Don’t Go Baking My Heart
Cressida McLaughlin
Part One of the charming new series from the author of The Canal Boat Cafe. Perfect for cake lovers and old-fashioned romantics!‘Captivating’ Heat Magazine‘Beautiful… heartwarming’ Zara Stoneley‘A wonderful ray of reading sunshine’ Heidi SwainOn your marks, get set… Baking fanatic, Charlie Quilter, still nursing a broken heart, is surprised when her late uncle bequeaths his vintage 1950s Routemaster bus to her in his will. She adored driving around with him in it when she was a child and can’t contemplate selling it.When Charlie loses her job, her friend Juliette has an exciting idea and suggests Charlie come to stay with her in the picturesque Cornish village of Porthgolow. Thrilled at the chance of a new start, Charlie packs her spatula, her pinny and her cute dog Marmite onto the bus and they head off for a summer adventure…
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First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2019 by HarperCollinsPublishers
Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019.
Cover illustration © May Van Millingen
Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008332143
Version: 2019-05-10
Table of Contents
Cover (#u5f39f174-9602-50b9-831f-956a85c51306)
Title Page (#u88fb383f-8445-5772-9605-bb764a151a6f)
Copyright (#ud6aa0ea2-a5ba-522a-9dd2-c07d93a71113)
Part 1: Don’t Go Baking My Heart (#ucc079768-e805-5ca0-9efa-c252f3cf9d53)
Chapter One (#ud5833757-d0bf-5b82-8dff-e2696ac13470)
Chapter Two (#ueeacdd98-c09f-553b-837b-13b99757bbd2)
Chapter Three (#u97f1a22a-6f3e-52ab-96ba-d696bd331212)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Cressida McLaughlin (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Part 1 (#u618d6b4b-44d1-594b-b98d-1add278122f7)
Don’t Go Baking My Heart (#u618d6b4b-44d1-594b-b98d-1add278122f7)
Chapter One (#u618d6b4b-44d1-594b-b98d-1add278122f7)
My Dearest Charlie,
Gertie is yours, to do with what you will. I know that you cherish her, but you do not need to keep her. She is a gift, not a millstone around your neck. If the best thing for you is to sell her and go travelling, then that is what you should do.
I have so much to say to you, but my time is running out. I hope that these few words will be enough to show you how much I love you; it’s more than I ever thought possible.
Look after yourself, think of all the happy times we spent together, and know that you can do anything if you believe in yourself enough.
Remember, my darling niece, live life to the full – you only get one chance. Make the most of your opportunities and do what is right for you.
All my love, always,
Your Uncle Hal x
Charlie Quilter folded the letter and pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, and tried to stop her heart from sinking as her dad stopped beside her in the garage doorway. His sigh was heavy, and not unexpected: he had been sighing a lot lately. She could barely remember a time when his narrow shoulders hadn’t been slumped, and she had forgotten what his laughter sounded like. But on this occasion, she felt the same as he did; the sight before them was not inspiring.
The 1960s Routemaster bus, painted cream with green accents, looked more scrapheap than vintage, and Charlie could see that its months left in the garage without Uncle Hal’s care and attention had had a serious impact.
‘God, Charlie,’ Vince Quilter said, stepping inside the garage and finding the light switch, ‘what are you – we – I mean …’ He shrugged, his arms wide, expression forlorn.
Charlie took a deep breath and, despite the February chill at her back, unzipped her coat and unwound her thick maroon scarf. The wind assailed her neck, newly exposed to the elements after the pre-Christmas, post-break-up, chop-it-all-off graduated bob that – she now realized – had been an ill-advised choice for this time of year.
‘We’re going to fix her,’ she said purposefully, putting her bag against the wall and laying her palm flat against the bus’s cold paintwork. ‘We’re going to restore Gertie, aren’t we, Dad?’ He was staring at the workbench where all Hal’s tools were laid out, rubbing his unshaven jaw. Hal’s death had hit him harder than anyone else, and while Charlie felt her uncle’s loss keenly, she knew it was nothing compared to what Vince was going through. ‘Dad?’ she prompted.
‘Sorry, love. That we are.’ He started rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, thought better of it and took it off instead. He switched on the heater and rubbed his hands together.
Charlie felt a surge of hope. She hurried over to her bag and pulled out a flask of coffee and a Tupperware box. ‘Here, have a brownie to keep you going. I thought we could do with some sustenance.’ She took off the lid, and a glimmer of a smile lit up Vince’s face.
‘Always thinking ahead, huh?’
‘This was never going to be the easiest task in the world, practically or emotionally. Brownies baked with love – and hazelnuts and chocolate chip, because that’s your favourite kind.’
