Don’t Go Baking My Heart

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2019 by HarperCollinsPublishers

Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2019

Cover design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2019.

Cover illustration © May Van Millingen

Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008332143

Version: 2019-05-10

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part 1: Don’t Go Baking My Heart

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Keep Reading

Also by Cressida McLaughlin

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

My Dearest Charlie,

Gertie is yours, to do with what you will. I know that you cherish her, but you do not need to keep her. She is a gift, not a millstone around your neck. If the best thing for you is to sell her and go travelling, then that is what you should do.

I have so much to say to you, but my time is running out. I hope that these few words will be enough to show you how much I love you; it’s more than I ever thought possible.

Look after yourself, think of all the happy times we spent together, and know that you can do anything if you believe in yourself enough.

Remember, my darling niece, live life to the full – you only get one chance. Make the most of your opportunities and do what is right for you.

All my love, always,

Your Uncle Hal x

Charlie Quilter folded the letter and pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, and tried to stop her heart from sinking as her dad stopped beside her in the garage doorway. His sigh was heavy, and not unexpected: he had been sighing a lot lately. She could barely remember a time when his narrow shoulders hadn’t been slumped, and she had forgotten what his laughter sounded like. But on this occasion, she felt the same as he did; the sight before them was not inspiring.

The 1960s Routemaster bus, painted cream with green accents, looked more scrapheap than vintage, and Charlie could see that its months left in the garage without Uncle Hal’s care and attention had had a serious impact.

‘God, Charlie,’ Vince Quilter said, stepping inside the garage and finding the light switch, ‘what are you – we – I mean …’ He shrugged, his arms wide, expression forlorn.

Charlie took a deep breath and, despite the February chill at her back, unzipped her coat and unwound her thick maroon scarf. The wind assailed her neck, newly exposed to the elements after the pre-Christmas, post-break-up, chop-it-all-off graduated bob that – she now realized – had been an ill-advised choice for this time of year.

‘We’re going to fix her,’ she said purposefully, putting her bag against the wall and laying her palm flat against the bus’s cold paintwork. ‘We’re going to restore Gertie, aren’t we, Dad?’ He was staring at the workbench where all Hal’s tools were laid out, rubbing his unshaven jaw. Hal’s death had hit him harder than anyone else, and while Charlie felt her uncle’s loss keenly, she knew it was nothing compared to what Vince was going through. ‘Dad?’ she prompted.

‘Sorry, love. That we are.’ He started rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, thought better of it and took it off instead. He switched on the heater and rubbed his hands together.

Charlie felt a surge of hope. She hurried over to her bag and pulled out a flask of coffee and a Tupperware box. ‘Here, have a brownie to keep you going. I thought we could do with some sustenance.’ She took off the lid, and a glimmer of a smile lit up Vince’s face.

‘Always thinking ahead, huh?’

‘This was never going to be the easiest task in the world, practically or emotionally. Brownies baked with love – and hazelnuts and chocolate chip, because that’s your favourite kind.’

‘Your food is the best, because it’s baked with love and extra calories,’ her dad said, taking one of the neatly arranged squares. ‘That’s what he always said.’

‘Yup.’ A lump formed unhelpfully at the back of Charlie’s throat, as it had been doing at inopportune moments ever since her uncle Hal had been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer at the end of last summer. So many things reminded her of him, and while dealing with practicalities – assessing the state of his beloved Routemaster bus, for example – were easier to focus on without the emotion overwhelming her, his sayings, his nuggets of wisdom, always knocked her off kilter. They were so ingrained in her family now, but it was as if she could hear Hal’s voice, his unwavering cheerfulness, whoever was saying the words.

‘Love and extra calories,’ she repeated, wincing when she noticed a deep gouge in Gertie’s side. ‘How did he get away with being so sentimental?’

‘Because he was straightforward,’ her dad said through a mouthful of chocolate and nuts. ‘He said everything without embarrassment or affectation. He was a sixty-eight-year-old man who called his bus Gertie. He meant it all, and was never ashamed of who he was.’

Uncle Hal had given scenic tours on Gertie, the vintage double-decker Routemaster, that were legendary throughout the Cotswolds. He was an expert bus driver and a world-class talker. Everyone who took one of his tours left feeling as if they’d made a friend for life, and the testimonials on TripAdvisor were gushing. His untimely death had left a huge hole in the Cotswold tourist trade, as well as his family’s life.

And now Gertie belonged to Charlie; left to her in Hal’s will, for her to do with whatever she wanted. At that moment, all she could see in the bus’s future was being dismantled and sold for spares, but she was not going to let that happen. She couldn’t imagine herself taking over her uncle’s tours, even though she had spent many hours on them and had been taught to drive the bus as soon as she was old enough. Her expertise was in baking, not talking.

