All That She Can See(12)
When Cherry woke up the next morning, Mrs O had a surprise for her.
‘Come on, you,’ she said when Cherry opened the front door. ‘Put something nice on. I’m taking you somewhere.’
Cherry groaned but her curiosity over what Mrs O was up to got the better of her so she put on a new pair of blue and purple striped pyjamas and her usual grey slippers.
‘Cherry Redgrave, you get back upstairs and put on something more appropriate for leaving this house!’ Mrs O said, laughing but only half-joking. She was worried about Cherry’s constant need to wear pyjamas. She had been so much better recently but refusing to get dressed seemed like the symptom of something else, something Mrs O couldn’t fix.
‘They’re the comfiest clothes known to man,’ Cherry insisted. ‘Why anyone would choose to wear dresses you can’t breathe in and high heels you can’t walk in when pyjamas and slippers are readily available to everyone… well, it’s beyond me!’
Mrs O could see the determination in Cherry’s eyes and didn’t have the energy to fight her. Not after she’d spent her morning planning the surprise.
Mrs O signed. ‘Fine. At least your hair looks lovely,’ she conceded. And it did. The purple scarf Cherry had tied around her head pulled her black Afro hair off her face into a curly explosion at the back of her head, bar a few curls she’d pulled through to the front.
Mrs Overfield led Cherry along a familiar route through the town, with Loneliness and Worry trudging not far behind. After a few minutes they entered the village and Cherry’s steps started to slow so much that Loneliness almost stumbled into her.
‘Please don’t take me there,’ Cherry said quietly. ‘I’m not ready.’ She could see the familiar outline of her father’s bakery, silhouetted against the sun. On one side was Sew & Sew, the arts and crafts shop, and on the other was a second-hand bookshop, imaginatively named The Second-Hand Book Shop. Cherry stared at the bakery. It was still so full of character. Cherry had chosen the fire-engine-red paint on the window frames and door when she was a child and her father had gladly obliged. The sign above the entrance used to read Samuel’s but the paint was cheap and now, a year after her father had died, it said S mue ’s. Cherry couldn’t bear it.
‘Cherry, my dear. How long can you shut yourself away for? I mean, really?’ Mrs O said gently, looping her arm through Cherry’s. ‘I know it’s painful but… don’t you think the best way to mourn your father is to honour his memory? I’ve tasted your baking and it’s just as good as, if not better than, Sam’s.’
Cherry stared at the sign above the door and was hit with a sudden feeling of having let her father down. She thought of all that time she had wasted under her bedsheets, indulging in Loneliness’s game, when she could have been looking after her father’s legacy. They continued walking and as they got closer, Cherry spotted the makeshift sign pinned to the top of the door frame. On a large piece of cardboard, someone (Mrs O probably) had added the words and Daughter underneath what was left of Samuel’s name.
Cherry rolled up her sleeves, literally and figuratively, an idea beginning to take shape in her mind. ‘You’re right,’ she said.
It’s time I take what I can do seriously, she thought. She started to think about which types of treats she would bake first, how she would rearrange the tables and chairs and how she’d make use of that large kitchen in the back. This was the purpose she’d been looking for.
‘And I know you’re stubborn and you probably don’t want to… wait, what did you just say?’ Mrs O spun to face her.
‘I said, you’re right,’ Cherry sniffed. ‘It’s been long enough and Dad wouldn’t have wanted me to spend the rest of my life… alone.’ She glanced behind her and saw Loneliness shrink into her shadow. ‘I am a baker. I’ve always been a baker. It’s time I started acting like one.’
Mrs O had done more than just put up a scruffy sign. While the outside needed a lick of paint, the inside had been restored to its former glory and Mrs O explained how the townspeople had all chipped in. Miss Kightley had paid the rent on the building for the next year on the condition that Cherry always had profiteroles on hand. Mrs Brewer and Mrs Overfield had bought her the missing bits of equipment they couldn’t find in her father’s old things and they’d replaced anything that was broken with new things. And Felicity and Fawn had guaranteed her fresh flowers for every table, to be delivered weekly for the next six months.
‘It’s wonderful.’ Cherry couldn’t help but stifle a sob as she walked through the door and saw all her donors, her friends, standing in a line at the counter. They’d all been loyal customers of her father’s when the shop had belonged to him and now they were showing her the same support. She would stand behind the counter proudly, not only because she wanted to be there but because her father’s friends wanted to see her there too. That meant more to her than they could possibly know.
‘We know you’ll turn this place into something magical. Just like your father did.’ Mrs Kightley wasn’t the emotional type but Cherry was sure she heard the thickness of a lump in her throat.
Cherry looked over at the OPEN/CLOSED sign on the door. She’d always hated it. It was old-fashioned and made of tin that had turned rusty over the years. She couldn’t understand why her dad wouldn’t replace it and she’d always avoided touching it if she could. But now that the shop was hers, the sign was also hers and she couldn’t bring herself to see it go. It was only small but it was a piece of her father and so it had to stay.