‘Your food is the best, because it’s baked with love and extra calories,’ her dad said, taking one of the neatly arranged squares. ‘That’s what he always said.’
‘Yup.’ A lump formed unhelpfully at the back of Charlie’s throat, as it had been doing at inopportune moments ever since her uncle Hal had been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer at the end of last summer. So many things reminded her of him, and while dealing with practicalities – assessing the state of his beloved Routemaster bus, for example – were easier to focus on without the emotion overwhelming her, his sayings, his nuggets of wisdom, always knocked her off kilter. They were so ingrained in her family now, but it was as if she could hear Hal’s voice, his unwavering cheerfulness, whoever was saying the words.
‘Love and extra calories,’ she repeated, wincing when she noticed a deep gouge in Gertie’s side. ‘How did he get away with being so sentimental?’
‘Because he was straightforward,’ her dad said through a mouthful of chocolate and nuts. ‘He said everything without embarrassment or affectation. He was a sixty-eight-year-old man who called his bus Gertie. He meant it all, and was never ashamed of who he was.’
Uncle Hal had given scenic tours on Gertie, the vintage double-decker Routemaster, that were legendary throughout the Cotswolds. He was an expert bus driver and a world-class talker. Everyone who took one of his tours left feeling as if they’d made a friend for life, and the testimonials on TripAdvisor were gushing. His untimely death had left a huge hole in the Cotswold tourist trade, as well as his family’s life.
And now Gertie belonged to Charlie; left to her in Hal’s will, for her to do with whatever she wanted. At that moment, all she could see in the bus’s future was being dismantled and sold for spares, but she was not going to let that happen. She couldn’t imagine herself taking over her uncle’s tours, even though she had spent many hours on them and had been taught to drive the bus as soon as she was old enough. Her expertise was in baking, not talking.
Her dad finished his brownie and started examining Gertie’s engine. As a car dealer he knew his way around vehicles, but had admitted to Charlie that he wasn’t that knowledgeable about buses. Charlie had argued that it was just a bigger version, and nothing could be that different.
She cleaned the chocolate off her fingers with a paper napkin and climbed on board the bus. It had taken on a musty, unloved smell, and was bone-achingly cold. Charlie walked up the aisle of the lower deck, her fingers trailing along the backs of the forest-green seats, and opened the cab.
Her dad appeared behind her, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘The engine seems in good enough shape, but I only know the basics. And in here?’ He gave another melancholy sigh.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘She needs a bit of sprucing up, that’s all. A few things need fixing, there’s some cosmetic work, knocking a couple of panels back into shape, and then Gertie will be as good as new.’
‘I could give Clive a call,’ Vince said, worrying at his scruffy hair, ‘get him to come and give her a once-over, see what condition her vital organs are in.’
‘And in the meantime, I’ll tackle in here. We’ve got the Hoover, cleaning sprays, and I can make a list of what needs repairing. The toilet probably needs a good flushing out.’ Charlie made a face and her dad laughed.
‘You sure you want to start that now?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t we find out if she’s salvageable first? You don’t want to waste your time cleaning her if the engine’s buggered.’
‘Dad, the engine is not buggered. She’s fine. Hal was driving her right up until … he wasn’t any more. He never mentioned anything being wrong with her.’
‘Yes, but you have to agree she looks—’
‘Neglected,’ Charlie finished. ‘Which is why we’re here. I guarantee that once we’ve given her a bit of love and attention, things will look a hundred times better. Gertie is going back on the road, that’s all there is to it.’ She grinned, and it wasn’t even forced. She had almost convinced herself.
Her dad looked at her fondly. ‘You’re a wonder, Charlie. Anyone else faced with these circumstances – with this,’ he gestured around him, ‘and Hal, and everything you’ve been through with Stuart – would start a lengthy hibernation, and nobody would blame them. Instead you’ve baked brownies and dragged me here, and you’re not going to leave until Gertie’s gleaming. You don’t even know what you’re going to do with her when she’s restored!’
Charlie’s smile almost slipped at this last point, because that was worrying her far more than the state of Gertie’s engine or how many panels needed replacing. What on earth was she going to do with a vintage, double-decker bus, when she worked in a café in Ross-on-Wye and her main skills were baking and eating? ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said brightly. ‘One step at a time, Dad. Fix Gertie, and then decide what to do with her.’
She put the key in the ignition and a satisfying thrum reverberated, like a heartbeat, through the bus. The engine was working, at least. She cranked the heating up to max – she didn’t want her fingers to fall off before she’d polished the metalwork – then turned on the radio.
