Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café: The only heart-warming feel-good novel you need!. Debbie Johnson
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woman’s boobs since I went through my brief and failed experimental phase many years ago.
At first, I panic, and have the urge to punch her in the ribs and run away – I’m not big on hugs. But she seems so genuinely delighted to see us, and her hugging is so utterly heartfelt, that after that initial moment of freak-out, I just give in, and let myself be smothered for a few seconds. Lord knows I need a hug. By the time she releases me, blinking into the sunlight, I’d quite like to burrow back in there and let all my cares get squashed away.
She holds me by the shoulders so she can inspect me, and I see her frown, then shake her head so all that long hair swishes around.
“Good job you’re a red-head,” she says, poking at my curls, “I think I might have just rubbed fake blood in your hair … I’m Cherie, by the way. Cherie Moon.”
Before I have the chance to respond, she’s moving on to Martha, and giving her the hug treatment as well. Uh-oh, I think, as I see Martha try and shrivel away from her, this won’t end well: Martha might not be in fancy dress, but she has plenty of horrible behaviour up her sleeve. I look on, my fingers screwed up into fists with the tension, expecting screams and yells and possibly karate kicks.
Instead, Martha does the same as me – she simply gives in to it. After one touch, she seems to collapse into Cherie’s arms, and even endures it when she strokes her hair and mutters soothing noises into her ear. I even think – though I might be wrong here – that I see the glint of tears in Martha’s eyes when she is finally released.
Good lord, I think to myself – what’s going on here? Does this woman have supernatural powers after all? Maybe it’s like it happens in a film or one of those teen TV shows I’m technically too old for but secretly love, and she is a real-life vampire with the power to magic us all into submission…
Cherie spoils this potential illusion by letting out an enormous belch, giggling, and apologising.
“Sorry about that, ladies – there’ve been a few ciders too many, it seems! Anyway, come on, come on, I want you to meet everyone …”
I look at Martha and raise my eyebrows as Cherie walks towards the others.
“Normal enough for you?” I ask. She just shrugs, and looks as confused as I feel.
As we approach the rest of the horror movie cast, I notice a few more details about the hula-hoopers. The Monster is a tall man, bright blue eyes glinting in his painted face, his hair blonde and surfer-long. He’s bare-chested, and although the chest in question is green, it’s also totally ripped. Kind of Young Matthew McConaughey does Frankenstein.
He’s doing a mean hip swivel, keeping the bright orange hoop flying, even though he is creased up with laughter. Next to him is Count Dracula, dressed in a smart black suit complete with waistcoat and cloak, and I notice that he’s a lot older than he looked at a distance – 70s at least – but with a healthy, weather-beaten face that shines through even the white make-up. He’s also doing all right with the hoop.
The Mummy, however … well, she never stood a chance, as she’s approximately three years pregnant, and the size of a hippo. She’s pulled the bandages off her face, and they droop around her shoulders with her long dark hair. The hula hoop is, tragically, completely still – she’s looped it over her head, and it’s simply got stuck around her body, perched solidly on the top of her baby bump. She’s looking at it morosely, as though wondering how all of this ever happened to her.
Frankenstein stops swivelling, drops his hoop to the ground, and steps out of it. He lifts hers back over her head – there’s no way it’s ever going to go in the other direction - and gently kisses her on the lips. Ah, I think. That’s how it happened.
At this point, the devil dog spots us, and runs immediately over to investigate. He sniffs my Converse, and I give him a quick tickle behind his velvety ears. Martha, who isn’t that keen on people but adores dogs, drops straight to the ground to let him lick her face. He does so enthusiastically, his tail wagging at the speed of light, as a lady dressed as some kind of evil nurse walks over to us. She’s wearing a slightly slutty, blood-spattered outfit, but offsets the short skirt with a pair of leggings underneath – like she’s not quite confident enough to go full slutty.
She’s not tall, and she’s curvy, and pretty, and has exactly the same kind of crazy hair as me, except hers is brown. Mainly brown – there is one green streak in the mass of locks, curling at the side of her face, half grown-out.
She holds out her hand for me to shake, and smiles at me with such warmth and kindness that I immediately want to adopt her as my big sister.
“Hi – I’m Laura, and this,” she says, pointing at the dog, “is Midgebo. He has no manners at all, I’m sorry. Welcome to Budbury.”
I nod, and smile, and try to look less bewildered than I actually feel.
“Erm … nice to meet you, and thank you. And don’t worry about the dog – Martha has no manners either.”
There’s a brief ‘humph’ noise from beneath the tangle of teenager and Labrador which lets me know she heard that, which is fine. I intended her to hear it.
“Laura … why is everyone dressed like this?” I ask, gesturing at the party with my fingers. I notice a table set off to one side, laden down with bottles of cider and cupcakes with tiny icing skulls on top and bowls of gooey jelly with what look like eyeballs floating in them.
“Oh! Well, we always dress like this on a Sunday …” she says, grinning. “Right before we sacrifice a goat to the Sacred Lord of Darkness.”
Martha’s face emerges from the flurry of Labrador, and she looks interested. Laura notices, and quickly shakes her head.
“No, sorry – I was kidding! No goat sacrifices here, I’m afraid. At least not as far as I know. It was Frank’s birthday party last night. That’s Frank, over there, the hula-hooping Count Dracula. It was his 81st. We always have a big fancy dress bash for him. Last year was the Wild West, this year was horror legends. We had all these outfits left over, and the food, and it was pretty much the last day of the holiday season, and we knew you guys were coming, and … well, any excuse for a party, in all honesty.”
I nod, as though that makes sense, while I hold out one hand to help Martha back up to her feet. Predictably enough, she completely ignores it and struggles up alone, leaving my hand hanging. I feel a mild flush flow over my cheeks – one of the many curses of The Ginger Brethren – and take a deep breath. What did I really expect? That we’d move to Dorset and Martha would suddenly turn into a model teen? She hadn’t told anyone to fuck off yet – I had to accept the small mercies and move on.
Laura also notices that, of course, and gives me a sympathetic smile. She points at the zombie pack, who I now see, closer up, are all teenagers – Martha’s age, maybe 14 through to 18 or thereabouts.
“The blonde zombie over there,” she says, gesturing at a petite girl with a long ponytail, “is my daughter, Lizzie. She’s almost 16. Next to her – the zombie in the beanie hat - is her boyfriend Josh, he’s 17, and a couple of their mates from the village.”
“Wow,” I say, gazing at them. “It’s impressive – the way she’s managed to incorporate black eyeliner into her zombie outfit.”
“Oh yes,” replies Laura, looking on proudly, “she wouldn’t be caught dead without her eyeliner – or even undead! And over there is my son Nate, he’s 13. He’s the junior Frankenstein. The pregnant Mummy is my sister Becca, and the cutie with her is Sam. Or Surfer Sam, as he’s known for obvious reasons. Frank is married to Cherie, in case you were wondering. And the girl with the pink hair is Willow, and Catwoman is Edie May. She’s 91, but don’t let that fool you – she actually won the hula hoop challenge, the others were just playing for the losers’ spots …”
It’s a lot to take in. A lot of names, and information, and stuff to remember. Details to file away. None of which seems to be easy at the moment, as all I can see in my mind’s