Luckily, I don’t have too much time to ponder that realisation and feel even more sorry for myself, as we have a veritable rush in the Budbury Chemist.
A small group of walkers comes in, one of them looking for blister plasters, one looking for Imodium, and one looking 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 to break through the clouds. It’s a strange and beautiful effect: dark clouds, dark sky, with one or two dazzling fingers of gold poking through to cast yellow streams down onto the waves, where they shimmer and shine as the water rolls inland.
There are dog walkers down there on the beach, and a couple of mums with toddlers wrapped up so well they look like fat eggs you could roll down a hill, and someone who appears to be fossil-hunting. Out of season, quiet, but still stunningly beautiful. In summer, it’s completely different – the café is bustling, the beach is full, the sounds are a blend of squealing kids and the ice cream van’s tune and the chatter and buzz of holiday fun.
I reluctantly turn away from the view and walk towards the café. It’s after three now, and as I’d suspected, the only people left there are the regulars. I pause and look through the windows. The light outside is dim and grey, so the contrast is stark: the café is vivid and warm and bright, its fairy lights shining, the glass panes slightly steamed up.
I can see a few tables pulled together to form one big, haphazardly assembled mega-table, and the ladies arranged around it. Cherie has her head thrown back in laughter; Becca has Little Edie on her lap; Zoe has a paperback in her hands, and Willow is doing some kind of mime to entertain them.
They look perfectly relaxed. Perfectly comfortable. Perfectly terrifying.
I take a deep breath, and push open the door. They all turn and look at me, and I see Cherie’s eyes widen in surprise. I get that feeling, the one I’m way too familiar with: the feeling that I’ve walked into a room where I’m not welcome. Where I’m interrupting something.
‘Come on in then!’ bellows Cherie, waving at me. ‘And don’t let the weather come with you!’
I nod and shut the door – I hadn’t even noticed I’d been holding it open, as though clinging to the option of running away, back down the hill.
By the time I’ve crossed the room, Willow has pulled an extra chair over for me, and headed to the kitchen to get me a coffee from the ancient machine. I hear it hiss and spit as I sit down, smiling politely, wondering what on earth I’m going to talk about now I’m here.
‘We were just discussing the relative feminist merits of Disney princesses,’ says Zoe, her ginger curls pulled up into a cascade of fire on top of her head.
‘Oh … well. Maybe Mulan?’
‘She definitely kicks ass,’ replies Becca, bouncing Edie up and down on one knee. The baby responds with a series of gurgles that implies it’s the most fun she’s had in her entire life. ‘As does Pocahontas.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ says Zoe, ‘but for me it’s got to be Merida from Brave. Because she’s a warrior, she doesn’t want to be forced to be married and, most importantly of all, she’s a ginger. And as we all know, gingers rock.’
Willow places the coffee – a lovely mocha – in front of me, and pushes a big slice of chocolate fudge cake in my direction.
‘Eat that,’ she says, firmly. ‘And then agree with me that it’s Frozen. The film, not the cake.’
Cherie starts to hum ‘Do You Want to Build a Snowman?’, and within seconds, everyone has joined in. The debate is paused for a few seconds, until we run out of lyrics – apart from Willow, that is, who knows all the words to pretty much every big Disney song ever.
‘I think,’ Becca says, once the discordant chanting has stopped, ‘that I’d also cast a vote for Moana. I know it’s recent, and some of you old fuddy-duddies won’t have seen it yet, but it’s very cool. No princes. No magical kisses. Just a feisty chick and her friend the demi-god, saving the world one song at a time. Plus, The Rock. You’re welcome.’
She sings the last two words in the tune of the song from the movie, but only me and Willow get that part – Zoe and Cherie just look confused.
Becca takes in their lack of understanding, and shakes her head.
‘Clearly, we need a movie night. Maybe we can do it here. Get rid of the blokes for the evening, and ideally the kids too, and have a Disney film marathon. Wouldn’t want kids at that, would we? Or … maybe not here, just realised there’s no telly. Duh.’
‘We could do it upstairs, in the flat,’ replies Cherie, pointing above her head. ‘Bit of a squeeze, but that would add to the ambiance. You supply the movie, I’ll supply the Baileys. We’ll let Laura do the cake, as soon as she’s feeling better.’
Everyone nods in agreement, even me. Laura, of course, may not be feeling ‘better’ for a while, but it’s definitely not my place to point that one out.
I’m interested in seeing Cherie’s flat. I’ve never been upstairs, to her near-legendary bolthole. She lived there for years, after the death of her first husband, until she finally moved in with Frank at his farmhouse.
