‘What if they’re people who don’t like retro cakes? What if they’re people who want modern-day recipes with no stodge, and want plant-based, gluten free, sugarless options? What if this space is just too small? What if I forget how to make a cup of tea?’
‘I don’t thinkanyonewants a sugarless cake.Yeeeeuck!’ He makes a face of disgust that covers how much he’s trying not to laugh at my completely rational panicking. ‘And you won’t forget how to make a cup of tea, because I have something for you.’
He disappears towards the steps and then reappears at the window. ‘Well, not that you’ll actually be able to make tea in it, it won’t be watertight now, strictly for decorative purposes, but I did the best I could.’
He’s holding something behind his back, and he pulls his hands out to reveal… my teapot. My mouth falls open. My beautiful vintage teapot is transformed since the last time I saw it, when he took the broken shards to save me the trouble of depositing them in the skip. It’s been put back together like a jigsaw puzzle and held by what looks like cement. It might not be perfect, but it’s the most perfect thing anyone’s ever done for me.
‘Reece! You mended it? Seriously?’ I take it carefully when he hands it up through the window and run my fingers over the thin white cracks that criss-cross it, and I’m absolutely floored that he went to so much trouble. ‘Why did you do that? It must’ve taken forever.’
‘There’s this lovely Japanese art where they?—’
‘Mend things with gold to highlight the breaks,’ I finish for him, because I know immediately what he’s getting at. ‘Kintsugi. They believe that flaws and breakages are part of an object’s history that only make it more beautiful.’
‘Exactly. I didn’t have any gold, so cement will have to do, but it’s still symbolic. You bought it as a mascot and it got broken and so did the business, but maybe it was never meant for that. Maybe it was always meant to be here, a little battered and worse for wear, but here none the less, mascoting for the new, improved version of your business.’
His words give me a sense of purpose and I stand the teapot in a corner of the sink unit so I can see it from where I am at the serving hatch. ‘I want to give you a hug, but I know I’m going to start crying and never stop. That’s the loveliest thing anyone’s ever…’ I trail off when my voice breaks and I’m losing the fight to keep my emotions in check, and he holds a hand up.
‘No tears on opening day, and I can have my hug later. Something to look forward to.’
Something to look forward to, indeed. The thought makes me smile and momentarily cuts through the blind panic I’m feeling so far this morning. ‘Reece, thank you. For everything. For doing that, for helping me get started… and for believing in me.’
He pushes himself up until I look him in the eyes. ‘You make all of those things very easy. You’re the easiest person to believe in because you love this so much. This is what you were meant to do, and I amhonouredto have been a small part of helping you find the place you were meant to do it in.’
Somewhere in there is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and claiming to throw the broken teapot away and then bringing it back whole again is by far the nicest thing anyone’s ever done, and Iwillhug him later and I may never let go, but for now, I’ve got a café to open. If he can work so hard to show me how much he believes in me then the least I can do is believe in myself too.
I reach out so I can squeeze his hand. ‘I declare this campervan open!’
* * *
For the first hour, nothing happens. A couple of walkers pass without giving the car park a glance. I rearrange the display case, wash up cups that have already been washed up six times, and polish forks that are already so shiny, they reflect my nervous reflection back at me. For today, I’ve made the chocolate fudge cake, coffee kisses and a lemon meringue pie in Reece’s honour.
It’s just after eleven o’clock when my first customers appear. A middle-aged couple in all-weather coats who look like seasoned hikers.
‘Oh, how wonderful!’ the woman exclaims, giving her husband a nudge towards the car park. ‘We’ve done this walk a few times and this has never been here before! Talk about perfect timing for a cup of tea!’
‘Can I get you anything?’ My voice sounds alotmore steady than I feel.
‘Two teas, please, and… Oh, look at that lemon meringue pie!’ She glances at her husband questioningly and when he nods, she orders two slices of that too.
I serve them and watch anxiously as they settle at a borrowed pub table and take their first bites.
The woman’s face lights up. ‘This is incredible! It tastes just like my grandmother used to make.’
Warm satisfaction settles inside me. This is it. This is exactly what I wanted to do – to give people that moment of recognition, of comfort, of being transported back in time.
Reece is… around. He claims he’s fixing something in the pub’s garden, but apart from chatting to the nosy sheep with its head over the wall, he doesn’t seem to be doing anything other than keeping an eye out for potential Campervan customers, and I’m touched that he’s trying to be there for me while also letting me domything, independently.
Word spreads quickly among walkers, as it turns out. By mid-afternoon, I’ve served tea and cake to a dozen different people, all delighted to find refreshments in such an unexpected place. I’m running low on chocolate fudge cake when I spot three familiar figures making their way up the path from the village.
‘Sothat’swhy you repainted it,’ Lettie says. ‘We were wondering what that was all about, but no one seemed to know.’
‘What a lovely name. It’s a real little ray of sunshine,’ Madge says as Wilma peers over the top of her glasses, and I get the feeling that whenever the council send out that environmental health officer, he won’t be half as thorough as she is.
I’d already told them what I was planning, out of courtesy mainly, because Lettie sells cakes in her shop and I didn’t want to upset anyone, but they’ve all been fully supportive, and Madge has wanted to know all my recipes so she can direct me to the best ingredients.
‘Half the village is talking about it,’ Lettie says. ‘And Reece told us all about your lemon meringue pie. I think he prefers it over the Yorkshire curd tarts I buy in.’
Nowthatis high praise indeed. From the back window, I can see him making his way down the steps. I didn’t realise I was smiling until Madge reaches up through the campervan window and pats my cheek with a knowing look on her face.
