Janet Jackson Superhost: Warmth, humour and romance for a gorgeous heroine forced to reinvent hersel

13. The Foggs

The Foggs

I’m so chuffed, the cottage is up and running again with a BOOKING for this weekend from a family of Foggs. There’s the parents, the two kids and a grandad, and they’re coming to celebrate an anniversary. There’s just enough room for them all if the kids go in the upstairs with two single beds, sharing the room with their parents in the double, and Grandad sleeps in the comfy sofabed downstairs. I’m so happy. Back on the mission for Superhost! Plus ￡30 per person per night, there’s 5 of them, so ￡300 heading to the J. Jackson bank account. Hallelujah. I’ll set aside ￡50 in my savings account for tax and must be super-disciplined not to touch it.

I’ve aired and cleaned that cottage with so much lavender polish and subtle scent sprays that it’s borderline whether it smells of floral bouquet or gone-off sherbet fountain. Anyway, I can’t plump, scrub or vacuum any more. I don’t know what BBs that evil witch Brenda was used to staying at, but no stars Lavander Cottage definitely ain’t!

I’m also contemplating whether I should reintroduce breakfast options? Chloe suggested it.

‘You could offer it at ￡8.50 per person between eight and nine in the morning. You’re in control then and it’s a bit of extra cash, isn’t it?’

I decide she’s right, at the moment I’ve got to maximise every penny. So I create a simple menu, laminate it and put it on the kitchen table in full view. Full English, Full Veggie, Eggs any way you like, or fruit, yoghurt and granola. The rule is you must order before 6 p.m. the day before (allows me to run to the shops if I need to). I have the hassle of carrying it over and think, Hey ho, let’s see if the Foggs take me up on it.

*

Meanwhile, Carl has put the word out and Mitzi is going to view an empty barn up Dryclough with a bit of parking, a loo, a sink and a plug socket. We are all hoping and praying that it might become her new shaman home. The Echo debacle seems to have had an impact.

My sister is resigned to renting somewhere. She says, ‘I am going to have to enter the corrupting capitalist system and set up a really successful shamanic business. It would kill me if Echo set something up now, because everything she’s learned has come from me. The spirits are willing me on, I know it.’

After this pronouncement, Mitzi spent three days working on a logo. The only issue is, she hasn’t yet got a name, so we are all drained dry with the trauma of trying to help her come up with one. I thought Carl’s ‘Desperately Seeking Shaman’ was inspired but it was too light-hearted for Mitzi. Every meal and every conversation is hijacked by a search for the elusive right branding.

‘It’s less a business, more a way of life,’ she tells us for the hundredth time. ‘How does one encapsulate communion with the spiritual self?’

‘Call it “Spirit-self”?’ Chloe is packing her lunchbox for another shift. Carl and I both lean optimistically into that one, desperately hoping we might be able to bring the search to an end.

‘That’s very good, really good,’ we say. ‘Definitely the best. That’s brilliant, Chloe. How about you go with that one, Mitzi?’

She ponders, sitting cross-legged on a chair, in tie-dyed cerise leggings, electric-blue legwarmers and a neon lime-green string vest hanging off her shoulders. To me, it looks like she’s channelling a cross between Leroy from Fame and a 90s’ rave T-shirt that changes colour when you sweat.

Mitzi doesn’t seem energised by Chloe’s suggestion. ‘Yes, it’s good, but is it selling Hebden as our spiritual universe– the shaman headquarters, so to speak? Our universal centre?’

Chloe pulls her rucksack over her shoulders and heads to the patio door, where she stops to leave a parting shot. ‘So, like the Americans say, “Keep it simple, stupid”. Why not just call it “Hebden Shamans”?’

She’s out of there with a door slam and Carl and I turn to see if the most obvious and powerful of suggestions has reached Planet Mitz. She is wrapped in a cuddle, with her knees pulled up, arms draped around her legs, rocking gently to and fro. Her thought processes seem to take an age, then she suddenly unravels herself and comes to a decision.

