Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

  It’s now the middle of the lunchtime rush and we are frantic. Peak season in the school holidays and it feels like the whole world has come to visit Dorset. We serve endless sandwiches and wraps and toasties and bowls of soup and pasta salads. My peach and apricot tarts sell out within half an hour and the banana and toffee muffins not long after. The scones are gone as soon as they’re laid on the counter.

  Jean is looking self-conscious, as though she doesn’t want to be taking up a table when the place is busy. It’s nice and sunny outside, but there is a strong breeze blowing in from the coast, so the inside tables are also full.

  Cherie has managed to get Jean to admit that she’s ‘partial to a slice of cheese on toast’, and has presented her with a delicious pile of melting Cheddar on thick-sliced home-made granary. She seems to be pondering my offer to drive her to the next stop on her tour and I’m glad. I’ll have to do a bit of logistics juggling with the kids, but I want to do it. I want to help her, to show her the tiny bit of kindness and understanding it’s in my power to share.

  And, I realise, as the day wears on, I’m not the only one. Word has spread about our special customer and the café regulars respond in a way that warms my heart.

  Sam does indeed come back and sits with her while he drinks his milkshake (Bounty-flavoured) and eats his pot noodle (chicken and mushroom, as usual). How he stays so slim I have no idea.

  Ivy Wellkettle calls in, not for her usual fishfinger butty, but to drop off some Bach rescue remedy and a packet of chewable multivitamins. She sits with Jean for a few moments drinking a cup of tea and discussing the route she’s planning to take through Devon, before handing them over and insisting there’s no charge.

  Scrumpy Joe arrives just as Ivy leaves, ready for a slice of pork pie and a glass of apple juice. I pop a couple of ‘his’ biscotti on the plate as well, as I know he’ll want them. He gives me a nod, tells me Lizzie is ‘making him famous’ and takes his lunch outside. Before he goes, he passes me a plastic bag that contains two bottles of his home-pressed cider smothered in bubble wrap.

  ‘For the walking woman,’ he says, nodding in Jean’s direction. ‘Heard she’d had a rough day. Wrapped it up well so it can go in her rucksack, like.’

  Joe – who is legendarily mean – even refrains from asking for payment in return. I’m not sure Jean is a cider kind of girl, but who knows?

  ‘I’ll make sure she gets it, Joe,’ I say, patting him on the arm. He gives me a little salute and heads out to the garden.

  Edie May is in, and as usual is perched on a stool by the counter. She knows when we’re busy that we don’t have much time to chat, but she sits it out, pecking away at the tart I saved for her. The extra slice I know she’ll want is tucked away in a box already, waiting to be taken home.

  As the worst of the rush calms down and Willow and Cherie are able to take up most of the slack, I tell her about Jean and her epic trek around the coast.

  Edie – who has seen her fair share of hardship in her ninety years – makes a sympathetic ‘tsssk’ noise, halfway between a tut and a hiss, and shakes her white-haired head.

  ‘Ooh, the poor love. She’s so young as well. Tell you what, my dear, give her this delicious cake from me. I know my fiancé would love it, but he won’t mind it going to someone in need. Maybe she can take it with her as a treat for when she’s on the road, eh?’

  I smile and give Edie’s papery hand a little squeeze.

  I glance at my watch, and see that it is now 2pm. My shift is over and I have managed to keep Jean here all day. I would normally go home and collapse soon, but instead I am going to drive this complete stranger over the county border into Devon and hope that she takes away a little bit of comfort as well as the various random items that have been donated to her cause.

  Nate has already asked if he can go to Frank’s for the night, so he can help him with his jobs around the farm and listen to his horror stories about deformed animals being born with two heads.

  This, I have discovered, is quite a common topic of conversation among rural types – the intriguing horrors that Mother Nature occasionally throws out into the world. It’s like a competition to see who has the goriest story and Matt is just as bad, throwing in his vet-school legends as well.

  Frank seems quite happy with the arrangement, though, and I think he is secretly happy to have Nate there for the company.

  Lizzie is back from her adventures with Josh and her friends, is rosy-faced and mellow and has agreed to come with me when I drive Jean to her hotel later. I am surprised but pleased by this, then wonder if she is somehow trying to butter me up before telling me she is pregnant or asking my permission to go to a cage fight.

  I start my final clear-up back in the kitchen, washing out the milkshake blender, as Cherie comes in to check on me.

  ‘You did a good job there, my love,’ she says. ‘At least she’s rested and well fed and watered. She’ll be leaving here feeling a bit better.’

