Now, though, he’s … different. He listens, and he asks pertinent questions, and he seems genuinely interested in other people and what’s going on with them and ways we might help.
He has some good ideas about Cherie’s planned sessions, suggesting neck and shoulder massages for the sleep-deprived mums and the stressed out carers, coming up with a concept for a simple recipe book for nutritious smoothies, setting up a walking group to get them out and about when they’re physically capable.
I recognise some of these ideas as ones he’s probably used himself, during therapy and recovery, and to keep himself on the straight and narrow. I do admire the way he’s turned his life around, the way he lives now.
‘Wasn’t this all a risk for you?’ I ask, interrupting him mid-flow.
‘What?’ he asks, frowning.
‘Coming here. Seeing me. Staying even when you found out I was with Finn. You’ve … well, you’ve done brilliantly, Seb, getting yourself straight and happy. But all the same, you were taking a risk – one of those danger points that you’ll have been warned about in rehab –stepping into an emotionally threatening environment, leaving your routines behind you.’
He shrugs, and gives it some thought.
‘I suppose so,’ he replies after a few moments. ‘In fact, you’re right: it’s exactly the kind of situation my doctors would have told me to avoid. But after my dad’s death, I realised I was strong enough to handle things, to deal with change. And what is life without a bit of risk, anyway, Auburn? What is life without taking a chance? I have my moments of doubt, sure. I have my … what do you call them, wobbles?’
I nod, and grin at his use of the word.
‘But just because I wobble doesn’t mean I’ll fall. And some things – some people – are simply worth the risk.’
I’m guessing he means me, and I blush a little. I didn’t ask to be at the centre of this drama, but I’d be lying if I said a tiny part of me wasn’t flattered. Moved, even.
‘It must be hard though,’ I say, ignoring that last line. ‘Just being in a pub, or the pharmacy?’
I give him a quick glance before I turn my eyes back to the road, and see him swipe his dark hair away from his forehead.
‘The pharmacy,’ he replies, sounding darkly amused, ‘would have been like a sweet shop not that long ago. I’d have been looking around wondering what I could get away with swiping, wouldn’t I? I’d have been desperate to get inside that big cupboard where you keep all the really good drugs …’
‘Oh, you noticed that, did you?’
‘Of course. I’m sober, not dead. And maybe it would have been easier if you had a job as a hairdresser or a traffic warden or a vicar, so I could hang out somewhere temptation-free – but I have to have some trust in myself, or there’s no point. There will always be part of me wondering if I could get away with one last high, one last night partying – always. That will never go away. But these days … well, I’ve learned to say no to myself.’
I nod, and realise that I completely understand what he’s saying. It’s similar with me. Yes, I can now have a few drinks – even quite a lot of drinks – because I’m confident that I won’t let it push me over the edge into some insane binge. I can take some paracetamol when I have a headache, knowing it probably won’t turn me into a granny-robbing smackhead. But there’s always a ‘probably’ in there, and I have to be aware of when to say no to myself.
Like when offered a massage by my estranged husband, for example. That probably wouldn’t turn me into a slavering sex maniac either – but I won’t be taking the chance, just in case.
The silence settles again, but it’s comfortable enough. Companionable even. He’s also much better at being quiet than he used to be – I swear there wasn’t an ounce of oxygen he couldn’t suck from the room when we were together. He seemed to think of silence as some kind of force of darkness.
Out of the blue, as I leave the main road to follow the winding route up into the hills, he asks: ‘How’s Finn?’
I blink a few times, and wonder why on earth he’s asking that, and what complex pattern of thought led from our last conversation to Finn.
‘Erm … good. Very good, thanks,’ I reply, uncertainly. I’m not sure where this is leading and I’m not sure I want it to lead anywhere.
‘He’s not been around much. I heard Zoe talking about it to Cal in the café.’
Ah. The village grapevine – it produces an intoxicating vintage.
‘He’s busy,’ I reply, feeling defensive on Finn’s behalf. ‘And he’s got a conference to go to. And … well, I suppose he wants to avoid you, doesn’t he? After that night in the pub.’
