For Charlotte Ledger, editor, friend, and honorary Budbury resident – thank you for everything
The latest meeting of the Budbury Ladies Coffee and Cake Club is in full swing. We are all present and correct in the café; it’s a Monday and it’s closed for business to actual paying customers.
The gingham-clothed tables are loosely arranged together in the middle of the large room, sunlight streaming in through the picture windows, the sea below shining and shimmering as it rolls into the bay. The various weird mobiles made of old seven-inch vinyl singles and shells and the wooden things you get inside spools of cotton are dangling in and out of the sun, striped in shade and light like golden tigers.
Beneath the dangling mobiles, we sit, gathered around the tables. We are fully equipped with all the necessary items: coffee in its rich variety of lattes and mochas and in some cases – by which I mean mine – espresso martinis. We have wine, and bubbly, and home-made cider. We have cake of every possible type, including tipsy meringue, black forest gateaux, strawberry pudding and a rich sherry trifle with way too much sherry in it. This is a stealth piss-up via the medium of pudding.
Most importantly, we have the Ladies. Or most of them at least. Me, my sister Willow, the café owner Cherie Moon (I always like to use her full name, because it’s so awesome), Katie, Zoe, Edie, Becca and our guest of honour, Laura.
Off to one side is a long trestle table heaving with gifts, contributions from the village for Laura’s baby shower-slash-hen-do. Everyone loves Laura – at least everyone who’s met her. Normally that would be enough to guarantee that I’d at least try and hate her, out of sheer contrariness, but even I can’t manage it. She’s just too bloody lovely, with her crazy curly hair and warm smile and kindness oozing out of every pore.
I notice that she’s staring at my espresso martini with something akin to lust in her eyes, and think that maybe I could learn to hate her – if she lays one fingertip on my glass she’s dead. Or at the very least she’ll get stabbed in the hand with my fork.
Becca, Laura’s little sister, stands up and taps a spoon against the side of her own glass. She clears her throat in an exaggerated ‘master of ceremonies’ way, and gains our attention.
‘Dearly beloved,’ she says seriously, ‘we are gathered here today to celebrate the single life of Laura. Laura who was once Fletcher, who became Walker, and who will shortly be Hunter. Assuming that Matt doesn’t come to his senses and join the Foreign Legion. Pause for laughter.’
She looks up, and we are already obliging. She’s funny, Becca – sharp and sarcastic and stinging. She’s also teetotal, when most of us are at least on our way to being smashed. Being the sober person at a party always leads to some wicked observations. Often about me, as I’m usually the most drunk person at a party.
‘Today, at this solemn occasion,’ she continues, once we’ve stopped giggling, ‘I would like to share with you something from Laura’s past. Something she’s probably forgotten exists. Something that our parents found when they were packing up their house, and thought I might be interested in. I was interested. In fact, I was so interested that I even got it … laminated!’
She waves a sheet of plastic-coated paper in the air dramatically, and we all react as though she’s the villain in a pantomime, revealing the blueprints of a diabolical masterplan.
Everyone is in a good mood. Everyone is the most relaxed I’ve seen them, ever. Part of that is because all of our responsibilities, all the darling burdens we love dearly, have been taken off our hands for the afternoon.
Cal, Zoe’s partner – think rugged Aussie cowboy, Thor on horseback – has taken all of the teenagers away to Oxford for the night to visit the college where his daughter, and Zoe’s kind of step-daughter, will be studying later this year. With him are Lizzie and Nate, Laura’s teenaged kids, freeing them up from worrying that anybody is roaming the village getting pregnant or skateboarding off cliffs.
Katie’s four-year-old, Saul, is off on an adventure with Van, who is my brother and Katie’s man toy. That always makes me a bit sick in my mouth, but they seem happy, so who am I to complain? He’s also taken a mismatched set of two mums with him: Sandra – Katie’s mum – who could create a crisis if she was alone on a desert island talking to a coconut head, and Lynnie – mine and Willow’s mum.
Lynnie has Alzheimer’s, and is recovering from bowel cancer. That sounds horrendously grim, but weirdly isn’t – since we found out about the cancer and she had her op, she’s actually been having an extended good spell. She still has no idea who we are half the time, but the aggressive episodes that had been getting more common have faded. Probably because she’s not in pain any more. Pain will make anyone grumpy.
Me, Willow and Van care for Lynnie between us, and we all love her dearly – but I’d be lying if I said it was easy, and it’s a relief to know she’s off having fun with a responsible adult who isn’t one of us. Plus she’s with Saul, who has no idea what Alzheimer’s is, doesn’t remember Lynnie the way she was before, and simply reacts to everything she does with delight and love. Kids are great – as long they’re someone else’s.
Becca’s baby, Little Edie, who’s not long started toddling, is off with her dad, Sam. Even the dogs – Laura’s Midgebo, an insane black lab, and our beguiling Border Terrier Bella Swan – are taken care of, enjoying the sunshine in the doggy crèche field outside.
This sense of being carefree is unusual for most of us, and adds to the sense of elation inside the café. Nobody is working. Nobody is looking after anybody. Nobody has responsibility for anybody but themselves. Wowzers.
That, plus the fact that we’re half cut, makes us an easy audience for Becca’s speech. She swoops the laminated sheet around for a while, like it’s a magic wand, before putting her glasses on to read it.
They’re not actually glasses with lenses. She’s only in her thirties, and doesn’t usually use specs. These glasses are plastic fancy dress ones complete with a honking great Groucho nose, moustache and eyebrows.
Again, we all find this unutterably hilarious, especially Edie, who laughs so hard that Katie and I share concerned glances in case she has a heart attack or chokes on her own merriment.
Edie is in her nineties, and suffered a nasty bout of pneumonia last year. I’m a pharmacist and Katie’s a nurse, and I think we’re the only ones who realised quite how close we were to losing our much-loved village elder.
She recovers, patting her tummy as she gulps in the air she lost due to Becca’s hilarity, and I give Katie a little thumbs-up sign as the speech continues.
‘This,’ announces Becca once the furore has died down, gazing at us from behind her plastic frames, ‘comes to you directly from the mind of ten-year-old Laura. It starts with these priceless words: My Dream Wedding.’
Laura groans out loud, and we all laugh at her embarrassment. We’re nice like that. Cherie, who is in her seventies but looks like an Amazonian Pocahontas with a fat silver and grey plait hanging over her solid shoulders, nudges her and grins.
‘When I am older, my dream wedding will be all pink,’ Becca reads, glancing at her sister over the Groucho specs to check that she’s suitably mortified. ‘I will have a pink carriage drawn by pink horses and all the guests will wear pink, even the men. My