Her dad finished his brownie and started examining Gertie’s engine. As a car dealer he knew his way around vehicles, but had admitted to Charlie that he wasn’t that knowledgeable about buses. Charlie had argued that it was just a bigger version, and nothing could be that different.

She cleaned the chocolate off her fingers with a paper napkin and climbed on board the bus. It had taken on a musty, unloved smell, and was bone-achingly cold. Charlie walked up the aisle of the lower deck, her fingers trailing along the backs of the forest-green seats, and opened the cab.

Her dad appeared behind her, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘The engine seems in good enough shape, but I only know the basics. And in here?’ He gave another melancholy sigh.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘She needs a bit of sprucing up, that’s all. A few things need fixing, there’s some cosmetic work, knocking a couple of panels back into shape, and then Gertie will be as good as new.’

‘I could give Clive a call,’ Vince said, worrying at his scruffy hair, ‘get him to come and give her a once-over, see what condition her vital organs are in.’

‘And in the meantime, I’ll tackle in here. We’ve got the Hoover, cleaning sprays, and I can make a list of what needs repairing. The toilet probably needs a good flushing out.’ Charlie made a face and her dad laughed.

‘You sure you want to start that now?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t we find out if she’s salvageable first? You don’t want to waste your time cleaning her if the engine’s buggered.’

‘Dad, the engine is not buggered. She’s fine. Hal was driving her right up until … he wasn’t any more. He never mentioned anything being wrong with her.’

‘Yes, but you have to agree she looks—’

‘Neglected,’ Charlie finished. ‘Which is why we’re here. I guarantee that once we’ve given her a bit of love and attention, things will look a hundred times better. Gertie is going back on the road, that’s all there is to it.’ She grinned, and it wasn’t even forced. She had almost convinced herself.

Her dad looked at her fondly. ‘You’re a wonder, Charlie. Anyone else faced with these circumstances – with this,’ he gestured around him, ‘and Hal, and everything you’ve been through with Stuart – would start a lengthy hibernation, and nobody would blame them. Instead you’ve baked brownies and dragged me here, and you’re not going to leave until Gertie’s gleaming. You don’t even know what you’re going to do with her when she’s restored!’

Charlie’s smile almost slipped at this last point, because that was worrying her far more than the state of Gertie’s engine or how many panels needed replacing. What on earth was she going to do with a vintage, double-decker bus, when she worked in a café in Ross-on-Wye and her main skills were baking and eating? ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said brightly. ‘One step at a time, Dad. Fix Gertie, and then decide what to do with her.’

She put the key in the ignition and a satisfying thrum reverberated, like a heartbeat, through the bus. The engine was working, at least. She cranked the heating up to max – she didn’t want her fingers to fall off before she’d polished the metalwork – then turned on the radio.

‘Gold’ by Spandau Ballet filled the space, and Charlie took her dad’s hands and pulled them up in the air with hers. She forced them into an awkward dance down the aisle, bumping into seats as they sashayed from the front of the bus to the back, and sang along at the top of her voice. Soon they were both laughing, and her dad let go of her hands so he could clutch his stomach. She dinged the bell and tried to get her breathing under control. When Vince looked up, Charlie could see the familiar warmth in his eyes that she had been worried was gone for good.

It was impossible not to feel cheered in Gertie’s company. Hal had been convinced there was something a little bit magical about her, and while Charlie had always argued that it was Hal who inspired the laughter on his tours, at this moment she wondered if he was right.

They could do this. No question. Despite all that had happened to her over the past few months, she knew she could restore Gertie to her former glory. What came next wasn’t so certain but, as she’d said to her dad, they could only take one step at a time. Right now, they needed to focus on bringing the bus back to life.

They worked all morning, and even though Charlie knew the bits they were fixing were only cosmetic, and a small part of her worried that when Clive came round he would tell them that the engine was too old, or there was too much rust in the chassis, or any one of a number of things that meant Gertie would not outlive Hal, she felt so much better for doing it. The radio kept them buoyed, and at one point her dad even whistled along to a Sixties tune, something that, only a day before, Charlie and her mum would both have thought impossible.

The simple act of working on Uncle Hal’s bus was taking the edge off their grief. It reminded Charlie how much she had loved spending time with him, a lot of it on board this very bus, and how big an influence he’d been on her. That didn’t have to stop just because he was no longer physically with her. Hal would be part of her life for ever.

