Love Among the Treetops: A feel good holiday read for summer 2018. Catherine FergusonЧитать онлайн книгу.
a month after I started at catering college, Mum phoned to say she’d have to cancel our forthcoming weekend in Amsterdam because Dad was feeling a bit under the weather. I remember thinking it must be a really bad dose of cold or flu to make Dad give up a trip to one of his favourite cities. We’d been looking forward to it, all three of us, for ages.
Then came the news that Dad had diabetes.
I was quite shocked because Dad lived such a healthy life. Okay, he usually had the sticky toffee pudding when he and Mum went out for dinner about once a month, but that was hardly sugar overload.
But after the initial bombshell, I got used to the idea. Dad had diabetes, which wasn’t good. But it wasn’t the end of the world, either.
Then Mum phoned and mentioned he was going into hospital for more tests, and that was when I started to really worry. If diabetes had been diagnosed, why the need for further tests?
It turned out the diabetes was an underlying symptom of something much more serious.
Mum very rarely cried. But that night, when I took the train back to Sussex and Dad was in bed, too exhausted from the effects of the cancer to even stay up to greet me, we clung to each other and she sobbed her heart out.
Now, the only thing keeping us all going is the thought that this revolutionary new treatment will somehow make a difference. His age – fifty-nine – meant it was touch and go whether he would even be accepted on the trial, but their lovely GP was adamant he was a good candidate for the treatment. The day we heard it was full steam ahead – two months ago, in March – we cracked open a bottle of champagne Mum had been saving for their anniversary, and even Dad managed a glass.
Dad’s sister, my Auntie June, lives in North London, so hers was the obvious place for them to stay while Dad underwent his three months of treatment.
But their financial situation was becoming more urgent by the day. Dad had closed the business three months earlier, finally accepting he wasn’t well enough to continue working. It broke my heart when he had to sell off his stock just to continue paying the mortgage.
And now it’s up to me to save Honey Cottage.
The pressure makes me feel as if I’m carrying a boulder on my shoulders. I know Dad feels utterly useless, not being able to work and provide for them, and that can’t be good for his health.
So it’s up to me to take the load off his shoulders.
Whatever happens, I can’t let my lovely dad down …
The phone rings and it’s Mum. ‘We’re just back from our appointment with the consultant,’ she says, ‘so I thought I’d ring. Make sure you’d settled in.’
‘I’m fine, Mum. What about you? Both of you?’
‘Us? Oh, yes, we’re okay, Twilly love. And listen, your dad thinks what you’re doing is wonderful. Coming back home to open a café.’ She lowers her voice. I assume Dad must be somewhere in earshot. ‘He hates the thought of that shop unit of his lying empty. It makes him feel completely useless, bless him. So when I told him the news that you wanted to do something with the space, it brought the biggest smile I’ve seen on his face in weeks. He’s so proud of you, love.’
A lump rises in my throat, making it painful to swallow. ‘I’m really glad, Mum. Tell him I’m going to do my best to make it work.’
‘Yes, but are you sure that’s what you really want to do? You were halfway through your pastry course and you seemed to be loving it.’
‘I was. And I’ll finish the course some time in the future.’
‘Have you talked to your tutors? Have they said you can do that?’
‘Yes, Mum. Honestly. It’s fine.’
‘Well, just as long as you’re sure.’
I smile. Mum’s the worrier: the sensible one. She always has been. Dad is the adventurer: the risk-taker. Mum manages for the most part to keep his feet on the ground. They complement each other perfectly. I’ve always regarded their relationship as something to aspire to, although so far, I’ve failed spectacularly in my quest to find a member of the opposite sex to share that same magical togetherness with. Perhaps I’ll just get a rabbit instead.
‘Betty and Doreen will definitely be regular customers at your café,’ Mum’s saying, referring to her two best friends in the village. ‘You know how they love their cream teas. And I’ll get the Women’s Institute on side as well.’
‘Great! Thanks, Mum.’
She sighs. ‘Well, we’re all in this together, aren’t we, love?’
‘Yes, we are.’ My heart feels heavy. I appreciate Mum’s support but it’s going to take a lot more than Mum’s best friends, and Winnie and Rose from the WI to make this venture a success! I’ll need to get word out to all of Hart’s End and the surrounding villages, too. And I’ll have to attract the passing tourist trade – but how do I do that? I’ll need some signage, directing potential customers from the main through-road into our quiet cul-de-sac. Fortunately, it’s the beginning of May so the holiday season is only just starting …
Oh God, am I completely deluding myself, thinking I can actually pull this off?
‘Are you still there, love?’
‘Yes. Sorry. I was just – thinking. About the café.’
‘Ah, yes. We’ve been trying to come up with a good name for it. I was thinking, “The Twilight Café”.’
‘Mum, that’s perfect!’
‘Do you think so? Oh, it’s such a tonic, talking to you, love.’
‘You, too.’ I pause. ‘How’s Dad feeling?’ There’s always an element of fear in the question these days.
‘Your dad? Oh, yes. According to him, he’ll be back in his garden by the autumn. He’s got great plans to pull out the hedge and build a rockery with a pond and a waterfall, no less!’
‘That’s great, Mum.’ I’m gripping my phone really tightly. ‘Honestly, if anyone can get through these next few months, it’s Dad with his positive attitude. ‘Everything’s going to be fine, I’m sure of it.’
There’s a tiny pause and my heart lurches into my throat.
‘Of course it is, love.’ Mum’s forced cheeriness is like a stab in the heart. ‘We’ll be home and fighting fit by Christmas. You can count on it!’
At eleven, I switch off the TV and head upstairs to my old room with the single bed and the complete works of J. K. Rowling dominating the bookshelves.
The house phone rings by the bed and I dive on it, knowing who it will be. No one else would call so late and expect me to answer.
It’s my old school friend, Paloma, who’s been in a state of high excitement ever since I phoned to tell her I was coming back to live in Hart’s End. Paloma always cheers me up, and we’ve been the best of friends ever since the day I discovered she was using the same trick as me to get out of PE at school – faking a twisted ankle. We both got away with it and spent the rest of the day trying to outdo each other on the hobbling front and escaping to the loos to squeal with laughter.
‘You’ve arrived!’ she cheers. ‘When can I come round?’
I laugh. ‘Not now. And not because I don’t want to see you, but because I’m planning on being fast asleep in about – ooh – three minutes.’
Paloma is very much a night owl, still full of life in the late evening when most people are drifting off in front of the TV. (Mornings, she resembles