Regardless, it was, in her estimation, a unique eatery; different in many ways to the others dotted around the surrounding towns and villages in the picturesque Peak District. A welcoming destination where you could eat, drink, chat and, in the quieter moments, read.
To the right of the central doorway, arranged in three blocks were the sofas and armchairs, low tables in the centre, all reclaimed and getting a bit worse for wear. But they added to the laid-back ambience, the sense that many people before them had rested their weary bodies and taken a moment.
On the opposite side stood her beloved and – yes, rather eclectic – collection of tables and chairs, again reclaimed and upcycled, most of them carefully painted in pastel colours or sanded and varnished by her grandad Ernie.
An array of modern prints adorned the walls. Hung in no particular order, the art beneath the glass was actually pages sliced from gallery brochures, donated by a local art collector who had stacks of them in their garage. The frames, Honey had gathered from charity shops and car-boots.
Once combined with the colourful prints, the old, the new, and the quirky retro finds kept customers occupied while they waited. Honey often heard them commenting on the sea and landscapes, the still lifes and the curious pop-art posters with Beatles lyrics faintly etched into the background.
In the two years since she’d taken the plunge and opened the door, Honey had built up a regular clientele. At the start, her mother and grandfather had their reservations about ploughing her little inheritance into a run-down shop. They had expressed first their uncertainty about the risk she was taking going it alone; then their bemusement once she’d explained her philanthropic vision. Despite all that, Honey was doing okay.
Grandad Ernie said he was proud. Her mother was still on the fence, albeit from a nice safe distance in Marbella; and her stepfather stayed out of family affairs and basically did as his wife told him.
Dragging herself from daydream-land, she gave the counter another quick wipe. Honey’s Place was quiet, but any minute the lunchtime service would start. It was her favourite time of the day, when the wholesome comfort food they served flowed from the kitchens to the tables. It made the team’s hard work, and Honey’s vision worthwhile.
She smiled, remembering Grandad Ernie’s expression when she told him about her plans to run an enterprise where once she’d paid the bills, herself and the staff a wage, whatever was left over, would go to a charity very close to her heart.
Also – and raising her grandad’s eyebrows even further – on Sundays and Mondays, when the café would be closed for her business, it would be used to help the community. So far, so good, and Honey’s vision had become a reality, but it was time to take things up a notch, stretch herself a little and hopefully help a few more people at the same time.
Her mini-plan for Peak District domination was interrupted by the dingle of the silver bell above the door. It had been there when she bought the old haberdashery, and each time it rang, not only did it alert Honey and the team to a customer, the happy sound never failed to lift her spirits.
It was as though it too was glad that someone had stepped over the threshold and had graced Honey’s Place with their presence.
She was further cheered by the sight of her next and most special customer. Grandad Ernie, one of her regulars and from his usually reserved table in the corner, her greatest critic. Not to mention supplier of organic seasonal vegetables straight from his allotment, a box of which he carried in his arms.
Moving from behind the counter she went to take the box but without fuss or any hint that a strapping eighty-three-year-old couldn’t manage. Grandad Ernie fiercely guarded his independence, a proud man who took care of himself and Honey in particular.
‘This is a nice surprise, Grandad. I wasn’t expecting you. Here, I’ll whip these into the kitchen; you grab your table. I haven’t put the reserved sign on, but it’ll get busy soon, so chop-chop. Bag a seat.’
Ernie nodded and passed Honey the box that had long stems of rhubarb popping out of the top and did as he was told.
As she rounded the counter, Honey couldn’t resist a tease. ‘And while I think about it, you’re looking rather smart. Hot date? Back in a tick.’ Ignoring the loud tut followed by the scraping of chair legs, she quickly deposited the vegetables into the arms of Gospel, and after giving him a wink, headed back into the café.
Minutes later, she was seated opposite Ernie who was tipping his second pouch of sugar into his tea, while she sipped the froth off her coffee. ‘So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
He didn’t answer at first, stirring his tea instead. She noticed the frown that momentarily creased his brow, followed by the slight sag of his shoulders which caused her heart to drop. ‘Is something wrong, Grandad? You look a bit mithered.’
When he spoke, his sentence began with a deep sigh, and when he looked up Ernie’s brown eyes looked sad. ‘Been to the solicitors. Our Beryl’s affairs are all done and dusted, the probate. I ’ad to sign some papers and the like. Bloody depressing, I can tell you.’
Honey was taken aback, but only for a second. Her grandad’s secrecy didn’t really surprise her. He was a very private man. Not prone to flowery outbursts or great shows of affection. Saying it like it was when he needed to say it. Otherwise he kept his thoughts and feelings very much to himself.
Ernie showed you love in his actions.
A pat on the knee, or a nod when he agreed with you. A firm hug and the acceptance of a peck on the cheek when you said goodbye. And‘love you, from Grandad’once a year in her birthday card. When he mended her leaky sink, or she came home from work, and he’d painted her garden fence as a surprise. It was the little things.
For Honey it was enough and now, apart from her mum, he was her only alive-and-kicking close relative and she savoured every single thing about him, and every single minute.
Noting that she’d left enough of a gap for him to take a few slurps of his tea and read the specials menu, Honey decided to venture forth.
CHAPTER2
‘Iwould’ve come with you if you’d said where you were going, Grandad. Sometimes it’s better to have someone with you at places like that… Mum came with me, when Dad… you know.’
Ernie lowered his voice and gave his forehead a scratch. ‘Died? You can say it, Honey. No need to beat about the bush. It’s a fact and you won’t upset me by mentioning him. You should know that by now. It isn’t going to make what happened go away. Just like I know Beryl’s dead and I’ll have to get used to it no matter how bloody fed up it makes me.’
‘Brusque’ was Ernie’s default setting and he meant no harm by it. Honey moved on. Her heart sank as she asked, ‘D’you need me to come to the house? You know, to help pack her stuff away.’
Honey dreaded going back to her great-aunt’s. This thought, and the certainty that her offer would be declined resulted in a twinge of shame and the need to avoid her grandad’s eyes. Instead, Honey focused on her coffee and swirled it around her cup. Almost all the froth had gone, and she’d lost interest in the bitter remains that sloshed about at the bottom.