‘Gold’ by Spandau Ballet filled the space, and Charlie took her dad’s hands and pulled them up in the air with hers. She forced them into an awkward dance down the aisle, bumping into seats as they sashayed from the front of the bus to the back, and sang along at the top of her voice. Soon they were both laughing, and her dad let go of her hands so he could clutch his stomach. She dinged the bell and tried to get her breathing under control. When Vince looked up, Charlie could see the familiar warmth in his eyes that she had been worried was gone for good.
It was impossible not to feel cheered in Gertie’s company. Hal had been convinced there was something a little bit magical about her, and while Charlie had always argued that it was Hal who inspired the laughter on his tours, at this moment she wondered if he was right.
They could do this. No question. Despite all that had happened to her over the past few months, she knew she could restore Gertie to her former glory. What came next wasn’t so certain but, as she’d said to her dad, they could only take one step at a time. Right now, they needed to focus on bringing the bus back to life.
They worked all morning, and even though Charlie knew the bits they were fixing were only cosmetic, and a small part of her worried that when Clive came round he would tell them that the engine was too old, or there was too much rust in the chassis, or any one of a number of things that meant Gertie would not outlive Hal, she felt so much better for doing it. The radio kept them buoyed, and at one point her dad even whistled along to a Sixties tune, something that, only a day before, Charlie and her mum would both have thought impossible.
The simple act of working on Uncle Hal’s bus was taking the edge off their grief. It reminded Charlie how much she had loved spending time with him, a lot of it on board this very bus, and how big an influence he’d been on her. That didn’t have to stop just because he was no longer physically with her. Hal would be part of her life for ever.
It was after one o’clock when Vince announced he was going to get sandwiches. Charlie ordered an egg mayo and bacon baguette and, once her dad had strolled out of the garage with his jacket done up to his neck, she climbed to the top deck of the bus. She sat above the cab – her favourite position as a child because she could pretend she was driving – even though, inside the garage, the view was less than inspiring. As she did so, she felt the letter in her back pocket. Hal had left it for her in his will, and it had been folded and reopened so many times the paper had begun to wear thin along the creases.
It no longer made her cry, but the words still affected her deeply. He had never married, had never had a family of his own, so she had been like a daughter to him. Losing him had been a huge blow – his cancer diagnosis a mind-numbing shock followed quickly by practicalities as his condition worsened and he needed more care – but at least she had been able to spend time with him, to let him know how much she loved him and how much he had shaped her life. And she would always have his letter. It was bittersweet, but so much better than the irreversible cut-off of losing someone suddenly.
She was still lost in thought when she heard a woman calling her name, followed by a high-pitched yelp. Charlie ran down Gertie’s narrow staircase and out of the open doorway.
‘How are you doing?’ Juliette asked. Before Charlie had time to reply, Marmite raced up to her, his extendable lead whirring noisily, and put his tiny front paws on Charlie’s shins. Charlie scooped the Yorkipoo puppy into her arms and closed her eyes while he licked her chin. However miserable some aspects of life had been recently, Marmite never failed to bring a smile to her face. He was six months old, and more of a terror with every passing day.
‘OK, I think,’ Charlie said. ‘But don’t look at the outside, come and see what we’ve done inside. Dad’s getting someone to take a proper look at her, and in the meantime we’ve been giving her a polish. He’s just gone to get lunch.’
‘I know,’ Juliette said, unclipping Marmite’s lead and following Charlie onto the bus. ‘I saw him on my way here. He’s getting me a sandwich, too.’
‘So you can stay for a bit, before you go back to Cornwall this afternoon?’
Juliette nodded. ‘It’s been so good seeing everyone. But I’m still not sure, Char, how you’re really doing. What’s going on up here?’ She tapped Charlie’s forehead. ‘You’re putting on this amazing front, but I need to know before I go home that you’re OK.’
‘I’m fine,’ Charlie said. ‘This morning has helped a lot. Dad was concerned that Gertie wouldn’t be salvageable, but just look at her! She might need a bit of work under the bonnet, some patching up, but it’s given me hope.’
Juliette surveyed their morning’s work, the metal uprights gleaming, the walls clean, the seats vacuumed to within an inch of their lives. ‘She looks great, Char, almost as good as new. But I’m not as convinced about you. Since I’ve been back you’ve been so busy, working at The Café on the Hill, helping with the catering for the funeral. You haven’t stopped, even for a day. You should be taking some time out.’
Charlie groaned. ‘Why does everyone think that’s best for me? Keeping busy is what helps in this kind of situation.’ She led Juliette to a seat halfway down the bus. Some of the chairs were sagging dangerously, but this one, she had discovered earlier, was still fairly firm.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Juliette said after a minute. Her voice was low, her slight French accent always adding a seriousness to her words, though in this case it was probably intentional.