‘I really am sorry about that,’ he tells me, again. ‘I should have handled it differently. I shouldn’t have pushed him. It wasn’t fair, to either of you. He seems like a decent man.’
‘Well, on that particular night, he wasn’t at his best – because yes, you pushed him. And because this is hard for him. But he is decent, Seb. Probably the most decent human being I know. He’s kind, and he’s clever, and he’s very, very good for me. We were really happy together …’
I trail off here, realising that I’ve been sucked into talking about things best left untalked about. Certainly with Seb.
‘Were happy together?’ he replies, stressing my accidental use of the past tense.
‘Are. We are happy together, okay? Please don’t pick away at this, Seb. Just leave it, all right? We both know you’ve always been able to persuade me that black is white, and talk me into pretty much anything, and I’m asking you now – please don’t even try. Not with this. Finn is a good man, and I love him, and no matter how complicated all of this is, I’m holding on to the truth of that. Trying to talk me out of it won’t work.’
He looks like he has more to say. I feel like I have more to say. It was a nicespeech, but even I’m not entirely convinced by it. I chew my lip, and prepare for the onslaught.
Instead, he nods, and briefly strokes my thigh, and looks resigned to a situation he doesn’t agree with – like he’s willing to lose the argument for my sake.
‘Okay, Auburn. I’ll leave it alone. For you.’
I splutter out a thank you, and have never in my life been more happy to pull up in a driveway, and see a harassed-looking woman holding a screaming, red-faced baby. It’s the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.
We start there, and work our way around most of the people I’m visiting. I have some prescriptions to drop off for some of them, and a few basic health checks to do on others, and of course the boxes to deliver. Most of them are thrilled, and clearly can’t wait to delve in and see what’s beyond the ribbons.
Seb is an excellent addition, I have to admit, managing to tailor his demeanour to the circumstances. I realise that this is a strange situation, and introduce him to people as my friend, visiting from Spain, always making sure they’re okay with him being there even for a brief visit.
Naturally enough, they’re all okay with it – especially the young mums, who look like all their Christmases have come at once. Auburn Longville – supplier of drugs, cake, and hunky men.
Our last stop is Mr Pumpwell – I’ve saved the best for last. If anyone can resist Seb, it’s Mr P, I think, as I beep my car horn to tell him we’re there.
He makes his way over to us from the donkey paddock, slightly stooped, one hand on his back, trying to pretend that he’s not in pain. I can tell from his guarded posture that he is, and make a mental note to get him some more help.
He won’t take it from social services or any of the logical places, so I’ll have to be creative. I’m thinking maybe that Van would like to visit, possibly bringing Saul with him, under the guise of the little boy wanting to see the animals. And while he was there, he could do a bit of feeding, or maintenance around the place.
Naturally enough I haven’t mentioned this to Van, as it’s only this minuteoccurred to me – but I’m sure he won’t mind.
Mr P holds up one
hand in greeting, and pauses while he takes in Seb, looking him up and down like he’s considering cooking him in a pot. I introduce them, and he raises bushy grey eyebrows, and says: ‘Well. You’d best come in out of the rain then, if you’re from Spain. You might melt.’
We all troop indoors, Seb hefting the box, and Mr P promptly puts the kettle on. It’s his default setting.
‘How’s the pain, Mr P?’ I ask, automatically going to get mugs out of the high cupboard to save him from having to stretch. ‘Do you want to go into the other room for a chat?’
I’m suggesting this in case he doesn’t feel comfortable talking in front of Seb, of course, but I needn’t have bothered.
‘Been better. Been worse,’ he says gruffly.
‘But have you been taking your painkillers? I’ve brought some more – your doctor sent over a repeat prescription for the codeine.’
‘I have been taken them, yes, Little Miss Nosy. Mainly to help me sleep through it. I’ve got a few left, but you might as well leave the new ones. I’ll just feed them to Belle if I have any left over. Bloody animal could do with a sedative.’
