Debbie Johnson - A Gift from the Comfort Food Café - Celebrate Christmas in the cosy village of Budbury with the most heartwarming read of 2018!

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2018

Copyright © Debbie Johnson 2018

Cover illustrations © Hannah George/Meiklejohn

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Debbie Johnson 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008258856

Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008258863

Version: 2018-09-10

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part 1: On Your Marks …

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part 2: Get Set …

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Part 3 – Go?

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Debbie Johnson

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

For Barbara Tomkinson (and Tinkerbell!)

My name is Katie Seddon. I am seven years old, and I am preparing to run away.

This is the first time, but it won’t be the last.

It is Christmas Day, and I have gathered together all of the essentials, which include the following: a selection of gifts, including my mermaid Barbie, a colouring book and felt tip pens, a musical jewellery box with a wind-up dancing ballerina inside it, fluffy pink ear muffs, elf bed socks and a four-pack of custard creams wrapped in cellophane. The biscuits weren’t under the tree that morning; I pinched them from the kitchen.

I look at my stash, and decide that I am ready for all that life can throw at me.

I pack my haul into my Toy Story backpack, and decide I will take a trip to infinity and beyond. Or at least to my grandma’s house. She only lives two streets away, so it isn’t exactly an intergalactic space quest.

I sit on my bed, and pause after I’ve zipped everything up. I wonder if my mum and dad will hear me as I sneak downstairs, get my raincoat, and leave – but a few seconds sitting with my head cocked to one side, listening to them scream at each other, reassures me that they won’t.

I can only make out the odd word, and I’ve learned already not to try too hard. I won’t hear anything good. It’s a cacophony of shrieks and yells and thuds as they chase each other around the living room. The bangs of ashtrays being thrown and high-pitched swearing and the crash of plates are all perfectly normal to me. They’re part of the soundtrack of my childhood; a reverse lullaby that keeps me awake and scared instead of sleepy and secure.

Looking back, with more complex thought processes than I possessed at seven, I know they are one of those couples who base their whole relationship on mutual contempt. On a good day, they tolerate each other. On a bad one, the only emotion in their eyes is hatred and bitterness. The overwhelming disappointment of what their lives have become.

I know now it’s not uncommon – and that their conflicts were the glue that held them together. Maybe when they first met it was exciting. Maybe they thought the arguments were passionate. Maybe the first few serious rows were put down to fire and spice. Maybe they were different when they were young, and thought they were in love – but now, with my dad in a dead-end job and Mum stuck at home, it’s not passion. It’s fury.

At the age of seven, I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know what’s going on in the big, nasty grown-up world – but I do know that I’ve had enough. That this is the worst Christmas ever. That they’re both really, really mean when they fight. Dad is bigger and physically stronger, but Mum is like a wasp, constantly zooming in to sting him. It’s horrible, and I’m leaving. Forever.

I tiptoe down the stairs and creep out of the house really quietly, although I needn’t have bothered – they’ve reached critical mass by this stage and wouldn’t pause if I did a conga through the living room wearing my flashing neon Rudolph deely-boppers. Which I am wearing, by the way – I’ve decided they will help me stay safe outside in the dark.

The walk to my grandma’s is a bit scary. I’ve done it before, loads of times, but only with grown-ups. This time I am doing it alone, at night, and with nobody to hold my hand when I’m crossing the road. I’m a good girl, and do as I’ve been taught, waiting for the green man to come on at the traffic lights even though there are no cars at all. Mum sometimes goes when the red man is on, but she says that’s all right for adults.

I knock on my grandma’s door, and she opens it wearing her quilted dressing gown and tartan slippers. She lets me in without any questions at all. I realise now it’s because she didn’t have to ask – she knew exactly what was going on in my house, and exactly why I needed a refuge. A place to shelter from the storm of my parents’ toxic relationship.

My nan was a very kind woman, and she always smelled of Parma Violets. To this day I still find it comforting whenever they turn up in a big bag of Swizzels. Halloween can be a bittersweet experience.

She settles me down with a bowl of custard-soaked jam roly-poly that she warms up in the microwave, and makes me a mug of instant hot chocolate. She even lets me sit in the big armchair that has the button that makes the footrest go up, tucked under a blanket. I hear her on the phone, but I’m so comfy and cosy and happy I’m not remotely interested in who she’s talking to. The room is lit by the twinkles of her small plastic Christmas tree, and all is well with the world.