‘We thought we’d better come and conduct our own inspection,’ Wilma says with a seriousness that’s probably meant to sound like a joke, but doesn’t. ‘We can’t have substandard food and drink in Thimblenouth.’
‘What can I get you?’ I ask, and then quickly add, ‘And it’s on the house for you three. Well, on the campervan. A thank you for making me feel so welcome.’
Lettie goes to protest but Wilma quickly thanks me, and they order three cups of tea and one each of my three available bakes, and go to sit down at one of the pub tables with an air of esteemed judges at a baking competition.
‘Sponge texture is excellent,’ Lettie announces after her first bite of chocolate fudge cake, speaking loudly enough for everyone within a ten-mile radius to hear. ‘Nice and moist. Not too heavy.’
‘I haven’t had a coffee kiss like this in decades,’ Madge says. ‘The flavour is well-balanced and the buttercream is perfect.’
They’re taking it so seriously that I think they might actually have judged baking competitions in the past.
Wilma’s got the lemon meringue pie, and it feels like the most crucial test of all. Reece has come to the window and is standing outside for moral support. I can see she’s expecting the worst, but even her severe look softens when she tries a forkful. ‘Oh, that really is good. I can’t think of a single bad thing to say about it.’
Silently, Reece’s hand comes through the window to offer me a fist bump.
‘You’ll do very well here, dear. This is exactly what we needed.’ It feels like extra approval seeing as it’s Wilma who makes the declaration, but then she adds, ‘Not as good as the pub was back in the day, mind, but better than nothing.’
Reece chooses that moment to make himself scarce and finds something absolutely vital to check on in the empty skip.
‘The heart of our community, that was.’ Madge looks up the hill towards the pub, taking in the scaffolding and general state of the building. ‘Now look at it. All boarded-up and half-demolished. That awful millionaire-type doesn’t know what he’s destroyed. Taking our quiz nights away from us… he might as well have ripped our hearts right out of our chests!’
I glance towards Reece, who’s tactfully moved out of earshot, but I can see from the set of his shoulders that he’s heard every word, and his subdued posture suggests their comments are hitting harder than he lets on. I file it away alongside all the cryptic things he’s said, slowly building a picture of what I think is really going on.
They stay for another half an hour, coming back for multiple tea refills and holding court at the outdoor seating area, effectively providing the best advertising by announcing the excellence of everything I serve to everyone who walks past. By the time they leave, promising to spread the word to everyone they know, I’m glowing with pride.
The end of the afternoon brings a steady stream of walkers, all surprised to find tea and cake available in such a remote place. I chat with people about their walks. Some are locals who have heard about the Marzipan Campervan and come to see what’s happening, others are tourists, visiting before it gets really busy in the height of summer, and each interaction feels like a gift. I’d imagined the things I’d bake at The Nostalgia Café, but I’d never imagined the people I’d bake them for, and it makes such a difference.
By five o’clock, I’m exhausted but exhilarated. I’ve been on my feet all day. I’ve only eaten lunch because Reece brought me a sandwich. Every slice of cake, pie and each coffee kiss was sold out an hour ago, and I’m already planning my menu for tomorrow. It’s a freedom I’d never dreamed of. It’s up to me. It’s all up to me. After years of depending on everyone but myself, drifting along with other people’s plans, I’ve created something that belongs to me alone… in something that doesn’t belong to me at all.
16
Days of running the Marzipan Campervan Café have turned into a couple of weeks, and every single moment has been amazing so far. The walk to Thimblenouth Force is one of the most loved in the Yorkshire Dales, and part of a longer route that takes in several waterfalls, and the car park could not be in a more perfect position, and the number of customers stopping for a cuppa reflects that.
It’s the end of another long day, and I’m tidying up after closing for the night when Reece appears at the serving hatch. He’s been coming down every night to help put away chairs and tables, and then we spend the evenings in the van, chatting and enjoying each other’s company, but today, he looks like a man on a different mission.
‘You’ve become an unofficial tour guide, but how long has it been since you actually went to the waterfall yourself?’
‘A long time. More than two decades, less than three?’ I say, even though he’s right, and I have struck up many conversations with walkers who stop to ask directions or for local knowledge about the hidden nooks and crannies along the route, but since the Marzipan Campervan Café opened, long hikes have been the last thing on my mind.
‘It’s a beautiful evening, it’s always quieter at this time of day, and there’s something extra magical about evening walks.’ He pushes his left arm through the strap of the rucksack that was hanging on only one shoulder. ‘I’ve got everything we need.’
I’m in half a mind to tell him to sod off. I’ve been on my feet all day, and what I’d really like to do is collapse on the van’s bench seat while planning tomorrow’s menu. But on the other hand, tourists talk about the beauty of the waterfall often and ithasbeen years since I went there, and the prospect of a quiet evening walk with Reece is not an unpleasant one. I change into my trainers and grab a jacket from the campervan’s storage space, and step out.
There is something about a man in hiking boots, because Reece looksgood. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a jacket over the top, the rucksack straps over both shoulders and his usual indomitable smile as he appears at the campervan door and holds his hand out to help me down.
I’m more than adept at jumping in and out of this van now, but I slip my fingers over his anyway and he gives them a gentle squeeze like he doesn’t want to let go, but I need both hands to lock up behind me, and I can’t think of an excuse to take his hand again afterwards.
‘You’ve done this before,’ I say as we set off up the path from the car park.
‘Many times, when I’m trying to avoid work. It’s a good place to… exhale.’
Exhale. I like that choice of wording. I’ve been busier than expected at the campervan, and while that’s a good problem to have, it doesn’t leave much time for simple things like breathing.
‘Are you sure your leg is okay for this?’
‘My leg’s fine, you know that. Just a closed-up graze now.’
Neither of us have mentioned that he’s continued coming down to the van every night, even though I no longer need to dress his wound and his limp is long gone.