Charlie remembered the first time she had heard Juliette speak, on a packed train from London to Cheltenham; she’d been chatting with someone on the other end of her mobile, and had occasionally slipped into French. Charlie had been sitting next to her, and after Juliette had finished her call and offered some expletives in both languages, Charlie had asked her those same words: Are you OK? Juliette had been reserved, embarrassed that she’d been entertaining the whole carriage, and so Charlie had told her how she’d had a no-holds-barred telephone row with her then-boyfriend in a hotel doorway, not realizing that a wedding party were waiting to get past her into the ballroom, and how some of the guests had looked quite shocked when she’d finally noticed that they were watching her.
She’d made Juliette laugh, and by the time the train had pulled up in Cheltenham, they had swapped numbers and agreed to meet up. That had been almost seven years ago, and their friendship was still strong despite Juliette’s move to Cornwall two years before, with her boyfriend Lawrence. Charlie was still touched that Juliette had come back for Hal’s funeral, staying for a couple of weeks to catch up with friends in the area. She had been on Gertie countless times when she’d lived in Cheltenham, and Charlie hadn’t asked her if she was OK.
‘I’m not doing too badly,’ she said now. ‘I’ve been getting on with stuff, which is better than wallowing in the empty flat, or at Mum and Dad’s. Dad’s so cut up about losing Hal. Today is the first time I’ve seen him smile in what feels like for ever.’
‘I know you’re worried about Vince, but you have to think about yourself, too.’ Juliette put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Because it isn’t just Hal, is it? It’s only been a couple of months since you and Stuart … finished. And you’re in the flat, hosting viewings, unsure where you’re going to go once it’s sold. I know you don’t want to go back to living with your parents, and you can’t live on Gertie, as tempting as it is.’ She laughed softly.
‘That’s looking like one of the better options, actually,’ Charlie said, chuckling. ‘What am I going to do with her, Jules? I can’t be a tour guide. I’m a baker, a caterer. I don’t have the gift of the gab like Hal did. But, despite what he said in his letter, I can’t sell her.’ She rubbed her hands over her eyes, realizing too late that they were covered in cleaning spray.
‘Thisis why you need time,’ Juliette pressed. ‘You need to stop thinking for a bit, give yourself some space before you make any big decisions. The place in Newquay wasn’t brilliant, but our new house in Porthgolow, it’s perfect, Char. It’s so close to the sea. It’s beautiful and quiet, and the people in the village are friendly. Come and stay for a couple of weeks. Bea would give you the time off, wouldn’t she? The hours you’ve put into that café, you’re probably owed months back in overtime.’
‘Working is good for me,’ Charlie insisted but, even as she said it, the thought of returning to the café in Ross-on-Wye, even with its spring-themed window display and the ideas she had for seasonal cakes and sandwiches, didn’t fill her with as much joy as it should. There were too many other thoughts crowding her mind.
‘Take a break,’ Juliette continued. ‘Come and stay with Lawrence and me. I’m sure Marmite would get on fine with Ray and Benton. They’re easy-going cats, and Marmite’s still so small. And the most adorable dog in the world, by the way. I’m so glad you’ve got him to look after you.’
Marmite was sitting on the seat in front of them, scrabbling at the back of the cushion as if there might be a treat hidden somewhere in the fabric. Charlie picked him up and settled him on her lap, rubbing his black-and-tan coat. She pictured the two of them walking along a sandy beach with crystal blue water beyond, to a soundtrack of seagulls and crashing waves. It was certainly a better image than this bland, functional garage or the flat she had shared with Stuart, now empty and soulless. She didn’t want to run away from the hard things in life, but she knew her friend was right.
‘Let me talk to Bea,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll see if I can get a couple of weeks off.’
Juliette’s face lit up. She ruffled Charlie’s hair, which had been enhanced from its natural reddish hue into a vibrant copper at the same time as the drastic haircut. ‘The next time you’re in the café, you promise me you’ll ask her?’
‘I will, I—’
‘Room for a little one?’ Her dad appeared in the doorway, along with the salty tang of bacon.
‘Thanks so much, Vince,’ Juliette said, accepting her baguette and a coffee.
‘You convinced Charlie to come and stay with you yet?’ he asked, taking the seat in front and turning to face them.
‘Almost,’ Juliette said. ‘She’s agreed to ask Bea for some time off.’
‘Bloody hell! You’ve actually got her considering a holiday? Or have you tempted her down with some sort of Cornish cooking competition?’
‘No competition,’ Juliette said through a mouthful of cheese sandwich. ‘No work. An actual holiday.’
‘I am here, you know,’ Charlie said, lifting her baguette out of Marmite’s reach. The dog put his paws on her chest and sniffed the air, whimpering mournfully.
‘It doesn’t hurt to hear the unvarnished truth occasionally, love,’ Vince replied.