‘I love it. I think that is it. Then I own and am the Hebden Shaman. Bloody Nora, I’m setting up my own bloody business! Hebden Shamans, that’s what it is, that is it!’

Carl lifts her up from the chair in a giant twirly hug and I clink her glass of orange juice. Thank goodness.

As it is with most of Mitzi’s plans, I end up paying out for something. This time it’s printer ink, as she prints pile after pile of Hebden Shaman flyers in multiple colour ways until she reaches one she’s happy with. Then it’s the website. Two hundred quid, courtesy of her good mate Techy Red, with hosting, all in, for a year. She pays for it by not paying me for the cottage for the last two weeks. As she explains this to me, rather than feel frustrated or angry, I simply smile and nod and repeat to myself in a calm and soothing way, ‘Zen, Zen, Zen.’ After all, this is paving the way to a job for Mitzi– an actual job, with actual money.

She shows me the rough pages for the site. It’s very simple but effective, with a list of treatments and costs, dates and timings for all her different shaman sessions. There’s a nice photo of Mitzi looking all windblown and barely dressed on a moor top. Frankly she’s wearing so little, I worry she’d catch her death, never mind a spirit. The menu has things like Soul Retrieval ￡250, Gong Bath Session ￡15 and Ayurvedic Moon Bathing Rituals ￡30. It’s all done in a nice Art Nouveau-style lettering and a hand-drawn logo for Hebden Shamans.

I’m happy for her, though the biggest joy of all is that she’s got a new address up Dryclough. The flood of relief this morning, as Mitzi wheels the last gong out of the living room and loads it up into Carl’s van, is immense. It’s been interesting being a home for shamans and hippies and builders and rituals and general weirdos, but finally, for the first time in months, to be in my own house, alone, no noise, no plaster dust, no voices, no random strangers... well, it sends me a bit crazy. It’s as if I’ve been storing up the angst and simply waiting for the cork to pop off the bottle.

In celebration, I cast off my dressing gown and then I set off running, waving a tea-towel in the air like a lunatic. I run around the house, up the stairs, down the stairs, around the living room, then, still dressed only in my nightie, I head for Lavander Cottage. The Foggs aren’t due for another two hours, so I run round the cottage, tiring now but still over the moon, still gambolling like a spring lamb as I launch out of the cottage into the garden to do a final circuit around the lawn... which is when I notice, in my whirligig state, a blur of a figure. So I slow down, come to a halt and there, toolbox in hand, staring at me as if I’ve completely lost the plot, which of course I have, is Mitch.

I’m not sure what to do. So I whirl the tea-towel around my head and throw it at him, desperately trying to cultivate an air of nonchalance.

‘Hi, Mitch.’

‘How do,’ he says, as my tea-towel hits him full in the face.

It turns out that Mitch is here to go up into the attic and take a look at the shower, which has been playing up a bit. I get dressed very speedily and try to explain my antics by popping my head round the ensuite door, distracting him from his work as he gropes around pipes on his knees. I can’t help but notice that he has very strong thighs!

‘It’s been non-bloody-stop for months now, Mitch, and I’ve not had a single minute to myself. I don’t normally feel the urge to run around in my nightie, it’s just that it’s been enough to turn anyone a bit nuts.’

‘Clearly,’ he says, turning his head to me, one ear to the pipe, smiling.

I’m just thinking that he does sort of understand when there’s a loud buzz on the doorbell followed by excitable knocking.

‘Visitors,’ Mitch says encouragingly, with a wry curled-up smile playing on his lips. He then disappears into the shower, and I could swear he’s laughing as he goes.

I really feel like throwing something at him now. Instead, I rush downstairs and turn all my attention to the Foggs, who are standing at the door. They appear to be a lovely happy bunch, except maybe for Grandad, who is hovering by the looks of it on the precipice of keeling over, permanently.

