By the side of the road, in amongst the shops and the bars, stands a church. It is a grand building in the Victorian Gothic style, built in the late 19th century, soon after the railway brought development to what used to be little more than sparse open fields. A century earlier, these fields were renown for decades for hosting the infamous “Garrat Elections” – a raucous spectacle timed to coincide with general elections, where spoof candidates would pillory politicians through skits and speeches. At its height it attracted 80,000 visitors, much to the delight of local publicans (including that of The Leather Bottle, still in operation today).

When the railway arrived, the new station was named after a local house – Earlsfield – which had been demolished to accommodate the line; the owners had insisted the name be kept on as condition of the sale. With the station to the north and the newly built church to the south, the area expanded rapidly, transforming from a sleepy Surrey village to a thriving London suburb in a blink of an eye, largely stocked with terraced housing for working class families. Meanwhile the area picked up its name from the station – rather than vice versa – and it has been known as Earlsfield ever since.

Where once the church sat on a countryside lane, now it finds itself on a bustling high street. Where once it was the preserve of Sunday morning worshippers, now its doors are open throughout the week. Open in the widest sense, for this building is a place for anyone and everyone; a space that transcends the religious and the secular, the young and the old, this community or that. Under its towering vaults and arches, people come to gather and connect, in the same ways people have for millennia: through conversation, art, music and food…

*

On Monday, the small child peered into the doorway, tightly clasping her father’s hand. Above them, a series of ribbed arches protruded in relief on the red brick facade; for a moment, the pair looked as though set within a picture frame, frozen in time.

The father took a step inside. The child hung back: it was dark, and she was unsure what lay within.

‘No! Not going in there!’ she frowned.

‘I think you’ll enjoy it,’ encouraged her father.

‘No!’

‘But you like singing, petal. And besides, there might be cake…’

The word was left to hang in the air. In his daughter’s mind, a wondrous succession of cakes were conjured up – lemon, chocolate, Victoria Sponge – some with a fairy dusting of icing sugar, others laden with chocolate swirls and strawberries, each more elaborately decorated than the one before. He could hear her thoughts swirling around, weighing up whether to confront the strange and unfamiliar, for the promise of tasty baked treats.

‘Humph! Okay then,’ she said. For cake always wins.

So they entered, footsteps echoing off walls of honey and red brick. Overhead loomed a ceiling so high that, for the girl, it seemed like another kind of sky. It was framed by a series of pointed windows that hung like geometric clouds. Crisscrossing the room was a cats-cradle of blue and grey bunting, intertwined with a twinkling constellation of fairylights. She looked up in wonder.

A group of children were meanwhile sitting in a circle, attentively gazing at a man dressed in a scarlet necktie and burgundy waistcoat. In his arms was an accordion, which he gaily scrunched and pulled in time with a song. She knew this one. One by one, she unfurled her fingers from her father’s hand, and nestled herself into the line of children, gradually joining in and clapping at the requisite moments.

The father meanwhile peeled off to a tinsel-lined counter, behind which lay a kitchen where apron-clad cooks were busy stirring pans and kneading dough. He ordered a coffee, and a brownie for his daughter, before spotting a pinboard to the side; it was studded with receipts:

Now that’s a good idea!… So he paid for another brownie, and pinned the note to the board. He pictured it being enjoyed some day – crumbs tumbling down a contented chin – before a loud hush broke his reverie.

The music-man had raised his finger to his lips, inviting everyone to lie silently on the floor. This proved far from seamless: a few children were engaged in an impromptu round of tag, whilst another was making a determined break for the exit. Eventually he managed to corral them back into the middle, and when all were quiet and still, he started up his song:

“See the bunnies sleeping till it’s nearly noon
Shall we try and wake them with a merry tune?
They’re so still. Are they ill?
Wake up little bunnies!
Hop little bunnies, hop, hop, hop…”

As if as one, they all leaped up onto their feet, and busily began hopping on one leg. They laughed and giggled and bounced into each other, before hopelessly falling about in a heap.