‘I’ve never …’ she started, then sighed and unwrapped her lunch. She didn’t want to argue with her dad, and she knew they both had her best interests at heart, even if they were being irritating about it.
‘This is cosy, isn’t it?’ Juliette said. ‘Having a picnic on board Gertie. Hal could have started something like this, including sandwiches and cups of tea on his tours.’
‘Enough people brought their own food, didn’t they?’ Vince laughed. ‘He was getting fat on all the sausage rolls and packets of Maltesers that went around.’
‘But a few tables in here instead of front-facing seats, a tea urn, the beautiful views outside the windows. It’d be ideal, wouldn’t it? If the weather was cold, or you didn’t want wasps in your cupcakes.’ Juliette grinned. ‘You could see the countryside from the comfort of the bus.’
Charlie returned her friend’s smile, her synapses pinging. She couldn’t be a tour guide. She knew how to drive the bus, she had the right licence and kept up to date with her top-up training, but she hadn’t done it every day for the last thirty years; she was inexperienced. But what she could do, almost with her eyes closed, was feed people. She could make cakes and pastries and scones that had customers squealing in pleasure and coming back for thirds.
And Gertie was cosy. With a bit more polish and a couple of personal touches, the bus could even look quite homely. It could be somewhere you’d enjoy spending time, and not just for a journey around the winding lanes of the Cotswolds.
‘All right, love?’ her dad asked, his eyebrows raised quizzically.
‘Earth to Charlie!’ Juliette snapped her fingers, and Marmite let out a tiny growl.
‘I think I’ve got it,’ Charlie murmured.
‘Got what?’ Vince asked.
A smile spread across her face. This might be the answer she had been looking for. If it worked, she would have to reward Juliette for the flash of inspiration, so bright that it was like a meteor sailing across the sky.
‘I think I know what I’m going to do,’ she said, patting the seat next to her. ‘I think I’ve found a way to keep Gertie on the road.’
Chapter Two (#u618d6b4b-44d1-594b-b98d-1add278122f7)
‘Have you completely lost it this time, Charlie?’
At least Bea Fishington wasn’t one for mincing her words.
‘I don’t think so,’ Charlie replied, following her from the kitchen into the main café, carrying a plate of freshly baked raspberry flapjacks. ‘I think this could be a real turning point, for me and Gertie – and for you and The Café on the Hill.’
Bea folded her arms over her large chest, the silk of her cream blouse straining across it. ‘Serving cakes on your uncle’s bus? I know you’re sad about losing him – completely understandable; he was a gentleman – but you’re looking for harmony where there is none to be found.’
‘I disagree,’ Charlie said, sliding the flapjacks into place behind the glass counter. ‘It would be a way to get this place known, to expand its range beyond these four walls.’ She gestured to the smart, well-appointed café. The walls in question were slate grey, complemented by a black-and-white chequerboard floor. Accents around the room in lemon yellow and sky blue gave it a modern twist. There were high benches in the window and a mixture of squashy sofas and upright chairs, inviting lone workers with laptops, couples, large families and groups of friends.
Early in the morning on a dull Monday at the beginning of March it was quiet, with a couple of post-school-run mums drinking lattes and two men with grey hair sitting by the window sharing a toasted teacake.
Bea glared at her, but Charlie stood up straighter and refused to look away. She had a height advantage over Bea – over most other women, if she was honest – and a determination that had got her into trouble on more than one occasion. But she knew this was a good idea. The area around Cheltenham and Ross-on-Wye, England’s glorious, green Cotswolds, was always hosting fairs, festivals and myriad other events, where a beautiful vintage bus selling cakes would be popular. Every time Charlie had moaned to Hal that she had nothing to do at the weekend, that Juliette was with Lawrence or Stuart was staying in London for some posh bankers’ do, Hal would reel off a list of all the classic car shows and autumn fêtes and dog owners’ carnivals that were happening, leaving her with no room to complain.
‘I’m not after world domination,’ Bea said, turning to the coffee machine. ‘I know you’re ambitious, Charlie. I could see that from the moment I met you, and I have no doubt that you’ll be running your own café or catering empire before too long. But selling cakes from a bus? It sounds too tricky. How would you store ingredients, make drinks en masse?’
‘People live on buses,’ Charlie countered. ‘They cook and shower and sleep on buses, so selling a few coffees and scones couldn’t possibly be a problem.’
‘You say that like you’ve not researched it at all.’ Bea frothed the milk, pausing their conversation while a loud whooshing sound filled the space between them.
‘That’s what Google’s for.’ She grinned and shrugged, her smile falling when Bea didn’t return it. ‘I’m going to speak to Clive, one of my dad’s friends, tomorrow. He’s coming to give Gertie a once-over anyway, and he’s refurbished a few buses, so he’ll know exactly how I can get a coffee machine and a fridge installed on it.’
