A Gift from the Comfort Food Café: Celebrate Christmas in the cosy village of Budbury with the most heartwarming read of 2018!. Debbie Johnson
and their other brother, who lives in Aberdeen, is called Angel because he was so cherubic. He’s the black sheep of the family – he changed his name to Andrew.
Today, Auburn’s hair is pulled back into a glossy ponytail, cascading down the side of her white-coated shoulder. She looks professional and competent, and every inch the pharmacist, until you notice the bulge in her chest pocket. That’d be her Zippo and pack of cigarettes, which she regularly sneaks out into the courtyard at the back to puff away on. She’s always saying she’s going to give up, and even put one of the especially graphic anti-smoking posters in a back window so she can look at it as she wheezes. The photos of black lungs don’t seem to have deterred her.
Next to Auburn is Edie, the village’s 92-year-old elder stateswoman. She’s tiny, with a face made entirely of wrinkles and creases, and twinkling blue eyes that belie her true age. Her white hair is recently permed, and forms a pouffy helmet around her head.
The other quirk about Edie is the fact she apparently believes her long-dead fiancé is still alive. He was killed during the Second World War, but there was never any body. Over the years, I’m told, she settled into a delusion that he was still around – and always takes home extra food for him from the café.
It’s the way Budbury works that everybody simply accepts this, and doesn’t allow it to get in the way of the fact that Edie, despite her age, is still one of the most active and popular people in the village. Nobody asks too many questions, nobody thinks she’s any weirder than anybody else, and nobody even blinks when she mentions him.
The two of them – Edie and Auburn, not Edie and her ghost fiancé – are currently sharing a catalogue of some kind, pointing at pictures and giggling.
They look up as I walk towards them, and Edie pipes up: ‘Katie! Just the girl! We were just considering a new range of novelty condoms and over-the-counter sex aids … what do you think? Is Budbury ready for that?’
I find myself blushing, and try to shake it away.
‘I don’t know … do you think there’d be much demand?’ I ask, trying and failing to not look at the glossy photos of soft-focus boudoirs.
‘Who knows?’ replies Auburn, closing the catalogue, standing up and stretching. ‘I think there are hidden depths of perversion in this town. It’s all sweet and sugar-coated on the surface, but there’s got to be some heavy-duty swinging and dominatrix action going on behind the lace curtains …’
My mind flickers back to Frank’s comment about spanking, and I blush even more.
Auburn, being Auburn, carries on regardless: ‘And you know what? That catalogue came in the same post for a brochure about Harry Potter merchandise we might want for Christmas! Imagine if they’d mixed up the two, and we’d got a Harry Potter-themed sex selection? That would be fun … Voldemort’s Length, for your Chamber of Secrets!’
I shudder, and try not to show it.
‘Well,’ I say, hiding my discomfort as well as I can, ‘you could always open an X-rated store in the back room, couldn’t you? Adults only. Ann Summers kind of vibe. Laura would probably make you some cakes in the shape of penises.’
Edie bursts out laughing and claps her tiny hands together in delight.
‘Oh yes! Buttercream willy cake! How funny – they’d flock here from as far away as Devon! We’d all become famous for our willy cake! Can you imagine?’
Sadly, I can – and it prompts me to offer a round of hot beverages instead of working further on our masterplan of filth. One minute it’s a joke; the next I’ll be selling fluffy handcuffs to the postman’s wife.
‘Been busy?’ I ask, as Auburn follows me behind the dispensing area. This is pristine and clean, with a big fridge and well-organised shelves and various containers and pieces of equipment; reference books with exciting names like Stockley’s Drug Interactions, a computer and printer for the labels, and a big locked cupboard that contains the heavy-duty controlled pharmaceuticals. The ‘Party Cupboard’, as Auburn very irreverently calls it.
It leads into a tiny kitchen area, which is slightly less pristine, and beyond that a stock room. We stop in the kitchen, and Auburn leans back against the counter-tops, pulling her cigarettes from her pocket in preparation for a trip outside.
‘A bit, this morning. Some repeat prescriptions for that lady who has a lot of problems with her arthritis, lives a few miles off? Plus some blue pill action for a bloke who actually lives much further towards Dorchester, but is obviously too embarrassed to get his fix locally. Few people came in for cough and cold stuff. Sold some of those hand-warmers you put in the microwave. But not exactly a tsunami of custom, no. How are things with you? Did you drop Saul off today?’
I nod and bustle around getting the cups ready. She sounds slightly edgy as she asks, and I know that’s not because of Saul – it’s because she’s worried about her mum.
‘Yep, everything is fine,’ I reply, smiling at her. Okay, that’s stretching the truth a bit – but it won’t do her any good to know Lynnie was having one of her wandering star moments. Auburn in particular gets stressed out about those, as the first time she looked after her mum overnight, she made a run for it and ended up in hospital with a broken ankle. Not her fault – but like most women, she lives to blame herself for everything that ever goes wrong in the entire universe.
‘Good … well, while it’s quiet, I’m going to nip out for a breath of unfresh air. Oh! By the way – I completely forgot. You got a phone call earlier – from your mum. Said there was no answer on your landline, and she’d been trying you on your mobile, and could you please call her back? If you’re not too busy. But don’t worry, nobody’s died.’
Before I make the tea, I get out my phone and check it. Missed calls from Mum, yes, but annoyingly no messages that might shed some light on what’s going on. And as for the landline, that’ll be because I unplugged it and forgot – Saul called 999 a few days ago to tell the police that two seagulls were having a fight outside the house. They saw the funny side, but in that stern warnings about wasting emergency services’ time kind of voice.
I quickly look into the shop, to make sure there’s not a giant queue of customers waiting to buy hand sanitiser and Strepsils, and call my mum’s number. It goes straight to voicemail, and I leave a quick message saying I’m sorry I haven’t called back, I’m glad nobody’s dead, and she can get me on my mobile later.
I give it a few moments’ thought, then try my dad as well. Also voicemail. The landline just rings out and out, and I can picture it, chiming away in the hall at home, on the little table that has a seat attached to it – an antique relic of a bygone era when people had to sit at home and talk to each other.
It’s weird that neither of them is answering. It’s Saturday, so Dad might be out at the pub with his mates. Mum’s usually at home, though, watching the clock and getting annoyed with him.
I chew my lip a bit, and decide there’s nothing else I can do for the time being. And, as I’ve been told, nobody’s dead.
I distract myself by making the tea, and walk back through to give Edie a mug. She’s chortling away at the sex aid catalogue, and peers at me over her glasses.
‘Oh my! The things these people come up with!’ she says, wrapping her papery-skinned fingers around the mug. ‘Where do they get their ideas from?’
‘I really don’t know,’ I reply, smiling at her infectious amusement. ‘It’s probably best not to think about it too deeply.’
She nods sagely, and stands up to her spectacular height of five foot nothing. She’s dressed in her usual beige cardigan and matching tights, with sensible shoes and a fluorescent orange Vans backpack draped from her slender shoulders. It’s like