Since then, it’s been used as a kind of emergency pit-stop for the Budbury ladies’ brigade. Becca lived in it until she and Sam properly got together, and Zoe used it as an escape hatch when she first moved here.
I’ve never been up there, but I’ve heard the stories – Cherie was a bit of a rock-chick in her day, hanging around with a hippy crowd and going to festivals before glamping was invented, and she’s still partial to the occasional herbal cigarette and cranking up the volume on her record collection. The flat, I’m told, is a perfect reflection of all of that.
‘So,’ says Cherie, giving me a gentle kick beneath the table, ‘what brings you to our door, lady? Not that we’re anything but delighted to see you. We were beginning to think that you didn’t like us.’
She’s smiling, so I know she’s not really serious.
‘What makes you think I like you now?’ I ask, licking oozing fudge off my spoon. ‘I’m here for the cake.’
‘Cheeky! You’re very welcome, anyway, my love. Much as we adore our menfolk, we do need our little get-togethers. Stops us getting lonely.’
It’s interesting that she uses that word. Lonely. I mean, I can’t imagine any of these women feeling lonely – not now, anyway. But when I think about it, I can see that they all have been. That they all know how lonely feels.
Looking at them now, they all have solid, robust relationships, full lives, and this circle of friendship – but it wasn’t always that way. They’ve all been through the grinder, and somehow all emerged whole. They’ve pulled each other out of holes, like a human chain of emotional support – and I’m starting to think that maybe I need a bit of a tug in the right direction myself.
‘That’s why I came,’ I say quietly, as I glance at them all. ‘I was feeling a bit lonely. Took me a while to notice, because I’m basically really happy with my life. Like our Disney heroines, it’s not a needing-a-man thing … maybe it’s a single mum thing. Or a still-feeling-new-in-town thing. Or just a me thing. I don’t know – but I thought I’d come along and see what you all get up to when the café’s closed.’
There is a slight pause after I speak; not long, but long enough to make me wonder if I’ve somehow misjudged this terribly. If I’m not eligible to join their club after all. If I should just crawl under the table and pretend I don’t exist.
‘Well, mainly we eat cake,’ says Cherie, reaching out to squeeze my hand. ‘And drink coffee. Occasionally, when we’re feeling really wild, we crack open a bottle of Amaretto and have a little toot …’
‘And sometimes we dance,’ adds Willow, grinning at me. ‘Or even sing. We do both of those things really badly, but we don’t let that stop us.’
‘Willow speaks only for herself,’ chimes in Becca, lowering a now-sleeping baby into her pushchair, ‘I have the voice of an angel and moves that would make Beyoncé weep. When we’re not dancing, singing, or eating cake, by the way, we’re talking about Daniel Craig.’
Zoe pipes up: ‘And sometimes, looking at pictures of Daniel Craig, on the iPad. But that’s only if Big Edie’s here – she’s a total pervert. I mainly sit here half-listening, half-reading a book, until I spot a chance to say something snarky or sarcastic. If I’m not here, Auburn takes over on the sarcasm front; we’re a bit like a tag-team. Laura’s job is to ask us questions about our love lives, talk way too much about Bake Off, and supply the cake. It’s like a badly oiled machine – we all have our roles to play.’
I look from one to the other as they take turns talking, wondering what I could possibly contribute. Whistle pops?
‘Mainly, my love,’ says Cherie, obviously realising I may be struggling here, ‘we make sure that none of us get lonely. We’ve all been there, and know how it feels. It’s hard, sometimes, to reach out to other people – especially when you’re trying to be all Little Miss Independent. But reaching out for help isn’t a bad thing – it’s a good thing. Come here whenever you like, and listen to us witter on. You’ll soon get the hang of it. It’s a bit like a club … a cake club.’
‘Are there any rules?’ I ask, looking around at their intent faces. ‘Will you abduct me at midnight and put a sack over my head and I’ll wake up in Frank’s turnip field?’
‘Not unless you want us to,’ she replies, shaking her head slowly. ‘Although, now I seem to have named it Cake Club … we probably should have some rules. And the first rule of Cake Club is: you don’t talk about Cake Club.’
‘Unless you want to, obvs,’ adds Willow, ‘then it’s totally fine.’
‘Yeah. Then it’s fine,’ says Cherie, somehow keeping her face straight.
I nod, and feel stupidly grateful for their humour, and the way they’ve made me feel welcome without making too big a deal of it. The way I do feel, quite suddenly, a bit less alone in the world.
‘Well,’ I say, eventually, eating some more cake. ‘I do like Daniel Craig.’