An hour’s respite from the mayhem of the city, tucked away in a coffee shop with a good book and a whopping piece of cake!
Charlotte, London
‘Hello, darling!’ Her mum Jane swept her into a perfumed hug under the red-brick arches of Newcastle-upon-Tyne’s railway station. She was dressed smartly in beige chinos and a white blouse, her hair styled in its usual grey-blonde bob. Then she stood back, eyeing her daughter up and down swiftly as mothers do: the two-second scan of health and mind-set. It was usually a pretty good gauge. ‘You’re looking well, Claire. The sea air and break must have done you some good.’
‘Yes, I think it has.’
‘Your sister mentioned it wasn’t the most luxurious of cottages.’ She raised her neatly plucked grey eyebrows.
Understatement of the year. Claire smiled. ‘It was fine. It had a lovely view.’ She decided to stick with the positives.
‘Now then, I’ve got a lasagne made ready to pop in the oven if you’d like to come back to mine for a couple of hours. We could have a nice catch-up and some early supper.’
‘Yes, that would be lovely. Thanks, Mum.’
So, that was it – she was swept up under her mother’s wing and driven back to her rather plush semi-detached in Jesmond for an afternoon of tea and chat, and a warming, tasty supper. Her mother was a good cook, and it was lovely to be looked after for a while.
It was eight o’clock by the time her mum dropped her off at her own house in Gosforth. The ‘For Sale’ sign looked stark in the small square of her front garden. She was back to her home that was no longer home.
‘Do you want me to come in?’ Her mum seemed to sense her unease.
‘No, I’m fine, Mum. I’m actually quite tired, so I’ll just get my bags in, probably set off a load in the washing machine and have an early night. Thanks again for a lovely meal.’
‘Well, you know you’re always welcome. And I’ll see you soon.’
‘Yes, will do. And thanks for picking me up from the station.’
‘Oh, Sally mentioned something about Sunday lunch, if you’re interested. A little get-together before you head back to work on Monday.’
‘Hmm, sounds good.’ Sally’s roasts were legendary. ‘Are you all trying to feed me up or something?’
‘Absolutely.’ Her mum smiled. ‘Well, see you soon.’ Her Audi car gave a little rev, and started to moved forwards. She waved out of the car window as she drove off.
Claire found her house keys, walked up the black-and-white tiled pathway to the front door and turned the lock. It felt chilly and so very empty as she walked over the threshold. Too quiet. The contrast with earlier times struck her forcefully. A year or so ago, Paul would be in watching TV, or trying to cook something basic, if she was late home from work. His culinary skills had never got much past a rather tasteless chilli con carne or heating up a frozen pizza and tossing a bag of salad into a bowl. But at least he tried to do his bit in the house, and he was a dab hand with a hoover.
She thought back to when they’d moved in. The first few years of their marriage had been lovely, exciting times. Learning all those new things about each other, from his favourite coffee brand, Nescafe – nothing too fancy – to the way his fingers felt as they traced her inner thigh. The house seemed all the more quiet somehow, having once known a happy marriage there. They had been happy. But so much had changed. They had changed. Though the wallpaper, the carpets, the curtains they had once chosen together remained the same, piece by piece her old life had been chipped away.
On Saturday morning, as Claire sat in her kitchen with a cup of tea trying to get used to being back, her mobile buzzed into action.
‘Hi, Andrea.’ She’d spotted the caller name. Her ally from the Herald.
‘Hey, are you back yet?’
‘Yep, just yesterday.’
‘Fab. Do you fancy coffee and cake over at Café 9 this aft? We have some serious catching up to do.’
‘I might be tempted. When are you thinking?’
‘Two-ish? Danny’s out playing football today – he’ll be a couple of hours at least. Time for us to put the world to rights. I’m dying to hear all about your holiday.’
‘Okay, sounds great.’ Far better than packing up boxes on her own.
‘Meet you there then.’
‘Yep, okay. Thanks. See you later.’
