‘Hey Frank!’ I shout, making myself heard over the racket. He leans down and pops his head under the table to give me a confused look.
‘What are you doing under there?’ he asks. I feel that is a silly question, as there is clearly something very dangerous going on on the other side of the counter.
‘Hiding in case I blow the place up,’ I reply, crawling out so I’m on knee-level with him. ‘It said in the instructions Cherie gave me to get out of the way if it makes that noise, so that’s what I’m doing. I’m too young to die in a freak coffee-maker accident.’
It sounds silly when I say it out loud, but my belief in freak accidents has increased massively over the last couple of years. I don’t walk around paranoid expecting planes to fall on my head, but when the opportunity for random harm presents itself, I assume the worst.
‘Right. Well, our Cherie sometimes misses the obvious,’ he says, walking calmly over to the counter, scooting under it and pulling out the plug. Immediately, the sound starts to fade, and the steam visibly thins.
Ah. It all seems so simple now.
I use the table to help myself back to my feet and grab a napkin to wipe the lemon-induced tears from my eyes. It’s obviously going to be one of those days.
As soon as I think it, I start to worry about Lizzie and Nate even more. I bite my lip so hard it bleeds and wonder if Cherie would hate me if I went and woke her up. She lives in a little apartment above the café, in an attic with sloping eaves and the most amazing views out over the coast. I’ve only been up there once and was too busy looking out of the dormer windows to notice much else.
Frank is now steadily dismantling the espresso machine and wiping various unidentified metal parts down with a gingham tea towel. I am guessing that he’s done this before, as he seems to know exactly what he’s doing.
‘She’ll be all right and proper again soon, she will,’ he says, and I notice the drawl of his accent is thicker as he concentrates on his task. I wonder why he’s decided the machine is a ‘she’, but fear the answer I’ll get if I ask.
I nod and smile, but don’t reply. I am feeling superstitious now and genuinely considering driving back to the Rockery to check on the kids.
‘You all right, my love?’ asks Frank, pausing in his job. ‘You’re looking a bit peaky there. Plus you’ve not made my tea yet and I’m fair parched, here.’
He’s right. I’m being rude, as well as daft. I go and switch the hot-water boiler on and start his bacon.
‘Sorry Frank,’ I say. ‘I’ve left Lizzie and Nate at the cottage and I suddenly got a bit worried about them. Just being silly, I know.’
‘Well,’ he replies, his blue eyes shining with sympathy, ‘that’s a mother’s job, ain’t it? Worrying about her little ones? You can’t fight human nature. Should’ve seen my Bessy when our Peter was emigrating to Perth. You’ve never seen a woman fuss so. It was almost as though he was moving to the other side of the world …’
I smile and carry on with the butty-making and reflect on how nice it is to have this kind of gentle humour in my life. I know there won’t be another customer for a good twenty minutes or so, so I make myself a coffee – instant, just in case – and join Frank again once I’ve burned his bacon for him. He finishes with his chore and we sit down together.
Before he tucks in, he fishes his flashy looking iPhone from his trouser pocket and scoots through a few screens. He does this a lot more than you’d expect for an almost octogenarian. During one of our regular morning chats he explained it away by convincing me that he’d installed hidden CCTV cameras around the fields of his farm and had a few on collars around his cows’ necks as well, just to check up on his staff. I believed him for about thirty seconds as well.
I knew he was proud of his son, who worked as a surgeon in the land of Oz, but I also suspected that he missed having family to help around the farm, the way he and his late brother had with his father and grandfather. He constantly mocked the ‘whippersnappers’ who laboured for him, calling them all manner of work-shy names, even though he seemed genuinely fond of them.
‘Checking up on the loplollies?’ I say, using a bit of Dorset slang Willow taught me over the weekend.
‘Oh, very good!’ replies Frank, his eyes disappearing into his wrinkles as he grins. ‘We’ll make a Dorset lass of you, yet … but no, I’ll be seeing those good-for-nothings soon enough. I’m just looking at your Lizzie’s Instagram account, if you must know. Thought it might put your mind at rest. This was fifteen minutes ago.’