*

I’m chatting to Adele Fogg– she and her husband Lee are the ones celebrating their wedding anniversary– whilst Lee plays pool with the kids. I can’t stop myself from glancing across at her dad as we chat. ‘Jacko, I’m Jacko Marshall,’ he whispers, as he drags a chair out from the kitchen and positions it outside the cottage door staring up at the treeline you can observe beyond the perimeter of the house. His complexion is a tomblike grey and he smokes like a pro; a cigarette is currently clamped between his fingers and with every laboured drag and every tap of ash a wheezing breath escapes him.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Marshall?’ I offer and he refuses.

‘Oh, call me Jacko, love. No, ta– tea doesn’t agree with me any more,’ he grunts.

‘Oh, that’s a real shame.’

‘Yes, it is, but you know, that’s cancer for you.’ Jacko nods gloomily.

‘Is it?’ I flail around for something to say. ‘Are you er... having treatment?’

‘No. No point. Stage Four, you see.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

He shrugs, and I hear Adele give a big sigh.

‘I’ve had a good innings– a really good innings. I’ve got to hug my grandkids. Buried my missus after a long and happy marriage, and we had this lovely daughter here. My Adele. I’ve had a grand life.’

Adele squeezes her dad’s hand then goes back inside. I notice that where he is sitting is slowly going into shade.

‘Would you like a bit of lemon drizzle cake, Jacko? I’m going to bring you over here into the sun.’

I carry a little table out from the shed and set it up outside the patio door, where the sun is still pouring into the garden. I find the comfiest garden armchair I can, prop it with a few cushions, and Jacko comes and sits in it. He’s so frail and slim he’s lost amongst the upholstery. After he’s enjoyed his piece of lemon drizzle cake he tells me he feels sleepy. He closes his eyes and soaks up the rays.

Grandad has been there for half an hour when Adele comes past with some jute bags and explains that she and Lee are just popping out to buy some food, leaving her father babysitting. I’m immediately a bit nervous.

‘Is he – y’know – well enough?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, they’re playing pool and we’ve set a console up so they’ll be gaming or colouring, and they’re sensible kids.’ She turns to the old chap. ‘You OK, Dad?’

When Dad doesn’t respond, I look away. I honestly think he might be dead, when he wakes with a splutter.

‘Rhinos?’

‘Dad, we’re going shopping. The kids are inside gaming. Are you all right if we leave you here for a short while?’

‘Go on with you, I’ll be right as ninepence.’

‘What you doing, going on about rhinos, Dad?’

‘I don’t know, love.’

‘You must’ve been dreaming.’

‘I never dream.’ He’s indignant.

Adele and I share a smile. She gives him a peck on the cheek then sets off arm-in-arm with Lee.

I’m over in the house, putting a Genoa recipe to the test. I’ve bashed it together and thrown it in the oven to see if I can bake it fast enough for Mitch to try before he leaves. I know it’s his favourite, and yes, I’m blatantly courting him– what else is a girl to do?

I’m hand-washing up the last bowl when there’s voices in the drive. I go outside and there are two walkers, a couple, I assume, all trussed up in the gear, in their late sixties I should say. They are looking a bit ragged round the edges and bickering between themselves, but they do that thing couples do of perking up and putting on a united front when they see me.

‘Could we order a pot of tea, please?’

I’m a bit taken aback, but they are staring at Jacko and I realise that he’s sat at a table, with a small tea pot, cup and plate, and for all intents and purposes he could be at a café.

‘I er... I’m not a café.’ Although I passed my hygiene exam ages ago.

‘Oh. Are you not?’ The wife looks so weary. Her voice sharpens. ‘I said this was the wrong route, didn’t I, Gerard? It’s not a café.’

Her poor husband looks fit to drop. ‘That’s a real shame,’ he says. ‘Are you sure?’