It was just a short walk from the house to the café, a favourite haunt of theirs. They did the most amazing chocolate fudge cake, served hot or cold, with cream or ice cream – fantastic at any time of year. They’d often met there in the good times between chemo sessions when her appetite and energy levels were back; by then she was well ready for chat and cake and it was a relief to do something normal. To talk about normal girlie things. Claire had been intending to phone her friend for a chat that evening, but meeting up in person would be even better.
The corner table by the window – there she was with a big grin, dark-brown hair flicked out somewhat chaotically yet trendily from her face, her trademark bright-red lipstick, and two cappuccinos, their usual, before her.
She stood up and gave Claire a kiss on the cheek.
‘Hey you, you look great. Are you fancying cake?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Chocolate fudge,’ they both added at the same time.
‘I’ll go, you keep the table,’ Claire said.
It was busy there, a Saturday afternoon, always popular with the students in the area, as well as a couple of young mums with buggies and a kindly-looking elderly couple nestled with their teapot and scones at a table at the rear.
‘Hey, Claire. Haven’t seen you in a while, hen. You been okay?’ The café owner smiled from behind the counter that was laden with scrummy cakes and bakes. Many people in her everyday life knew of her illness – the bald head and headscarves of the past year had given the game away, if they hadn’t already read her column and online blog.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, Helen. Just had a lovely break away.’
‘Well good for you, pet. You look well on it, I must say. Now then, what can I fetch you two? Don’t tell me … chocolate fudge?’
‘Has to be, it’s divine. You make the best. Two slices, please.’
‘I’ll bring them over.’
‘Thank you.’
Claire settled down next to Andrea at their window table. It was great for people-watching as well as chatting. They’d had some fun times viewing and occasionally scoring the passers-by (when Andrea was young, free and single, often rating men on looks, and butts in particular), the level of seating being perfect for a sneaky glance.
Claire took a sip of hot cappuccino. ‘Ah, bliss … Well, how’s good old work been?’
‘Not too bad. Missed you though, chick. That bloody dragon Julia’s been lurking around. “Helping out”. She’s been desperate to snag your column for her latest protégée, Lisa, who’s also been trying to bag your desk, perching her skinny bum in your seat. I soon moved her on, don’t you worry. Imagine working opposite that pair every day.’
‘Well, I’m back now. She didn’t get offered my column, did she?’
‘No, no worries there – David’s not that stupid. He let Emma use the column for her health and fitness article for two weeks. It worked well.’
‘That’s good to hear. I’m looking forward to getting back.’
‘I really liked your “Magic Moments” article. David let me have a look over it. That’s such a fab idea. Wish I’d thought of it. It goes out on Monday.’
‘Wow, it does? That’s great. I wasn’t sure he’d go for it. Well, I just hope it strikes a chord. Being away made me realize how important those simple things are. And everyone will have their own take on it, too.’
‘True. Talking of being away, how was it? You look really great, by the way. You have a tan and everything.’
‘Hah! More like windburn! But yeah, there were a good few days this last week when I managed to sunbathe a bit. It was lovely … just what I needed.’
‘Oh yes, sun, sea, sand and se—’
‘None of that, I’m afraid.’ Claire laughed a little too loudly.
‘Are you sure about that?’ Andrea eyed her curiously. ‘What about that guy you texted me about?’
‘I mentioned nothing. You were trying to wheedle something out of me that never happened.’
Andrea raised her eyebrows, unconvinced. ‘You’re blushing.’
Ah, shit – she was never any good at lying. Even though nothing sexual had actually happened, a whole lot more had. She felt the heat rise up her neck. She’d have to say something or Andrea would carry on digging for information, for sure. ‘A near miss, that’s all. Well, maybe a lucky escape.’
‘I knew it. You can’t lie to save your life, Claire Maxwell.’
‘Well, that’s not such a bad trait to have.’ Though it sometimes made life rather awkward.
‘I bet he was hot.’
