywhere near enough time to relax. It’s been sunny again, but I’ve mainly been in the van or indoors, at Briarwood and the café. Now I feel a bit like she’s managed that ‘bringing the outdoors in’ trick that they talk about on home renovation shows.
It takes us a while – almost two hours and a couple of mugs of tea – but it’s a fun two hours. I do the technical stuff, like the typing and saving and adding crazy fonts and colours and photos, and she adds her insights and comments.
I can tell as we do it that she doesn’t always remember who all these people are straightaway – but after a few prompts, she gets up to speed, and has something to add. She’s always been more instinct than fact anyway, which makes her a brilliant accomplice in this task.
By the time we’ve finished our masterwork, she’s happy, smiling, and tired – in a good way. She casts a final eye over it and nods approvingly.
‘It’s very good,’ she says, patting me on the shoulder. ‘You should print it out and pin it to the wall. Just so, you know, you remember everyone.’
Of course. Because it’s totally me who needs help on that front. You have to laugh sometimes.
‘Great idea. I’ll do that. Are you off to bed now?’
As she stands up and stretches – the usual signs – I’m not that surprised. It’s after nine, which is a late night for us.
‘Yes. Off to the land of cod for me, I think.’ A quick wink there, to show the mistake was deliberate. ‘Don’t stay up too late, love – busy day tomorrow.’
I don’t know if she has any real idea of what we’re doing tomorrow, or works on the basis that it’s always a busy day, but I nod and agree. I have a full shift at the café, and Katie and Saul are coming over to spend some time with Mum. She’ll enjoy that, I know – the joy of having a toddler in the house is that there’s always someone more confused than her. As her capabilities have been diminished over the last few years, along with at least some of her self-esteem, it does her good to be the ‘grown-up’ for a few hours.
I watch her pad silently down the hallway, still so lithe and graceful, and decide to throw caution to the wind – by brewing myself a wild and crazy peppermint tea. Five minutes of stillness, I tell myself; five minutes alone while I just let my mind relax and wander. Mainly it wanders right back to the Idiot’s Guide to Budbury we’ve just produced, which makes me smile.
I sit, sipping at my mug, and feel a sense of complete contentment wash over me. Quiet moments where I reflect on my friends and how lucky I am to have them. These are my people, and I love them – I just hope I’ve managed to capture them in all their glory for Tom.
I’ve built on the Game of Thrones riff from earlier, and laid it all out like one of those prologues from fantasy novels that seem to go on forever. I’ve added in some pictures and clip art – because I have the IT skills of a ten-year-old – but the content is what matters. It starts with Cherie, as all things in Budbury seem to, and covers all the key people he’ll meet if he stays.
I attach some pictures – from Frank’s horror-themed birthday party the summer before, and from our Budbury’s Got Talent Christmas bash – and a little note wishing him happy reading. I press send before treating myself to one more read through:
The House of Moon-Farmer
Cherie Moon is the ultimate matriarch of Budbury. She’s in her seventies, as tall as me, but much bigger and more solid. She’s a former hippy rock-chick, and you can still see it: she has very long hair, which she often wears in a plait. She likes the occasional herbal cigarette, often walks around barefoot, and looks after everyone she meets. She owns the Comfort Food Café, the Rockery holiday cottages, and a few other places in the village – because despite being a hippy rock-chick, she’s also a mini-mogul. She’s generous, kind, and gives the best hugs. She will hug you – don’t even try and fight it. She also prides herself on figuring out people’s comfort foods, and serving it to them in the café. Not everyone has one – but if you do, prepare to divulge it.
Cherie got married over a year ago to Frank. He’s known as Farmer Frank, because he owns a huge farm, but in a cunning twist he’s actually also called Frank Farmer. Cherie didn’t take his name – and who can blame her, when hers is so pretty? Frank is eighty-one, and we have a big party for his birthday at the end of every summer season, the last weekend in August. He has silver hair and sparkly blue eyes and is as fit as his younger self ever was. His son and grandchildren live in Australia, and his first wife died a few years ago. His comfort food is burned bacon butties and strong tea, which Cherie provided for him every single day after he lost Bessy. From such humble beginnings grew a mighty romance. Frank has a wicked sense of humour, so prepare to take everything he says with a sackful of salt. Both Frank and Cherie are semi-retired, which gives them more time to sit in the café watching the world go by, and making fun of us all. Cherie used to live in her bachelorette pad above the café, but now lives on Frank’s farm with him. The flat is still there, used intermittently by various strays in need of refuge.
The House of Hunter-Walker
Laura Walker’s one of those strays, even though she never stayed in the flat above the café. Her husband David died in an accident, and she was a bit lost, struggling to cope even a few years later. So she got a job at the café for the summer, and came with her children Nate and Lizzie and their dog Jimbo (RIP). She was only supposed to stay until September, but stayed forever. She’s really pretty and a bit plump, which annoys her so much she has to eat a piece of chocolate cake to cheer herself up. She has mad curly brown hair, is the owner of Midgebo, and lives in a cottage at the Rockery. Laura is sensitive, kind and a great believer in happy endings – she engineered all kinds of family reunions her first summer here, including getting Cherie back together with a sister she hadn’t seen for decades. If Laura thinks you’re less happy than you should be, she’ll try and fix you. She manages the café, and is the world’s best comfort food cook. She will experiment on you, so prepare to eat a lot of cake.
She lives in Hyacinth House with Lizzie, who is sixteen. She’s blonde, wears a lot of black eyeliner, likes heavy metal music and is super cool. She goes out with Josh, of the House Jones. Nate is fourteen, also blonde, and is a typical boy – he plays a lot of football, guitar and video games, and thinks farting is a performance sport.