Seb looks confused, and I explain: ‘Belle is Mr P’s donkey. I’ve long suspected she’s a Disney villainess who’s been cursed to live in donkey form, forever trapped. It’s the only possible reason for how horrible she is.’
Mr P snorts at that one, and pours water into the old-fashioned teapot he keeps in a knitted cosy.
‘Have you thought about getting some massage on your back, Mr Pumpwell?’ Seb asks, as Mr P stirs. ‘It can be very helpful.’
It’s not a bad idea, but I can’t see him going for it.
‘Massage?’ he asks, in an interested tone. ‘I’m not too sureabout that. I don’t like anything fancy, all them oils and whale music and the like.’
‘No,’ says Seb, smiling, ‘massage therapy. It can used with physio. It’s all very proper, honestly.’
He goes on to talk to Mr P about various treatments that might help with his recovery, and Mr P is a lot more open to the concepts than I thought he would be. I think he’s so desperate to feel better, and not to be relying on drugs, that he’d consider just about anything.
Before I know it, Seb has explained that he’s a qualified therapist, and offered to come round and see what he can do for him.
‘Hang on!’ I say, holding my hand up for attention. ‘That’s a bit of a grey area. Seb won’t have insurance over here, and if this is something you want to do, then I can look into getting you a referral for someone local.’
Mr Pumpwell waves this off, and looks at me like I’m a complete idiot.
‘Don’t be daft, girl,’ he replies, firmly. ‘I’m not the kind to sue if it hurts. And anyway, Seb here won’t be charging me anything, will he, so it won’t be a business arrangement – it’s just between friends …’
‘Yes. Exactly,’ adds Seb. ‘Just between friends.’
I look from one to the other, and realise I’ve already lost. Bizarrely cast as the sensible one in this scenario, I’ve clearly been outvoted. I shrug, and reply: ‘Well, on your own back be it, you stubborn old goat. Don’t come crying to me later. Anyway, here’s your lovely box of treats, and here’s your lovely box of drugs.’
I pass him the tablets, and he looks at them with a level of loathing as he drinks his tea. He leaves them untouched on the table, and instead asks about the café box.
‘I do like a nice scone,’ he admits, when I’ve filled him in on the contents. ‘So maybe I’ll take a chance on them.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ I say, finishing up my tea. ‘And I have another favour to ask – would you mind if my brother comes out to visit, with his … his kind of stepson?’
‘Kind of stepson?’ he says, pulling a face. ‘What a complicated world you young people live in!’
‘Well. It’s his girlfriend’s child. He’s four, and he loves animals, and I think it’d be really nice for him.’
‘This is your brother who works at Frank Farmer’s place, is it?’ he asks, not fooled for a minute. ‘The biggest farm in the area? Are you telling me there aren’t enough animals around there to keep the young ’un happy?’
‘There’s definitely not an evil Disney donkey.’
‘True enough. One in a million is our Belle – thank the Lord! All right, love, if you like … but you’ll have to warn me when they’re coming so I can make sure I’ve got my teeth in.’
He does have false teeth, Mr Pumpwell, as of course do many people of his generation. He very much enjoys slipping them in and out to surprise me, and I’m sure Saul will be enthralled by the dental comedy routine.
We make our goodbyes, and Seb is thoughtful on the drive back to the village.
‘I like him,’ he announces, as we wind past Eggardon Hill. It’s all grey and misty with rain today.
‘He’s an interesting character,’ I say, nodding.
‘It’s good, this thing you’re doing,’ he replies. ‘These people you’re visiting. It’s making a difference to their lives.’
‘And to mine,’ I say, glancing at him briefly. ‘I have to be honest – at least some of my motivation is selfish. It keeps me grounded, and busy, makes me feel useful. Keeps me out of trouble. It’s not like I’m a saint.’
He laughs out loud, obviously never having seen me as a saint, and responds: ‘I get what you mean. It’s the same with me and my voluntary work. It’s like we’re both trying to … make amends for something? Mainly we only ever hurt ourselves, and each other, and maybe our families – but even so. We’re trying to be better.’
‘We are,’ I reply gently. ‘We may never get there, but we’re trying.’