Bea handed Charlie a cappuccino, and she sprinkled it with chocolate dusting. ‘Is it even laid out like a café?’ she asked.
Charlie leaned against the counter and blew on her drink until a dent appeared in the thick froth. ‘It’s got front-facing seats. But I thought, to begin with, I could just serve from it. People can sit on the bus if they like, but I’ll treat it like a takeaway food truck, just to see if it’s possible. Then I can think about modifying it properly. The Café on the Hill could have an offshoot, like a cutting from a plant. The Café on the Bus. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? And you know the food will be good quality; I’ve never let you down in that respect, have I? Why not spread your wings? Give yourself some wheels, expand your horizons.’
‘You have put so many mixed metaphors into that sentence, I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Begin by saying yes, Bea. Just to the Fair on the Field. People in Ross-on-Wye know your café. It’s big enough to be a proper test, and small enough that if it all goes hideously wrong – which it won’t,’ Charlie added quickly – ‘then your reputation won’t be dented. One event, one chance.’ She clasped her hands together in front of her.
‘And you’re definitely speaking to this Clive person tomorrow? There can be no cut corners with food hygiene or health and safety. Everything has to be done properly.’
‘It will be,’ Charlie said.
Bea’s shoulders dropped, her lips curving into what could almost be considered a smile. ‘I’ll need to see plans. Exactly how it’s going to work. Then I’ll make a decision.’
‘Of course,’ Charlie said, nodding.
‘And just the Fair on the Field. One gig, and we’ll take it from there, OK?’
‘OK. Absolutely. Thank you, Bea. You won’t regret it.’
‘I’d better not,’ she muttered.
Charlie went to adjust the window display where one of her daffodils, lovingly crafted out of tissue paper and card, had drooped and was giving off a despondent air. Her pulse was racing. Serving cakes on Hal’s bus, to the general population, at a public event. Somehow, in light of Bea’s cold, logical reality, it seemed like the most ludicrous idea on the planet.
But people did live on buses. They travelled around in their portable houses, where they had all the mod cons. Some were even luxurious, like tiny five-star hotels. Surely fitting a few basic appliances wasn’t too far beyond the realms of possibility? Well, she would find out tomorrow. She hoped that Clive would make it easy for her.
After not having been in Hal’s garage for months, Charlie was back there for the second time in less than a week. Today, she had the sun at her back. It was a weak March sun that couldn’t cut through the cold, but it was welcome nonetheless, as were the sounds of metal against metal and her dad chatting to Clive while he did something unfathomable to Gertie’s engine.
Everything about today was an improvement on last time, except that Juliette wasn’t here. She was all the way down in Cornwall, with Lawrence, her cats and a sea view. Charlie would go and see her – of course she would. But she couldn’t go now, not when she had the fire of possibility lighting her up.
Clive had assured her and Vince that Gertie wasn’t destined for the scrapheap, and that he would be able to have her back to her best in a day or so. He’d also been more positive than Charlie could have hoped about the other alterations she wanted to make.
‘So you really think it’s possible?’ she asked, when there was a lull in the conversation. ‘Putting in a serving hatch and a coffee machine. A fridge, even?’
‘Oh, it’s doable,’ Clive said, standing up. He was a short man with silver hair, ruddy cheeks and cheerful blue eyes. ‘I can’t get it perfect with your budget and timescales, but for the Fair on the Field it’ll see you right.’
‘Thank you,’ Charlie said. ‘And it’s safe, is it? What you’re going to do?’
Clive chuckled and tapped his spanner against his chin. ‘It won’t put her at risk of explosion if that’s what you’re worried about. Ideally, she’d need a generator and an extra water tank, some of the seats ripped out, but you can come to those if it’s worth pursuing.’
‘That’s great!’ Charlie did a little jump. Marmite barked and attacked her boot.
‘Your mum’s going places,’ Vince said, picking up the Yorkipoo and rubbing his fur. ‘Shame it’s not Cornwall, though.’ He gave Charlie a sideways glance.
‘I’ll go and see her,’ Charlie protested. ‘But the Fair on the Field is the perfect opportunity to test this idea out. I can visit Juliette anytime, and Cornwall will be nicer in the summer. Also, if I do it once the flat’s sorted, I’ll have more holiday money.’
‘It’s not gone through yet?’ her dad asked, putting Marmite on the floor.
‘Nope. We’ve got buyers, but God knows what Stuart’s doing. I need to call the solicitor and see where we’re up to.’
‘It’s a lot to be dealing with, love. Are you sure trying Gertie out for this café bus business is the best step right now? I was surprised that you even wanted to come and look at her so soon, and this new venture is going to be a lot of work. Don’t you want a bit of breathing space? Coast along while you sort out the flat and let life … settle?’