‘We’re gasping for a cuppa,’ the wife informs me. ‘We’ve walked from Halifax and come up thinking this was the road through to the Pennine Way but it stopped.’

‘Er... yes, it’s a cul de sac,’ I say apologetically.

The wife hoists the rucksack off her shoulders. ‘We’ve been at it for hours, and my feet are howling. I might not make it any further, Gerard. I’ve had it.’ She looks to be on the verge of tears.

Gerard is quite testy in the circumstances. ‘Margot, why do you always have to be so dramatic about these things,’ he hisses. ‘We’re two miles out of our way, that’s all.’

‘TWO BLOODY MILES!’

The bickering continues and clearly the couple have overdone the walking. I suspect a strong case of low blood sugar and take a view.

‘I am just about to take a Genoa cake out of the oven, and can easily knock up some more tea for you both. Please, it’s not a problem at all. Come, take a seat. Get comfortable.’

I bring a couple of chairs out of the kitchen.

‘Are you sure?’ Gerard looks anxious. ‘We don’t want to impose.’

Margot has no such reservations and is bottom down and untying her shoelaces within seconds.

‘No problem. Now, I can offer Earl Grey, English Breakfast tea or Peppermint? And is a slice of lemon drizzle cake acceptable? I’ll have a fresh Genoa ready in ten minutes, still warm from the oven.’

I carry another little metal table out of the shed, set it up next to them and throw a tablecloth over it. I then nip into my kitchen and fetch a couple of chairs. I’m worried about waking up Grandad, but he’s fast asleep in the sun.

‘Wonderful, that’s wonderful,’ Margot says gratefully. ‘Thank you so much. What a darling you are! What’s your name?’

‘Janet.’

‘You’re a wonder, Janet, isn’t she?’ To nowhere and no one in particular.

Gerard is obviously used to taking the decisions and pipes up, ‘Right, Janet, we’ll have two English Breakfast teas, milk, no sugar, and a slice each of the lemon cake, please. I reckon I’ll need it if I’m going to carry Margot the last couple of miles.’

‘Cheeky git.’ Margot giggles and the waves of angst drift off into the gentle sounds of the afternoon.

Gerard seems equally delighted to dump his gear and have the chance to sit down. His wife already has her socks off and is rubbing her sore feet.

‘Beautiful garden you’ve got there, Janet,’ she comments.

I take a moment to see the space afresh through her eyes, and it is lovely, I suppose, if I ignore what needs doing and instead just enjoy it. The clematis are in full glory, weaving themselves around the wicker arches, and the sweet peas a trifle of colour against the fence. Geraniums in various pots sing out in gorgeous cerise pink, and the last of the anemones in rich purple are still hanging about in the beds, a rigorous de-heading routine having kept them flowering for months now. It is pretty and I’m ridiculously proud and really enjoy the feeling of others seeing it and taking pleasure in it.

‘Thanks,’ I say bashfully. ‘It’s my pride and joy.’

At that point, Margot turns to Grandad, still snoozing, and asks him, ‘Hello there, are you visiting Janet’s Secret Garden Café too?’

My heart lights up when she says those words. I can hear Jacko chatting away with our new guests and I’ve soon got them sorted with tea and a generous slice of lemon drizzle. The granddaughter appears looking for her grandad; seeing that he’s happy and well looked after, she gives him a hug, is given some cake for herself and her brother, and disappears back into the cottage.

It’s a glorious afternoon. The sun is shining and little peals of laughter and small chatter drift into the kitchen as I pull the Genoa out of the oven. I’m feeling slightly giddy by the turn of the events. My own little café. My Secret Garden Café. Love it! The cake is absolutely spot on. It’s a great colour, with a split across the top revealing the odd glistening cherry.

I’m in heaven cutting up slices of the warm Genoa for everyone when Mitch comes into the kitchen. He really is a hunk of a man, broad-shouldered and hefty without any extra padding, and arms that could carry you up the stairs. Oh Mitch. I give him a big dreamy smile. This really is turning out to be a special afternoon.