The mood has suddenly become a bit serious, and I switch on the radio in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. Sadly, it’s The Smiths, Morrissey wailing on about being killed by a truck. Perfect driving material.
Seb flicks the dial so I can concentrate on the road, and finally finds something more upbeat – Katrina and the Waves, who are apparently ‘Walking on Sunshine’.
‘So,’ he says, after we’ve both sung along to the chorus,‘what do you want to do now? I thought maybe you’d like to come back to the cottage. We could have some food, watch some TV, relax …’
It sounds very cosy. Very friendly. Very tempting. A bit too tempting, in fact, I decide. Things with Seb are settling down into way too easy a setting.
‘Sorry,’ I reply, making my mind up there and then. ‘I’ll drop you off at Hyacinth, but then I have plans.’
Chapter 22
Of course, I didn’t have any plans. But after I wave goodbye to a sad-looking Seb in the Hyacinth car park, I make some up, very quickly.
First, I make a quick detour to the hospital. Turns out it’s official visiting time, so I don’t even have to sneak in.
Laura and the babies are doing brilliantly. She seems tired but happy, which I suspect is going to be her natural state for the next year or two, and both Ruby and Rose are gaining small amounts of weight and feeding well.
They still look tiny – they still are tiny; impossibly small and precious. I hold them one after the other, and there’s barely any weight in them at all. Yet somehow, each one of them is a perfect miniature human being, with teensy fingernails and little nostrils and wide eyes.
It’s so strange, imagining them older. I’ve not been around many babies, but even I know that they will grow older – they’ll be toddlers and schoolkids and teenagers and eventually grown-ups, with all the mess and clutter that grown-up life entails.
‘I wonder what they’ll do, when they’re big,’ I say, randomly, as Ruby grabs hold of one of my fingers.
‘I have no idea,’ replies Laura, half sitting, half lying on her bed, hair askew, trying to feed Rose. ‘But I really hope they’ve stopped pooing in their pants by then. Honestly, I feel like all I do is change nappies at the moment … I swear, it’s as if they tag team me. I’ll change one, and all will be well, and then the other one stinks the pl
ace up. It’s the same with sleeping and feeding – I had no idea how much harder two babies would be than one … it’s like having about fifteen of them!’
I laugh, and make sympathetic noises, and fill her in on some of the village gossip. I tell her about the care boxes, and how Lizzie has turned into the village commander-in-chief, and about Edie and Zoe starting a book club that launched with Jilly Cooper’s Riders, and about Tom and Willow planning a holiday together.
I bat away questions about Seb and Finn, despite her attempts to draw me out, and instead distract her by asking how her parents are. Over the moon seems to be the basic answer. She says this with a slight grimace, as though, much as she loves her mum and dad, having them around all the time is a bit weird. As my dad is dead, and I live with my rollercoaster ride of a mother, I can’t comment.
Matt arrives after twenty minutes or so, and I leave them to it. As I leave, I hear her quizzing him about the arrangements he’s made at home ready for them being discharged on Monday – has he washed the blankets for the Moses baskets? Has he stocked up on nappies? Has he set up the steriliser unit? Has he bought the fragrance-free wipes, not the ones full of chemicals? I laugh, and suddenly realise where Lizzie gets it from – our sweet and gentle Laura has quite the bossy side to her as well when she feels she needs to!
Next stop on my magical mystery tour is Briarwood. I haven’t seen Finn for days, and our conversations have been pleasant but superficial. Our texts have been dominated by emojis rather than words, and I’m starting to feel like a layer of distance is settling over us at exactly the time it shouldn’t.
I arrive at the big house just in time to see him emerge from one of the pathways, dressed in a hefty khaki waterproof coat, holding a big stick like a wizard’s staff.
‘Ahoy, Gandalf the Green!’ I say, waving to him. ‘What’s the haps in Middle Earth?’
He waves the stick at me, and replies: ‘Away with you, wench! Begone, evil ginger troll!’
As he draws nearer, we smile at each other, and he reaches out to wipe a droplet of rain off my nose.
A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 21