He continued through his repertoire: each song accompanied by its own medley of actions, and each with its own musical instrument, swapping a banjo for a ukulele, and then a harmonica, until a final flurry of festive numbers brought the routine to an end. He thanked them for coming, and wished them all farewell. The girl waved goodbye to her new friends.

‘Daddy?’ she asked, as they made their way out. ‘Can we come here again?’

‘Of course!’ her father smiled. She hadn’t asked about the cake, not even once.

*

On Tuesday, the young woman arrived in a fluster. ‘Sorry I’m late everyone. Bus took forever.’ She set an oversized hessian bag at the communal table, which she proceeded to rifle through quite frenetically. At last she pulled out a few sheets of patterned fabric, and held them aloft. ‘It always has to be at the bottom, doesn’t it? Bloody bag of doom!’

‘Haha, know the feeling!’ agreed the coordinator, ‘Anyway, make yourself at home. Scissors and materials all on the table, just help yourself. You know the drill. We’re making a special advent installation for the aisle wall. Anyway, been a while since we last saw you though, how’ve you been?’

‘Well finally handed in my dissertation,’ the young woman replied, as she scanned the table, sifting through an assortment of multicoloured paper, a plastic tub of glittering beads, and a spread of gossip magazines. ‘Never want to see another word of Chaucer again though!’

‘Hey, congratulations you!’ cheered one of the group from across the table, lifting their eyes up briefly whilst sprinkling glitter over a piece of card.

‘Ah thanks. Just glad it’s all done,’ she replied as she flicked through a magazine from a Sunday broadsheet. Amongst the stock photos of celebrity smiles and sun-kissed beaches, she came across a special feature on children and music. Perfect, she thought to herself, and began cutting photos of dancing figures and musical instruments.

Just as she was applying the final touches, the coordinator called out for lunch. ‘If you put your work in the corner there, we’ll bring it all together after we eat.’

As they began to set down their pieces, cries of “wow, that’s amazing!” and “love what you’ve done there!” buzzed about the room, before everyone headed over to the counter.

‘So today we’ve got a white bean and chocolate mole…’ the server explained. ‘Comes with roast squash and a salsa verde.’ He handed over blue ceramic plates that were brightly decorated with charred slivers of orange and a liberal drizzling of emerald green.

‘Wow, this looks so good!’ said the young woman, before sitting down with the rest of the group. ‘Best thing I’ll eat all week,’ she declared, and they all began to tuck in.

*

On Wednesday, a howling gale blew down a leaden grey Garratt Lane, pummelling its pavements with a scything rain. To the woman, it felt like her cheeks were being stung by a thousand icicles. On opening the church door, a flurry of warm air embraced her, sweeping her inside. She removed her coat and hung it on a brass hook to dry, water dripping from its sopping corners, forming little puddles on the red tiled floor.

She looked around and, spying the counter, made her way over. ‘Hello, just seeing, I heard this is one of those warm space places?’ she asked.

The server replied, ‘Yes, that’s right. Monday to Wednesday we keep it warm through the winter. And you’re welcome to a free cup of tea too, or bowl of soup.’

‘Ah, you’re a lifesaver! My heating’s been on the blink for weeks now,’ she explained. ‘And my landlord’s doing sod all about it.’

‘Sounds a nightmare. Hope it’s sorted soon. Well, if you did want the soup, we’ve spiced lentil and kale today. Our work experience student made this one, his first go too…’ The server peered into an industrial sized urn and gave its rust-brown contents a token stir.

‘That’d be great,’ she replied. The soup was given another swirl before being ladled out into a bowl decorated with poppies and cornflowers. A billow of steam rose up. He then dolloped a spoonful of yoghurt into the middle, and scattered a few flame-red chilli flakes over the top. Placing the bowl onto a tray, she took a moment to inhale its warm earthy vapours, before winding her way to a table.