‘What’s that?’ he asks. ‘Smells amazing.’

‘That will be me, Mitch.’

He laughs. ‘May I wash my hands, please?’

I let him through to the sink, enjoying the wriggle past him as I move away. What a perve I am! I take a couple of slices of the Genoa out to our two walkers sitting in the garden, who are ready for another slice of cake, and when I come back in to make them a fresh pot of tea, Mitch has his nose close to the cake and is breathing it in, his eyes closed.

‘What is it, Janet?’ he asks without opening them.

‘It’s a Genoa.’

‘Yes, I thought it was...’ And he heaves a sigh of pure delight.

‘I was going to give it to you as a thank you for doing the shower,’ I explain. ‘I know you said you liked it. It’s just... it’s just it seems I’ve opened a tea shop whilst you were upstairs, so it’s nearly all gone. I’m really sorry.’

He opens his eyes and says, ‘Get me a bloody slice sharpish then, Janet– no, better make it two, before anyone else gets a look-in and scoffs the lot.’

We laugh, and he takes a seat in the kitchen on the last of the chairs. I make him a strong tea with only a little milk, the way he likes it, and put two thick slices of the lightly fruited, moist and still-warm Genoa on a plate for him. He goes quiet as he reverently demolishes both slices and drains the cup.

‘I was thinking, Janet,’ he says, brushing a few crumbs off his lap.

My lit-up heart does a little leap, which is ridiculous. Calm down, Janet. I’m jumping to assumptions that I might be included in his thinking. I try to look as relaxed and carefree as I can, leaning on the worktop whilst surreptitiously propping up my boobs. As luck would have it, I’m wearing one of my saggy old bras and my boobs could do with some extra underarm support.

‘Oh, right, yeah?’ I wait.

He’s paused– how do I encourage him to come out with more words? I shuffle my boobs, for all the impact that has.

After a pause: ‘Yes, you see, Janet, I was thinking—’

‘Any chance of a pee?’

It’s Gerard. He steps into the kitchen, oblivious to the moment he’s currently ruining. I try not to shout out: ‘Bugger off, Gerard, Mitch is thinking.’ Instead, I say politely, ‘Yes, of course. Go down through that door, the loo is at the end.’

Once Gerard has gone off, whistling, to relieve himself, Mitch takes a deep breath, as if he’s preparing himself for something important. He looks into his cup, puts it back down, gathers himself. I am going to have to encourage him on.

‘What were you saying, Mitch?’ Please, please, please, tell me what you’re thinking, I’m all ears, all body, all soul, ready to listen and so much more.

‘The thing is...’ he clears his throat, ‘well, I was wondering, Janet, if you—’

‘Help! Help!I think this gentleman is—HELP!’

My eyes still locked on Mitch, I pivot reluctantly to Margot, who is looking panicky and is calling from outside. Old Mr Marshall has slumped and slid halfway off his chair and is now being propped up by a distraught Margot.

Mitch and I rush outside. I check, and the old guy is still breathing– but only just. ‘Oh God,’ someone says. ‘Call an ambulance.’

I run inside for my phone and ring 999. Gerard arrives back from the loo and goes into First Aid mode; he’s an ex-first aider apparently, so he has the poor man on the ground with a pillow propping up his head, as I’m explaining Mr Marshall’s symptoms to the kind woman on the end of the line. Once I hear the ambulance is on its way, I rifle through my correspondence until I find the contact number for Adele Fogg.

The ambulance arrives in record time; luckily they were already in the area. As the paramedics take over, Mitch mouths, ‘Goodbye,’ to me. I can’t really concentrate but I know he has said something like, ‘I hope all’s OK and sorry, I’ve got to go now.’ What can I do but give him a thumbs-up and a wave. Meanwhile Jacko is being uploaded into the ambulance and Adele, thank God, is back in time to jump in with her father and hold his hand.