It was after one o’clock when Vince announced he was going to get sandwiches. Charlie ordered an egg mayo and bacon baguette and, once her dad had strolled out of the garage with his jacket done up to his neck, she climbed to the top deck of the bus. She sat above the cab – her favourite position as a child because she could pretend she was driving – even though, inside the garage, the view was less than inspiring. As she did so, she felt the letter in her back pocket. Hal had left it for her in his will, and it had been folded and reopened so many times the paper had begun to wear thin along the creases.

It no longer made her cry, but the words still affected her deeply. He had never married, had never had a family of his own, so she had been like a daughter to him. Losing him had been a huge blow – his cancer diagnosis a mind-numbing shock followed quickly by practicalities as his condition worsened and he needed more care – but at least she had been able to spend time with him, to let him know how much she loved him and how much he had shaped her life. And she would always have his letter. It was bittersweet, but so much better than the irreversible cut-off of losing someone suddenly.

She was still lost in thought when she heard a woman calling her name, followed by a high-pitched yelp. Charlie ran down Gertie’s narrow staircase and out of the open doorway.

‘How are you doing?’ Juliette asked. Before Charlie had time to reply, Marmite raced up to her, his extendable lead whirring noisily, and put his tiny front paws on Charlie’s shins. Charlie scooped the Yorkipoo puppy into her arms and closed her eyes while he licked her chin. However miserable some aspects of life had been recently, Marmite never failed to bring a smile to her face. He was six months old, and more of a terror with every passing day.

‘OK, I think,’ Charlie said. ‘But don’t look at the outside, come and see what we’ve done inside. Dad’s getting someone to take a proper look at her, and in the meantime we’ve been giving her a polish. He’s just gone to get lunch.’

‘I know,’ Juliette said, unclipping Marmite’s lead and following Charlie onto the bus. ‘I saw him on my way here. He’s getting me a sandwich, too.’

‘So you can stay for a bit, before you go back to Cornwall this afternoon?’

Juliette nodded. ‘It’s been so good seeing everyone. But I’m still not sure, Char, how you’re really doing. What’s going on up here?’ She tapped Charlie’s forehead. ‘You’re putting on this amazing front, but I need to know before I go home that you’re OK.’

‘I’m fine,’ Charlie said. ‘This morning has helped a lot. Dad was concerned that Gertie wouldn’t be salvageable, but just look at her! She might need a bit of work under the bonnet, some patching up, but it’s given me hope.’

Juliette surveyed their morning’s work, the metal uprights gleaming, the walls clean, the seats vacuumed to within an inch of their lives. ‘She looks great, Char, almost as good as new. But I’m not as convinced about you. Since I’ve been back you’ve been so busy, working at The Café on the Hill, helping with the catering for the funeral. You haven’t stopped, even for a day. You should be taking some time out.’

Charlie groaned. ‘Why does everyone think that’s best for me? Keeping busy is what helps in this kind of situation.’ She led Juliette to a seat halfway down the bus. Some of the chairs were sagging dangerously, but this one, she had discovered earlier, was still fairly firm.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Juliette said after a minute. Her voice was low, her slight French accent always adding a seriousness to her words, though in this case it was probably intentional.

Charlie remembered the first time she had heard Juliette speak, on a packed train from London to Cheltenham; she’d been chatting with someone on the other end of her mobile, and had occasionally slipped into French. Charlie had been sitting next to her, and after Juliette had finished her call and offered some expletives in both languages, Charlie had asked her those same words: Are you OK? Juliette had been reserved, embarrassed that she’d been entertaining the whole carriage, and so Charlie had told her how she’d had a no-holds-barred telephone row with her then-boyfriend in a hotel doorway, not realizing that a wedding party were waiting to get past her into the ballroom, and how some of the guests had looked quite shocked when she’d finally noticed that they were watching her.

She’d made Juliette laugh, and by the time the train had pulled up in Cheltenham, they had swapped numbers and agreed to meet up. That had been almost seven years ago, and their friendship was still strong despite Juliette’s move to Cornwall two years before, with her boyfriend Lawrence. Charlie was still touched that Juliette had come back for Hal’s funeral, staying for a couple of weeks to catch up with friends in the area. She had been on Gertie countless times when she’d lived in Cheltenham, and Charlie hadn’t asked her if she was OK.

‘I’m not doing too badly,’ she said now. ‘I’ve been getting on with stuff, which is better than wallowing in the empty flat, or at Mum and Dad’s. Dad’s so cut up about losing Hal. Today is the first time I’ve seen him smile in what feels like for ever.’