‘Not bad.’
‘A surfer-dude type? All Aussie-toned muscle.’
‘Now you’re getting carried away. Shush.’ She could feel the heat in her cheeks. Damn. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How’re things with you and Danny?’ Time to divert the conversation. He and Andrea had been living together for a year now.
‘Yeah … it’s good. We’re getting on really well. We give each other enough space to live our lives, you know, be our own people, which I like. But then when we do get it together, wow. Boy, that man is good in bed.’
A couple of male students looked up from the table next to them. Andrea just laughed and gave them a cheeky grin. The cute one with dark curly hair winked back at her.
‘Spare me the details, per-lease.’ Whereas Claire tended to keep things to herself, Andrea relished sharing every snippet of information. Sometimes Claire just didn’t want to go that far – the images were way too private. But she smiled at her friend. At least someone was loved-up and happy.
After a pleasant hour and a half, Andrea said she’d better be heading off; she had some shopping to do and had promised to visit her mother.
‘See you at work on Monday, hun.’
‘Yes! It’ll feel a bit weird, but I’m excited about going back too.’
‘Good. You don’t want to go all Robinson Crusoe on me and decide to live like a recluse in a cave on the Northumbrian coast or something?’
‘I don’t think so, Andrea. It was just a holiday by the sea.’
As she said it, she realized she was missing it already, that glorious view, the rickety, weirdly charming cottage. But she had missed her work and her friends too.
The house felt quiet. She made a simple supper of scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes – after all that cake, she thought she’d better have something light and healthy. She put the telly on for company as she tootled around, thinking about what she might pack up next. Maybe her book collection, or she might sort through her journalism papers, the textbooks from uni, the many newspapers and cuttings she’d kept over the years, some of which were her own articles that had made her proud, often telling of someone’s bravery, talents, kindness. She loved finding out about those kinds of things – meeting interesting people and being able to tell someone’s story that might never have been heard otherwise. She was a feel-good reporter at heart, even though a lot of the time the news she had to deliver was heart-wrenching.
A text pinged through from her sister: Coming for lunch tomorrow? Roast beef at 2pm if you fancy x
Thanks, that’d be great xx
Welcome home!
Home. That word sounded so very hollow.
Thanks sis. See you tomorrow x
‘Pass, Auntie Claire. Pass!’
She scuffled a shot across the back garden to Jack, her nephew, who was making a dash alongside the flowerbeds. His younger brother readied himself on the goal line, which was an imaginary zone between the apple tree to the left and his jumper, which had been thrown down on the ground about three metres away. She envied the endless energy of their youth. All the world was their playground. So innocent for now, but lessons they would have to learn along the way awaited them.
‘Great pass!’ Jack was definitely being polite. Playing football in plimsolls was not the easiest. She might end up breaking a toe at this rate, the ball was that solid.
Ollie was anxiously awaiting the shot, knees bent, body braced. Jack thundered the ball inside the apple tree, nearly taking his brother out and flattening a delphinium in the process. Oops, Sal would be none too pleased.
‘He shoots, he scores!’ He started running circles of the garden in a victory salute to himself. Ollie’s shoulders slumped as he went off into the flowerbed to retrieve the ball.
‘Right, you lot,’ Mark bellowed down the garden. ‘In you come and wash your hands ready for lunch.’
Claire felt like she was six, being called back by her dad. But she looked up and obediently made the move to go in. In fact, she realized her tummy was rumbling. Mark’s voice softened as he gave her a smile. ‘That order was for the boys, not you, Claire.’
‘Well, it’s good to know lunch is ready. And I probably ought to wash my hands too. I’m all footballed out.’
‘Thanks for entertaining them.’
‘No worries, they’re good fun.’
‘Thanks, Auntie Claire,’ the boys called as they raced past her into the house.
Roast beef, huge crispy Yorkshire puddings, a stack of roast veggies and lashings of rich gravy – Sal’s roasts were amazing.