As the ambulance door slams shut, Mitzi is approaching along the drive, dragging a huge tree branch.

‘What’s happened?’ she asks, looking worried.

‘Mr Fogg’s father-in-law has collapsed. He’s not a well man.’

Mitzi doesn’t miss a beat. She drops the branch in the middle of the drive, runs inside the house and returns moments later, both hands clasped around large sheafs of various barley-type stalks. She sets one sheaf alight and begins what I can only describe as a Native American kind of prairie dance, chanting gobbledygook and liberally wafting the stinky sticks whilst she parades around the garden and the outside of Lavander Cottage.

Lee and the two kids emerge from the cottage into a drift of smoke, all looking stressed about poor Grandad and prepped for a walk. They are visibly bewildered by what Mitzi is doing, and set off down the drive with the two kids walking backwards so they can continue to keep watching. I try to minimise the impact with a cheery, ‘See you later!’ It makes no difference: my sister in full flow is a sight to be seen. Why wouldn’t you look?

Gerard and Margot are also watching, also startled, at their table.

I whisper loudly, whilst vainly pretending to be doing a bit of dead heading, ‘Maureen– Mitzi – what the heck are you doing?’

She reaches both arms into some sort of upright yoga position and drops her head to her chest. ‘I’m blocking the Curse.’

‘Curse?’Ears obviously primed over decades for any high-class gossip, Margot is on it like a pincer. ‘There’s a curse?’ She sounds excited, whereas a cold dread floods through me.

In a wave of spaghetti limbs and spiral smoke trails, Mitzi makes a dramatic spin then drops to her knees and splays both arms out wide, letting the still-smoking barley sheafs fall on to the ground.

‘It is done. All is gone.’

I have to give it to her, it’s first-class showmanship.

Gerard, elbowed by Margot, joins in with his wife to give my sister a round of applause. Trying to normalise a far from normal situation, I clap too.

Margot is hugely enthusiastic. ‘Oooh, I loved that! Wasn’t that good, Gerry?’

Meanwhile, I’m hissing to my sister: ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. That’s no curse, the poor chap has Stage Four cancer.’

Mitzi is resolute. ‘You’re wrong. It’s a curse.’

It’s time for the walkers, now greatly restored, to get back on the trail. The couple zip up, refasten layers and pull on gloves.

‘Well, that was very entertaining,’ Margot says happily. ‘What do we owe you, Janet dear?’

Mitzi gives me a meaningful look as she lifts up the huge tree branch and starts to drag it along the drive again.

I get her message: if the ritual is to work, this must be a gift.

‘Nothing,’ I tell the woman. ‘Thank goodness you were here. I wouldn’t have known what to do if you hadn’t turned up.’

‘Poor guy. We were only too happy to help, and I reckon we were obviously meant to come along. I always follow my instincts, they’re never wrong, and they led us here today.’ Like another Mitzi, Margot is absolutely convinced of what she says. ‘You, Gerard, were brought here today to save his life, I know it.’

Very cheerful after his sit-down, with a happy tummy and empty bladder, her husband nods and says, ‘You’re rarely wrong, Margot love, rarely wrong. Now Janet, let us give you something for the delicious tea and cake.’

But I stick to my guns. ‘No, really, it’s my pleasure. And thank you again for saving our elderly guest.’

Gerard smiles, shrugs humbly and grabs his sticks. Margot gives him a peck on the cheek.

‘You see, Gerry?’ she tells him. ‘We were meant to come and get a performance, a cup of tea, cake and a pee– and all for free.’

She giggles and with that cheery pronouncement the couple are on their way, and I wave them off before beginning to clear up the crockery. Mitzi parks her branch by the patio door and follows me into the kitchen.

‘Who were they and what were they doing here?’ she quite naturally wants to know.

‘They saw Mrs Fogg’s dad sitting outside and thought it was a tea room.’