He turns the screen towards me and I lean closer to get a clearer look.
Nate is sitting at the dining table holding a spoon and eating a huge, sloppy bowl of Sugar Puffs. Somehow, they’ve also managed to get Jimbo to sit on a chair at the dining table as well, as though he’s a human being, and his wide black head is almost buried in an even bigger bowl of Sugar Puffs.
I sigh and roll my eyes. Sugar Puffs are not on the recommended food list for dogs and there is going to be an almighty mess when I get home. But … well, they all look fine. I was, naturally enough, worrying over nothing.
Frank, I can see, is struggling not to laugh. I throw a packet of sugar at his head just to make myself feel better.
‘While your phone’s out, show me some pictures of your son and grandchildren,’ I say, hoping he agrees this time. He’s always found an excuse before, but this morning we have bonded over my incompetence, so it’s different.
He raises his eyebrows in concentration, fiddles with the screen and turns it to face me. I see a photo of the man I presume to be Peter, his son, at some kind of graduation ceremony, his arms around the shoulders of a boy and girl, smiles on all their faces. Peter looks to be in mid-forties, and the kids are maybe sixteen.
‘This one’s a bit out of date,’ he says, gazing at it and grinning. ‘Erin and Luke are eighteen now.’
‘Twins?’ I ask.
‘How did you guess?’ he replies, giving me a cheeky wink.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ I answer, because they are. His son looks exactly like I imagine Frank did when he was younger – blonde, fit, handsome and suntanned. The twins are equally blonde and both look like Olympic athletes. ‘When did you last see them?’
‘Oh, now, not for a while. I went there with Bessy when the twins were ten, I think, and they came here for the funeral and stayed for a few weeks. Great kids, they are. Loved having them around. Brought the old farmhouse back to life, it did. Truth be told, Laura, I was as sad about them going back as I was about Bessy. Fair broke my heart waving them off at the airport, pretending I was fine and dandy.’
I lay my hand on his and give it a little squeeze. His blue eyes are shining with what looks suspiciously like tears and there’s a catch in his voice I’ve never heard before. Loneliness I think, for possibly the millionth time, is one of the worst human conditions of all.
It can eat you up from the inside out before anybody even notices there’s a problem, killing you softly with no outward symptoms. I wonder how many people are suffering, hiding it all beneath their brave faces?
Well, I can’t do anything for most people. But I can do something for Frank. I can give him bacon butties and builders’ tea, and as much company as he needs.
‘Why don’t you invite them over?’ I say. ‘Or fly out to them? I know you’re busy with the farm, but there must be ways around it.’
‘I reckon so,’ he answers, squeezing my fingers in return. ‘But I don’t want to be a burden to him, you see. I was a hundred per cent behind him when he left – I knew it might mean the end of having the farm in our family, but it’s a hard way to make a living, especially these days. No life for a bright young lad like him. And being a surgeon? Well, that takes some beating, doesn’t it? I suppose I thought he’d … come home. Work in a hospital here. I know Bessy always did. She wanted more babbies, we both did, but we were never blessed.
‘No, he’s made a life for himself, and it’s a good one. So when we talk, or we
Skype, me and him and the kids, I make like everything is fine. I talk about how well the farm is doing and how good the lads are, and how busy I am. I make him think I’m as happy as that there Larry, whoever he may be. And most of the time, I am. You’ve just caught me at a low point. I always feel vulnerable after I’ve dismantled the espresso machine. It brings out my feminine side.’
And with that, I know the period of sharing has passed and Frank is back to his usual jovial, mocking self. I shake my head in resignation and finish up my coffee. We usually get our first tourists in at around nine – normally walkers doing one of the coastal trails – and I need to check everything’s ready. I usually make the most of the lull to start preparing the sandwich plates for lunch, and today I’m doing a fruit-salad meringue with fresh cream to add to the usual desserts.