Matt Hunter also lives in the Rockery, in a big cottage called Black Rose. He is the local vet, and looks a bit like Han Solo – Empire Strikes Back era. He can be really quiet, and won’t ever get in your face because he’s quite a private person too. He is the master of comfortable silences, and prefers dogs to people. Apart from Laura – who is the love of his life, I reckon. The two of them have been together for a while now and I think it will stick. We’re all hoping theirs will be the next big wedding.
The House of Brennan-Fletcher
Becca Fletcher is Laura’s sister. She’s in her thirties somewhere, and moved here from Manchester after a holiday romance with Sam. Becca is super-smart, acid-tongued, and totally deadpan. Possibly the most sarcastic person on the planet. She apparently used to be a bit of a wild child and got into a few bad situations, but these days she’s all clean-living, apart from the fact that she’s usually covered in baby vomit from Little Edie.
Little Edie was the outcome of Becca’s romance with Sam Brennan, who is known as Surfer Sam, for reasons which become obvious when you see him. Sam is from Dublin, and grew up with about six thousand sisters. He’s a coastal ranger and spends all his time outdoors. His comfort food is chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle, which reminds him of his childhood. He’s funny and charming and before Becca, saw himself as something of a ladies’ man. These days the main ladies in his life are Becca and Little Edie, who is six months old, and was actually born in the café. Seeing Little Edie born was both the most magical and most yuck experience of my life so far. They all live together in Sam’s little terraced house in the centre of the village.
The House of Morgan-Harris-Hayes
This is a complicated one – a House of Many Names. I’ll start with Zoe – Zoe Morgan. Zoe is very, very short, and very, very ginger. She’s from Bristol, and is a bit like Becca in that she’s spiky and sarky – but completely lovely underneath it. I don’t think she had the easiest of childhoods, and things got worse when her best friend Kate Harris died of cancer. Kate had a sixteen-year-old daughter, Martha, and Zoe ended up becoming her guardian. It sounds like it was all going a bit pear-shaped, with Martha getting wilder and more self-destructive, so Zoe moved them down here to get away from all the bad influences. Zoe now runs the bookshop in the café.
Martha is seventeen now, and is the Queen of the Goths. She didn’t settle in at first, but now she’s best friends with Lizzie, and seems happy enough – although it’s hard to tell with teenaged Goths. She has this weird, combative relationship with Zoe but you can tell they really love each other. Martha’s comfort food is squashed up fish-finger sandwiches.
Cal Hayes is Martha’s dad. She’d never even met him before she moved here – he had a fling with her mum in Thailand, and is from Australia. He runs Frank’s farm for him, and looks a bit like Thor in the Avenger films. He’s confident and capable and often wears a cowboy hat, but we won’t hold that against him. He came here to see if he could help Martha stay on track, and him and Zoe ended up getting together. All three of them live in the village in the house where Ivy Wellkettle, our old pharmacist, used to live. Ivy moved up to Durham to be near her daughter while she does her medical training. The downside of this is that we don’t have a pharmacy any more, but on the upside a nice home became available for the House of Morgan-Harris-Hayes.
The House of Jones
This one at least only has one surname – and one initial. They’re known as the Scrumpy J Jones collective, and there are three of them: Joe, Joanne and Josh.
Joe runs the local Cider Cave, where he makes and sells artisan ciders – or at least he calls them ‘artisan’ now, since Lizzie, his son’s girlfriend and teenage marketing guru, told him it sounds cool. The cave is popular with locals and tourists, and Joe is often to be heard clinking around the village with bags full of bottles. He’s quiet, a bit grumpy, and considered a bit stingy – but when it counts, you can rely on Joe. His comfort food is home-made biscotti, which reminds him of visiting his gran in Italy as a kid. Joe has a really strong ‘my luvver’ Dorset accent – Frank sometimes speaks like that, as does Cherie, but Joe’s is the thickest. Even I don’t understand him sometimes.
His wife Joanne is a bit scary. She looks like something out of Dallas or Dynasty, with huge hair and perfect make-up. She runs a website called Rural Romance which hooks countryside types up for love and laughter – you should check it out!
Their son Josh is eighteen now. He’s tall and lanky, always wears a beanie hat, and is a sweet kid who tries not to appear sweet.
The House of May
This is the last House – there are obviously others in Budbury, but I don’t want to freak you out. It’s also my favourite House.
The House of May consists of only one person – Edie May. Or Big Edie, as she now likes to be called, as there is a new Edie in town. She was thrilled when the baby came and was named after her, not least because she now gets to be Big – and bearing in mind she barely scrapes five feet when she’s had her perm touched up, that’s got to be a first.
Edie is ninety-one years old. In fact, she’s ninety-two very soon – there’ll be a party. You’ll be forced to come. She lives on her own in a little terraced house in the village and is in amazing health for a woman her age. She tiny, and walks everywhere in her sensible shoes, often wearing a bright orange Vans backpack.
She used to be the village librarian, and is still really active on committees and things like that. She loves reading, chatting, and Strictly Come Dancing. Edie is an absolute joy and you’ll love her – it’s impossible not to. Don’t make the mistake of dismissing her as nothing but a little old lady though; she’s a very wise woman, and we’ve all turned to her on occasion. She’s especially close to Becca, and also has lots of nieces and nephews and extended family who adore her.
The other thing you should know about Edie is that her fiancé died in the war back in the 1940s. Edie, though, doesn’t seem to know that – she talks about him as though he’s still alive, and usually takes extra food from the café back to her house for him. None of us ever challenge it – why would we? She’s happy, she’s healthy, and she still leads a really useful and fulfilling life.
The Budbury philosophy is a simple one: we accept people. Edie’s probably the best example of that, but we all are to some extent – we’re not the most conventional of communities. Something tells me you’ll fit right in, Tom!