The soup was just what she needed – a simple nourishing affair, but reassuringly thick and hearty. It sat inside her like a furnace, melting away her shivers and goosebumps. As she drew upon this well of heat and sustenance, she found herself getting lost in its depths, her thoughts gently slipping away into a dream. Suddenly, a sign on the column beside her caught her eye:

“Volunteers Wanted
For Earlsfield Foodbank
Contact details below”

Funny that, she’d just been thinking the other day she’d like to do a bit more in her local community. She began mulling it over, and as she did so, something kindled inside her. Before she knew it, she had finished her soup, and had forgotten all about the cold.

*

On Thursday, the volunteer welcomed her with a voice that was warm and kind. Let’s find you a table! – and together they weaved their way through the bustle to a spot at the far side of the nave. The place was heaving. As they sat down, the volunteer asked how she was getting on, before running through some questions. She answered the best she could:

‘Yes, I’ve a place to live.’

‘Just me, on my own.’

‘The rent’s okay. It’s a bit tight though.’

‘I’ve a brother, not far away.’

‘I get a bit lonely. But it’s okay.’

‘I guess I do drink a bit. It’s not easy to stop sometimes.’

‘Yes, I’ve a GP. Earlsfield Practice.’

‘No, I don’t need any other help, thank you.’

Once all the details were taken, the volunteer gestured to the counter where they were serving a free cooked breakfast, something to eat whilst the parcels were being prepared.

‘Oh, just so you know, we always have a support worker from St Mungo’s, just in case you want some help. Plus Family Action and Citizens Advice too,’ added the volunteer, pointing at their respective tables. ‘And we’ve an iPad and laptop here too, if you need to get online.’

‘That’s great, thank you,’ she replied, before making her way to the counter, picking up a bowl of thick steaming porridge, a hot buttered crumpet, and a mince pie. She then sat beside a couple who were immersed in conversation – you know why the kids have such problems these days? You can blame the parents, blame the schools all you like, but they’re just doing their best. The government, however, they’re just cutting services all over the place. Such a scandal!

She plucked up the courage and joined in. Conversation was lively, even if it turned out they agreed on most things. They talked for most of the morning. Eventually she looked at her watch, and stood up. ‘Sorry, better pick up my stuff. It’s been nice chatting though.’

She promptly made her way over to a long table where a group of volunteers were busy packing an assortment of tins and cartons and fresh fruit into shopping bags. She gave her details, and two bags were duly dispatched.

‘Thank you,’ she said, before returning briefly to the couple again. They had moved onto the climate crisis. ‘Sorry, forgot to say – my name is Sonia. Hope to see you next time…’

*

On Friday, the woman hovered beside the church door, checking her phone and chewing her lip. She looked through the window, which quickly steamed up with her short tense breaths. She wiped it clear, smudging it slightly, and peered through again. Okay, I can do this – she said to herself. She swung the door and stepped inside.

A communal table lay just ahead, around which a set of mismatched second-hand chairs were being arranged. A few people were milling behind. She was however early, and so proceeded towards a counter laden with enticing bakes. How she would have loved to dive into one of those right now! But things had been so tight recently.

She suddenly spotted a board with a number of receipts pinned on. She peered more closely – a mug of coffee, a slice of cake, here was one for a whole meal. Wow, people are kind!.. After a moment of deliberation, she tore a note off the board and approached the server behind the counter.

‘Hope it’s okay, but…’

‘Yes of course! Take a seat and I’ll bring it over.’

She found herself a comfy-looking sofa, removed her coat, and sat down. The server came round, dropping off a decorative plate, on top of which sat a brownie perched neatly on a folded napkin. She picked it up delicately between her thumb and third finger, momentarily delighting in the squidge before taking a bite, crumbs tumbling over the table top. She glanced upwards, whispering a word of thanks.

By now, a substantial group had formed around the table. The woman who had been arranging the chairs ambled over to her. ‘You here for the Menopause Café, by any chance?’

‘Er, yes,’ she replied.

‘Ah, great! Go grab a free coffee if you’d like. We’re starting in a couple of minutes.’