As I stand up, planning to leave Frank to finish his breakfast in peace, the door opens and a woman I’ve never seen before walks in. This in itself wouldn’t be unusual, apart from the fact that she is barefoot and wearing a pair of pale-blue pyjamas. Her grey hair is almost as curly as mine, but wild and windswept, as though she’s been out on the cliffs. I glance at her feet and see that they are grubby enough for that to be true.
She looks nice and calm, though, and gives me and Frank a small bow as she walks towards us. I’m about to ask her if I can help when she starts moving tables and chairs around to clear a space on the floor. Frank meets my eyes, giving me a gentle shake of the head as I move towards her. I follow his lead and let her carry on.
‘Mornin’, Lynnie,’ he says, standing up and walking in her direction. He helps her clear even more space, which seems to relax her completely. She turns to face us both and announces: ‘The class will begin in five minutes. Please spend that time trying to clear your minds of everyday concerns and preparing to unite your body, soul and energy.’
She sits down on the floor, in full lotus position, and closes her eyes. I make the most of the pause to pull a full-on WTF face at Frank, who gestures for me to go with him through to the kitchen. I silently follow him and hope nobody else turns up looking for a bacon toastie while Lady Buddah is at work.
‘It’s Willow’s mum,’ he whispers, as soon as we are out of earshot. ‘It happens occasionally. She … I want to say escapes, but that makes the poor love sound like she’s in jail … she slips away, out of the house.’
Jesus, I think, recalling what I know about Willow’s mum – mainly that she has early-onset Alzheimer’s – and realising that she has indeed probably been wandering around the cliffs barefoot. Willow lives on the edge of the village and walks ten minutes along the footpaths to get here. I actually shudder a little bit as I consider what could have happened to her along the way.
‘I’m going to go upstairs and get Cherie,’ says Frank, ‘and she’ll call Willow. You need to stay down here and go to her yoga class, all right? It’s what she used to do for a living, amongst other things. Sometimes she just thinks she still does. It’s best to go along with it if it’s doing no harm.’
I sneak a glance at the incredibly lithe woman twisted around herself with complete ease and suspect that perhaps trying to keep up with her might cause me more harm than her.
I nod and walk back into the main room. Her eyes snap open wide as I arrive and she raises her eyebrows at me.
‘Frank has had to … erm … go to the toilet!’ I say, silently apologising to my farming friend for the undignified excuse.
Lynnie simply nods and stands up on her feet in one supple movement. Whatever is going on in her brain, her body is still in perfect condition.
‘We will begin with the sun salutation …’
I try and follow her moves, I really do. But I’m just not that bendy, truth be told, and my boobs seem to get in the way of everything. She’s very patient, coming round and prodding my pigeon, working on my warrior and tweaking my tree.
It’s when I’m in plank position and thinking I’d quite like to die, that the troops finally arrive in the form of Cherie and Frank. They’ve taken ages and I’m half tempted to ask them what the hell they’ve been doing, but I don’t think zen master Lynnie would approve.
Cherie looks a bit ruffled and her hair is loose, flying all over her broad shoulders and flowing down her back. Her eyes are red and puffy and I realise that Frank has had to wake her up from what looks like an extremely sound sleep.
After I’ve taken in that much, my head collapses down onto the floor and I lie there panting for a few moments. I hate the plank more than I’ve ever hated anything in my entire life.
Cherie and Frank join in with our impromptu class and I silently resent them for the fact that they have arrived in time for child pose and missed all the hard stuff. While I’m lying there, arms stretched out and forehead on the floor, I hear the door opening and the sound of footsteps. I know, without needing to turn around, that I now have an audience. I am hoping it’s just Willow.
Lynnie’s hypnotically calm voice has us all lying on our backs like corpses and she tries to take us on a mental walk down a rose-tree-lined path to a thatched cottage on a sunlit day. Sadly, I am prevented from enjoying this particular meander through my happy place by the fact that both my children and Matt the Vet are standing watching me, with varying levels of amusement.
The kids are wide-eyed and barely holding it together, and I have the sinking sensation that they’ve been there a little while. Lizzie, let’s face it, will have taken photos of my arse wobbling around in the air and will post them online with some suitably sarcastic comment.