‘I can’t let go of this idea now,’ she said. ‘It’s in my head, and I’m going to be unsettled and fidgety until I’ve tried it. One event, then I’ll have some idea if it’s worth more investment – of my time and, maybe, a bit more money. Besides, Bea might have changed her mind by tomorrow. I need to strike while the iron’s hot.’
Vince looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. She could see the concern in his eyes, but she knew that he wouldn’t push it.
Everyone dealt with loss in different ways. It wasn’t great timing that her relationship with Stuart had imploded soon after her uncle had become ill, but at least it couldn’t get much worse. And her biggest fear – or the one it was easiest to focus on, at least – Gertie and what would happen to her, was on the way to being solved. Her dad couldn’t be against her revitalizing Hal’s pride and joy. He was worried about her, but there was no need for him to be.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I almost forgot. I brought snacks.’ She dug in her bag and pulled out the box of orange and chocolate-chip muffins she’d made early that morning. Clive downed tools immediately. Marmite pawed at her legs, and she gave him a couple of puppy treats.
While they were eating, Charlie took her time to walk slowly around Gertie. Clive still needed to fix the panelling, but with the sunshine hitting her glossy cream paint and reaching through the windscreen to alight on the newly polished metalwork, the bus was looking a lot better. Almost like her old self.
And soon, she would be transformed again. The changes would be small, but significant. They would allow Charlie to give the Routemaster a brand-new lease of life. And everyone deserved a second chance.
As Clive and her dad gave her the thumbs-up for her muffins, she felt the first flutterings of excitement. This could be the start of something great, for her and for Gertie. When you’re down, the best course of action is to get up, and aim higher than you’ve ever aimed before. Charlie Quilter had never been one for wallowing: she was going to prove to everyone just how bad at it she was.
Chapter Three (#u618d6b4b-44d1-594b-b98d-1add278122f7)
The Fair on the Field took place at the bottom of the hill on which Ross-on-Wye town centre proudly sat. It was a beautiful spot, with the River Wye wending along the bottom of the field, and the buildings of the town looking down on it from up high. When Charlie had phoned up to book a space, the organizers had assured her that, despite being close to the river, the ground was firm enough for Gertie; they’d had enough food trucks over the years and never had a problem. Even so, her pitch was at the edge closest to the road, where the ground was more solid. But it had rained heavily during the night, and while the sun was shining down on them now, as if the torrential downpour had never happened, Charlie could feel the wheels spinning as she navigated Gertie over the bumpy grass to her slot.
At least she knew how to drive the bus. Her time spent on the vintage Routemaster had started when she was little, Hal teaching her how to steer in car parks from his lap and, once she was old enough to legally drive, being patient with her about turning circles and visibility, how much space she needed to manoeuvre it into a tight spot. He’d encouraged her to take the bus driving test soon after she’d passed her car test with flying colours, and she was proud of her ability to keep the ride as smooth as possible, to not panic when faced with the narrowest of lanes.
‘OK, Sal?’ she called back into the bus, where Sally, The Café on the Hill’s newest staff member, seventeen years old, and with a pile of caramel curls on top of her head, was sitting quietly.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, her high voice rising further as they went over a large rut in the grass.
Charlie grinned. They had made it. Clive’s hard work had paid off and now, with only the loss of a couple of downstairs seats, she had a small preparation area, and an under-the-counter fridge where she could keep chocolate éclairs and fresh cream cakes. She had made individual portions of Eton Mess and Key Lime pies, and a range of flapjacks, brownies and millionaire’s shortbread. Clive had also installed a fresh-water tank. It was small, but it meant she could have a proper coffee machine with a milk frother.
Everything was fairly cramped, but that didn’t matter because she wasn’t going to invite people onto the bus. What remained of the downstairs seating was taken up with her trays of goodies, and one of the long windows was now a serving hatch. She could unclip it and pull it up, securing it inside the bus while she served through the opening, as with any other food truck. It was perfect.
Gertie was a half-cab Routemaster, with the traditional hobbit-sized door on the driver’s side, used to climb into the cab, and the main doorway and stairs at the back of the bus. When Hal had given her a makeover a couple of years ago, he had made the cab accessible from inside the bus – he told Charlie he was getting too old to hoick himself over the wheel arch – and installed a tiny but functional toilet under the stairs. Clive had made Gertie as good as new and, with the extra additions, she had everything she needed, Charlie hoped, to work as a café bus. But this day would prove it either way; she was determined to make a success of it.