She didn’t know what to expect. A friend of hers had told her about it, thinking it’d be good for her. But now she was here, she didn’t really know what she wanted. She certainly wasn’t up for sharing stuff or anything like that. So in the end, she just listened. Which turned out to be fine. And when conversation veered off onto the unseasonably wet weather, the traffic on Garratt Lane, and people’s favourite contestants on Bake Off, she found herself joining in. She recounted the ‘stolen dough incident’, and everyone laughed.

As they talked, she found herself distracted by some decorations on an adjacent pillar. Actually, they were more than just decorations: it was a whole installation of artwork. She scanned over the cut pieces of card and magazines, stuck feathers and beads and sparkling glitter. There was music and instruments and dancing and children. Her mind conjured up songs and laughter. It made her smile, and just a little nostalgic.

*

On Saturday, the church was closed for a funeral. Only a small crowd attended, but for those who came the service was poignant and distinctly beautiful. They wept, they smiled, and they remembered a life taken before her time.

*

On Sunday, the church was brimming with the usual congregants, as well as an additional tranche of visitors for a christening. The infant was a picture, all dressed in white cotton with frills on its collar and sleeves. When the vicar held her over the font and splashed water over her head, she bawled the roof down. Everyone smiled.

Afterwards the thrilled parents, who never stopped beaming, invited all to stay for tea and cake. They gave a brief speech of thanks, speaking of how grateful they were for everyone being there, how much it meant to them, marking the start of their little one’s life. They spoke of their hopes and fears and dreams. But for now this was the beginning of a journey. And who knows what life will bring.

*

Home Community Café is a not-for-profit café and community hub. It’s a place I always find full of endeavour and humanity, thanks to the dedication and spirit of its staff and volunteers, and its ceaseless commitment to community work.

It was the food however that first drew me in, after a local friend tipped me off to say it served the best in Earlsfield. After many visits now, I’m inclined to agree. It is excellent, with a daily changing menu that’s short but always interesting and diverse. Fermented foods are well represented, and there’s always a homemade pickle of the day. (I do like my pickles!)

Everything is vegetarian or vegan, partly so the food is as accessible and affordable as possible, with fresh quality produce sourced from a local community garden. It’s also to help minimise the environmental impact, as does the procurement of food without packaging, and a commitment to zero waste. Table tops are made from old floorboards, and even the kitchen counters are reappropriated from church pews.

Home Community Café is not a church café per se: more a kind of permanent pop-up. That said, St Andrews church provides a beautiful backdrop, one that always seems full of energy and life, and yet is surprisingly calming too. It’s a place to sit back and while away a few hours – bringing to mind Ruby Tandoh’s excellent piece ‘Restaurants as Living Rooms’, a reflection on the undervalued function of food spots not just as spaces to eat or meet in, but as places just to sit and be. (Such a sentiment is also explored in my blog piece – A Warm Embrace at Halwa Poori House.)

Successive visits however have made me increasingly struck by all the community work going on under its roof – the knitting circle clack-clattering their needles on the corner couches; the industry and artistry of the collage group; the work experience placements provided for neurodiverse young people; to name just a few of the 19 projects they are currently involved in. Their work supporting local asylum seekers and refugees has been awarded with the status of “Cafe of Sanctuary” by City of Sanctuary UK, whilst The Big Issue named the café as one of its top 100 ChangeMakers of 2023.

And then there’s the Earlsfield Food Bank, visited by around 150 people every Thursday, and for whom the café puts on a free cooked breakfast. This particular food bank can be accessed without need of vouchers or referral, whilst people can also choose from a variety of food options, including fresh fruit and vegetables. Volunteers meanwhile have specific training in Suicide First Aid and Universal Credit; external staff from various support agencies are also on hand to provide further help if needed.

If you wish to find out more, feel free to check out the Home Community Café website or Instagram feed. Or, if you’re in the area… just go! It really is a wonderful spot.

Finally, a big thank you to Megan Fry of Home Community Café, and Charlotte White of the Earlsfield Food Bank, for so generously giving their time to discuss their work and that of their respective organisations.

Home Community Café

Home Community Café

Home Community Café

Home Community Café

Home Community Café

Home Community Café

Home Community Café

Home Community Café

Home Community Café