Matt, who probably knows who Lynnie is and has some idea of what is going on, isn’t actually laughing out loud, but there is a crinkle around his eyes that seems to suggest that internally he’s wetting himself.
I am wondering whether I can take all three of them out with a single karate chop when Willow finally arrives, looking as flustered as you’d imagine.
Willow is about six foot tall and built like a supermodel. She’s extremely pretty, but offsets being too attractive by dying her shaggy shoulder-length hair a neon shade of pink, having a nose ring and sporting some mysterious-looking Celtic tattoos on her arms. It’s probably the only way she avoids getting stopped by talent scouts in the supermarket.
Right now, she looks terrible. Her eyes are practically superglued together, her hair looks like a matted carpet and there is a look on her face that is both frantic and exhausted. I can only imagine how caring for her mother drains her energies and am reminded yet again that absolutely everybody has their problems. Not that you’d ever guess from Willow’s personality – always upbeat, always positive, always laughing and joking.
Lizzie kind of hero-worships her, which I can understand, and Cherie adores her. Her mum, however, is currently looking at her with nothing more than polite interest.
Willow plasters a smile on her face and walks over towards the older lady. Lynnie smiles back, but shows no sign at all that she recognises her daughter. Willow pauses and I see the pain flicker across her face. She quickly masks it and joins her mother.
‘Hi Mum,’ she says, reaching out and gently stroking her arm. Lynnie looks confused, but not distressed. ‘It’s me, Willow.’
‘I have a daughter called Willow,’ she replies, ‘what a coincidence!’
This is obviously something that has played out before and Willow has come prepared. She pulls a small envelope out of her bag and I see it is filled with photos.
‘Can I show you these?’ she asks, quietly, calmly. ‘It won’t take long, I promise.’
Lynnie looks to check her watch and frowns when she realises she isn’t wearing one. She looks back up at Willow and touches a tangled strand of bright-pink hair with one finger.
‘I like your hair,’ she says, finally. ‘But I can’t stay long. I’ve left my children at home, and I need to get back to check on them.’
The two of them sit down at the table and I watch as Willow pulls out the pictures and arranges them in front of her. When
she’s finished, there is a timeline of photos – her as a baby, cradled in her mother’s arms; as a toddler; as a gap-toothed girl with pigtails holding her mum’s hand outside the school gates. As a wild-looking teenager, both of them with a Border terrier on their lap. And finally, one of her as she is now – standing with her mum outside their house.
I see the memories start to seep back into Lynnie’s mind, and the way that Willow chews her lip as the light dawns, and the way their fingers creep together across the tabletop to intertwine. And then I have to turn away.
It is one of the most heartbreaking things that I have ever seen, and I suddenly feel like I am intruding on something so tragic and so private, like an emotional voyeur. I love my kids so much I sometimes think I might explode and even the thought of them going through what Willow is going through now is enough to bring sudden, stinging tears to my eyes.
I turn away and blink the tears back, and look at the people in front of me. Cherie, still sleepy, ample bottom perched on one of the tabletops. Frank, next to her, shaking his head in sympathy. Lizzie and Nate, who even at their age realise that this has stopped being funny and turned into something serious. And finally Matt, who is the only one looking back at me and not at Willow and Lynnie.
He sees that I’m upset and he gives me the sweetest smile, such a gentle curve of his lips, that it’s barely there. Our eyes stay locked for a second and I feel like burrowing my head in his chest and having a big, soggy cry.
Instead, I say: ‘Right. I have pancakes. And I have Nutella. Who thinks that’s a good idea?’
Every single hand in the room goes up, including Willow and Lynnie’s.
Looks like it’s the perfect time for comfort food.
Chapter 15
I pack the last slice of white-chocolate and pistachio cheesecake into a tin-foil box and carefully seal the cardboard lid around it.
The cake took me a lot of time, and even more willpower, to make and I’m not entirely sure where that final piece is going.
Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 12