She slowed the bus down, and a young man in a fluorescent jacket waved her into position. Sally arranged the trays of bakes strategically around the serving hatch while Charlie jumped down from the bus and, registering nervously how spongy the grass was, slid her menu into the frame Clive had bolted on next to the opening. She was offering a selection of sweet and savoury treats, including a sausage roll with flaky pastry and a herby sausage-meat filling. Ideally they’d be served warm, but they tasted delicious cold as well.
‘Ready to go?’ she asked Sally, who was smoothing down her apron and staring at the sausage rolls as if they might bite. ‘It doesn’t open officially for another half an hour, but it may be that other traders will want a snack before the general public arrive.’
Sally had only been working at The Café on the Hill for two weeks, and behaved as if everything was a potential threat. Charlie knew she’d come out of her shell sooner or later, and thought that a day spent at a fair, where almost anything could happen, would be good for her.
‘I’ve arranged all the cakes and pastries,’ Sally said, giving Charlie a nervous smile.
‘They look great. Shall we go and hang the banner up?’
She’d had it made at one of the local printer’s; a beautiful sign in tarpaulin-weight material that would run the length of the vehicle, declaring it to be The Café on the Busin burgundy writing on a cream background. Beneath it, in a forest-green font, it read: An offshoot of The Café on the Hill. It had brass-capped eyelets threaded through with thick chord, so she could attach it easily over the upper deck windows. Even Bea had widened her eyes appreciatively when she had showed her, rolling it out along the tabletops in the café.
She had also added a couple of photos of Gertie to The Café on the Hill’s Instagram page, and had received 117 likes on the picture she’d posted yesterday. It needed work, but it was a solid start.
Now Charlie led the way up the narrow staircase, the metal rail cool under her hand, and passed one end of the banner to Sally.
‘We’re going to have to hang it out of that end window, and then I’m going to have to grab it and unroll it outside, going to each window in turn to get it running the whole length of the bus. So just hold on, OK?’
‘OK,’ Sally parroted back.
It was hard going. She had to lean her arms out of adjacent windows so she could hold it up and then unfurl it further, but after ten minutes of sweating and muttered swearing, she was tying her end of the banner firmly onto the window. It was the right way round. It wasn’t upside down. Quietly triumphant, they rushed outside to look at their handiwork, and Charlie grinned. ‘The Café on the Bus,’ she declared. ‘We are open for business!’
Within two minutes of the banner going up, she had a queue of five people looking eagerly up at her through the serving hatch.
‘What’s this, love,’ said an old man with a flat cap pulled low over his eyes. ‘Hal’s old bus getting a new lease of life?’
‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘He left it to me, and I’m giving it a fresh start as a food truck. What do you think?’
‘I think my Daphne will miss the tours,’ he said, accepting a sausage roll and a black coffee in a sturdy takeaway cup. Charlie hadn’t had time to get them branded, but had picked out cream and green cups to tie in with the bus’s colour scheme.
‘Lots of people will,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Hal ran brilliant tours, but I can’t do that.’
‘Someone else could mebbe take them on, then,’ he added thoughtfully, and bit into the sausage roll. He eyed it appraisingly, and then her, and then shrugged. ‘Not sure it’s meant to be a café bus, like.’
Charlie kept her smile fixed. ‘I’m just giving it a go. This is our first outing together.’ She patted the side of the bus, feeling like something out of a cheesy Sixties film.
‘I say good luck to you,’ called a tall man in a navy fleece from further back in the queue. ‘Coffee out of a bus is a marvellous idea. Gives it a bit of individuality. You going to serve three-course dinners from your little window, too?’
‘Oh, shush your mouth, Bill Withers,’ said a bright-faced, plump lady Charlie recognized from the chemist’s in town. ‘This young lass is using her initiative. Would you rather the bus stayed locked away in a garage until it rusted to nothing? We all know Hal wouldn’t have wanted that.’
‘I just think it’s hilarious,’ Bill countered, while Charlie tried to serve and not let embarrassment overwhelm her. ‘Serving food from Hal’s old bus. Whatever next? Driving to work in the Indian takeaway?’ He laughed a loud, unbridled laugh that had several people turning in their direction.
‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ the woman said as she reached the front of the queue. ‘He’s so far stuck in the past he should be wearing black and white.’ She rolled her eyes, and this time Charlie’s smile was genuine.
‘It was only an idea,’ she replied. ‘Hal left me the bus, and I wanted to put it to good use, to have it out in the open, like you said. I’m a baker, so I thought I could combine the two.’
‘And it’s a grand idea,’ her supporter said, accepting a slightly haphazard-looking Eton Mess that was living up a bit too well to its name – Charlie would have to do something to keep her puddings upright when they were driving across rough ground. ‘You iron out a few … wrinkles, and it’ll be a triumph. Don’t listen to the naysayers. You do you,
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