There was nothing quite like a Sunday lunch with the family gathered round. It was like being wrapped in a warm, delicious blanket. Claire listened to the buzz of chatter. The boys talked about their latest Xbox games, the Newcastle score yesterday – at which Mark just groaned – and her mum asked Jack about the football team he played for on the weekends. Ollie was going camping with the Scouts the following weekend, and told how he was really looking forward to that – they were going to be allowed to make a fire from scratch with no matches. Bear Grylls was going to have nothing on them by the sounds of it – and there were general ‘mmms’ and comments on how lovely the food was. Claire felt absolutely full by the end of the meal, travelling from starving to pleasantly stuffed in precisely ten minutes.
After a short sit-down with a cup of tea, Claire offered to do the washing-up. She soon found herself in the kitchen with Mark, who started clearing the surfaces. They both stacked the dishwasher, then Mark began rinsing the messier pans in the sink. Claire took up the tea towel.
‘So, how was your break?’
‘Good, thanks. I loved the beach and the village there. It was really beautiful.’
‘Yeah, went that way a lot when I was a child. We used to have a cottage inland, a bit nearer to Wooler. My parents were into hiking and biking, that kind of thing. I used to wish we could go to Disneyland or somewhere like that instead at the time. But I do remember it being beautiful.’
‘Yes.’ She could picture the long stretch of sandy bay … the dunes … her little cottage beside the sea.
And she wondered if he’d be there now. It was a Sunday, the weekend. Did he get there most weeks?
‘Back to work tomorrow?’ Mark pulled her back from her reverie.
‘Oh … yes. I’m looking forward to it. I needed the break, but now I’ve recharged the batteries, I’m ready to go back.’
‘Working on anything in particular at the moment?’
‘Well yeah, the cancer blog came to a natural end. A happy one, thank God. But whilst I was away I got inspired … Actually, it was something Sally said that got me thinking, so the new column’s going to be about “Magic Moments”. You know, those contented moments in life – often the simplest things – that make you truly happy.’
‘Sounds good. Interesting.’
‘What would yours be? Your magic moment?’ She picked up a baking tray to dry.
He popped some knives and forks into the rack as he took a few seconds to think.
‘Hmm. My family … the boys, the daft things they do and say sometimes that just make you grin. Like the other night when we’d just had our supper, Ollie shot off his seat, ran past and then let out a huge fart that stopped him in his tracks. He turned to us and said, “Sorry, that was my bottom saying thank you for the food.” We tried so hard not to laugh. We couldn’t help it, though – we just cracked up at that.’
Claire grinned. That might be a good comical one for her blog. The things children say and do. It would be lovely to be able to mention plenty of different people’s special moments in her column. She’d have to ask Sally and her mum what theirs would be.
‘And things like an ice-cold beer from the fridge on a hot day,’ he continued. ‘Spending time with Sal, just the two of us, like old times.’
‘You big romantic, you. I’m glad to hear the beer came first.’ Claire gave a wry smile.
‘Don’t let on about that one. Mental slip, that was all.’ He grinned back.
The very first ‘Magic Moments’ article was going to be out tomorrow, in the Monday edition of the Herald. She felt anxious, a butterfly flutter in her stomach, hoping it would go down well. Next week she would hopefully be hearing about her readers’ own magic moments if it had struck a chord with them. The idea could evolve, perhaps into something special. She so hoped her regulars would like it. And her boss. It would be thrown out pretty swiftly otherwise, and she’d have to come up with something else, and quick, if her article didn’t attract much interest.
She’d been away a long while on this holiday, even though it was much needed, and all those on-off times with the treatments she’d had over the past year. She felt she needed to prove herself all over again. Would people still like her stories? The way she wrote? When she got back tomorrow, she’d settle back into the team and really focus on her work. Her boss, David, had been more than patient and understanding so far, but she was all too aware there were other ambitious journalists ready and waiting to jump into her shoes. Her nerves began to bite.