‘I know you’re worried about Vince, but you have to think about yourself, too.’ Juliette put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Because it isn’t just Hal, is it? It’s only been a couple of months since you and Stuart … finished. And you’re in the flat, hosting viewings, unsure where you’re going to go once it’s sold. I know you don’t want to go back to living with your parents, and you can’t live on Gertie, as tempting as it is.’ She laughed softly.

‘That’s looking like one of the better options, actually,’ Charlie said, chuckling. ‘What am I going to do with her, Jules? I can’t be a tour guide. I’m a baker, a caterer. I don’t have the gift of the gab like Hal did. But, despite what he said in his letter, I can’t sell her.’ She rubbed her hands over her eyes, realizing too late that they were covered in cleaning spray.

‘This is why you need time,’ Juliette pressed. ‘You need to stop thinking for a bit, give yourself some space before you make any big decisions. The place in Newquay wasn’t brilliant, but our new house in Porthgolow, it’s perfect, Char. It’s so close to the sea. It’s beautiful and quiet, and the people in the village are friendly. Come and stay for a couple of weeks. Bea would give you the time off, wouldn’t she? The hours you’ve put into that café, you’re probably owed months back in overtime.’

‘Working is good for me,’ Charlie insisted but, even as she said it, the thought of returning to the café in Ross-on-Wye, even with its spring-themed window display and the ideas she had for seasonal cakes and sandwiches, didn’t fill her with as much joy as it should. There were too many other thoughts crowding her mind.

‘Take a break,’ Juliette continued. ‘Come and stay with Lawrence and me. I’m sure Marmite would get on fine with Ray and Benton. They’re easy-going cats, and Marmite’s still so small. And the most adorable dog in the world, by the way. I’m so glad you’ve got him to look after you.’

Marmite was sitting on the seat in front of them, scrabbling at the back of the cushion as if there might be a treat hidden somewhere in the fabric. Charlie picked him up and settled him on her lap, rubbing his black-and-tan coat. She pictured the two of them walking along a sandy beach with crystal blue water beyond, to a soundtrack of seagulls and crashing waves. It was certainly a better image than this bland, functional garage or the flat she had shared with Stuart, now empty and soulless. She didn’t want to run away from the hard things in life, but she knew her friend was right.

‘Let me talk to Bea,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll see if I can get a couple of weeks off.’

Juliette’s face lit up. She ruffled Charlie’s hair, which had been enhanced from its natural reddish hue into a vibrant copper at the same time as the drastic haircut. ‘The next time you’re in the café, you promise me you’ll ask her?’

‘I will, I—’

‘Room for a little one?’ Her dad appeared in the doorway, along with the salty tang of bacon.

‘Thanks so much, Vince,’ Juliette said, accepting her baguette and a coffee.

‘You convinced Charlie to come and stay with you yet?’ he asked, taking the seat in front and turning to face them.

‘Almost,’ Juliette said. ‘She’s agreed to ask Bea for some time off.’

‘Bloody hell! You’ve actually got her considering a holiday? Or have you tempted her down with some sort of Cornish cooking competition?’

‘No competition,’ Juliette said through a mouthful of cheese sandwich. ‘No work. An actual holiday.’

‘I am here, you know,’ Charlie said, lifting her baguette out of Marmite’s reach. The dog put his paws on her chest and sniffed the air, whimpering mournfully.

‘It doesn’t hurt to hear the unvarnished truth occasionally, love,’ Vince replied.

‘I’ve never …’ she started, then sighed and unwrapped her lunch. She didn’t want to argue with her dad, and she knew they both had her best interests at heart, even if they were being irritating about it.

‘This is cosy, isn’t it?’ Juliette said. ‘Having a picnic on board Gertie. Hal could have started something like this, including sandwiches and cups of tea on his tours.’

‘Enough people brought their own food, didn’t they?’ Vince laughed. ‘He was getting fat on all the sausage rolls and packets of Maltesers that went around.’

‘But a few tables in here instead of front-facing seats, a tea urn, the beautiful views outside the windows. It’d be ideal, wouldn’t it? If the weather was cold, or you didn’t want wasps in your cupcakes.’ Juliette grinned. ‘You could see the countryside from the comfort of the bus.’

Charlie returned her friend’s smile, her synapses pinging. She couldn’t be a tour guide. She knew how to drive the bus, she had the right licence and kept up to date with her top-up training, but she hadn’t done it every day for the last thirty years; she was inexperienced. But what she could do, almost with her eyes closed, was feed people. She could make cakes and pastries and scones that had customers squealing in pleasure and coming back for thirds.

And Gertie was cosy. With a bit more polish and a couple of personal touches, the bus could even look quite homely. It could be somewhere you’d enjoy spending time, and not just for a journey around the winding lanes of the Cotswolds.