‘Nice,’ she comments. ‘No wonder you wanted rid of me. I’m getting in the way of another of Janet’s money-making schemes.’

My older sister has a knack for making me feel really bad at times, when I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I feel a burst of annoyance.

‘It was a one-off– plus what if I am doing some money-making schemes? Someone round here has to!’

‘Oooh, thousands of pounds’ worth of interior upgrades not enough for you, Mrs Snotty Jackson? I’ll tell Carl he needs to cancel his extension and move on to doing your kitchen.’

‘You’ll do no such thing. I’ve just nearly caused a death with my lemon drizzle, that’s all– it was obviously too rich for that poor chap. Look, I’m in need of a calm moment, not more bloody drama, that’s all.’

‘Well, don’t hold your breath because I’ve just seen Echo flyer-ing in town. She’s setting up Calder Coven in Midgeley.’

Weirdly, I’m not surprised by the news. I knew we hadn’t seen the last of that horrible woman.

‘Yes, well, that confirms everything I have ever thought about her– she is a ruddy witch. She’ll be sending bad vibes down here via Midgeley Ginnel if we’re not careful.’

‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll set up a counter curse at the kissing gate.’ Mitzi means the gate in a meadow near Redacre Wood. She wanders around the kitchen for a while picking things up and putting them down before coming to a halt and announcing: ‘You know what? Your new café has given me an idea.’

My tummy does a lurch. It’s like muscle memory, the inevitable fallout from when Mitzi hatches anything.

‘You can stop right there,’ I say forcefully. ‘There is no café.’

‘Shush, just hear me out. I want to introduce the shaman experience to those people who, y’know, like a scone with their spirits.’

‘Eh? What are you on about? You’ve lost me.’

‘Janet, I’m riffing aloud here, go with me, open your imagination to the possible. If Hebden Shamans is going to be the incredible success I’m anticipating, I need to reach out to customers from all walks of life, ideally ones with some actual income. You saw that woman today, she loved it– she gave a round of applause. This is the perfect space– a large, beautifully kept country garden, high quality cakes and delicacies, wonderful, charming service– it would attract the upmarket curious, and they, my friend, are who I’m after.’

My mind is boggling. I can’t resist saying, ‘Beautifully kept garden, amazing food, charming service– what the heck are you doing in this dream scenario, Mitz?’

She’s too excited to take offence. ‘The show, of course, a shaman show! Let’s set a date. Three weeks on Saturday? We’ll call it Scones and Spirits. I’m going to make it my first Hebden Shamans Insta post.’

And with that she drags the branch in through the patio door, leaving a trail of twigs and leaves everywhere. ‘Why a tree?’ I shout after her.

‘Nature vibes for the bedroom, Janet, nature vibes.’

I go outside and slump into one of the seats vacated by Margot and Gerard, taking the last slice of the Genoa cake with me. I sweep the lemony crumbs off the tablecloth into my hand and scatter them on the ground for the birds, then stare out at the garden in a daze. What an afternoon. One thing after another. Setting up a café? In my garden? People coming in and buying my cakes and me working at home, from my own kitchen, doing the thing I love most of all. Cooking and making people happy for a living. Visitors enjoying my lovely garden and my best cakes.

An electric thrill races through me, and I take a bite of the Genoa. Mmm, that is good. Mitch will be back for another slice of this, surely?

All my emotions are stirred up: hope for the Foggs’ beloved grandad, dread about that awful woman Echo, my heart racing when Mitch is close by... The series of dramas of the afternoon wash over me, and I almost feel weepy. I’m all mixed up and wondering what on earth I have agreed to now. I don’t really know. But guess what? I am excited.

**** Four Stars from the Foggs

Pleasant stay at Lavandar Cottage. Good breakfast. Interesting hosts. Life-savers.

Learn First Aid. You never know when it might come in handy.

Keep spare crockery and linen for things that happen. Unexpectedly. Like Secret Garden Cafés!

Dare to dream.