  ‘She’ll also be leaving here with a bag full of swag,’ I reply. ‘People have been popping in all day bearing gifts. I’m just going to run her to … well, Devon.’

  Cherie laughs and gives me a huge hug. One of those specials of hers, where my head disappears into her bosom and I struggle to breathe. Best. Hugs. Ever.

  ‘Good girl. I’d give her a few minutes, though. She’s having a final cuppa with Matt. I think he’s talking to her about dogs …’

  That, I think, as I turn away from her and carry on washing the various dismantled parts of the blender, is entirely probable. Cherie is quiet and seems to be trying to dislocate her neck to get a proper look at my face.

  Since our date-night set-up, Cherie, Frank and Willow have been beside themselves with curiosity about exactly what happened between me and Matt. There have been subtle inquiries (‘nice night, was it, then?’ – Cherie) and there have been less-subtle inquiries (‘so, did you snog him?’ – Willow).

  Then there have been Frank inquiries, which revolve around asking where we went – I have the sneaking suspicion that he knows every single person in the county of Dorset and will be asking his spies if they saw us together.

  I did get home in a slightly dishevelled state, so Willow has an idea that something may have occurred – but so far I’ve stuck to my story that we just got tipsy and had a long walk home. Which is, of course, true.

  The rest? Well, that’s none of their business.

  For the last two years, I’ve lived under a microscope. Every move I’ve made has been discussed and dissected by my family, bless them. And with very good reason.

  Now, I’m very much enjoying having some privacy and so far I’ve resisted all probing. I’ve fought down every blush. I’ve avoided every clever trap. And I’ve not even talked to Becca about it.

  It’s our little secret – which has somehow, in a way I don’t quite understand, made it even more special.

  I wipe my hands down on a clean tea towel and refrain from touching up my hair or looking in a mirror. Anything like that will tip Cherie off that I care what I look like in front of Matt, and where would be the fun in that?

  I gather my bag and my jacket and the tart and the cider, and walk through into the café, which is now only about a quarter full.

  I stroll over to where Jean has been sitting all day and pull up a chair to join her and Matt. He gives me a small nod that is absolutely nothing more than polite, but beneath the table, his thigh nudges up against mine and his hand rests on my bare knee.

  I feel as excitable as a schoolgirl on a first date and hope it doesn’t show on my face.

  ‘I was just telling Jean here about a friend of mine who runs a dog-rescue centre in the Midlands, not too far from where she lives. They’re always desperate for good homes and she’d be doing them a huge favour if she considered adoption.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ I say, looking encouragingly at Jean. ‘A bit of company on your walks – what do you think?’

  ‘I’m not s
ure,’ she replies, sounding totally convincible. ‘We used to have a dog. Lovely little Jack Russell called Patch. But … well, we both decided against another one, later in life. Thought we’d be busy with all our holidays once Ted retired. I don’t know … maybe it would be nice.’

  It would be more than nice, I decide. It would be exactly what she needs – a friend to love, who loves her in return and who licks her face in bed at night. Isn’t that what we all want? Though admittedly, the face-licking should probably be optional.

  ‘Why don’t you leave me your number?’ Matt says, pulling out his phone, ‘and I can give you a call once you’re back home. So if you have any questions or you want me to talk to Ian about keeping an eye out for the right dog for you, we can stay in touch.’

  It’s practically a speech, by Matt’s standards, certainly to a stranger. But it seems Jean has tugged on everyone’s heartstrings, including his, and he is offering what he can. His views on pets. It is very sweet and I slip my hand under the table to hold his.

  He blinks rapidly and I think: actually, we are sweet. The two of us. We are sweet and innocent and new. We are at the very beginning of something I don’t understand, and don’t even try to.

  Because if I think too hard, I might notice how absolutely terrifying it all is.

  Chapter 19

  Driving to Devon sounds like a big deal, but it is actually not. In fact it only takes about forty minutes to get to Sidmouth, where we deposit Jean at her cosy B&B.

  She looks much better than when I first met her and has been positively chatty on the journey. Lizzie has been very polite in the back seat, for which I am grateful, and I feel a spark of pride when Jean compliments me on my beautiful family.

  I take a quick glance back at Lizzie, who promptly sticks her tongue out without Jean seeing, and think: yes, they are indeed beautiful. And I love every last cheeky inch of them.

  I give Jean a big hug before she leaves and she disappears off with a wave. She has promised to stay in touch and says she will send us postcards from her journey at every stop. She also says that she now plans to have a long bath before she eats her cake, drinks her cider and chews up her vitamins. I only hope she doesn’t overdose on the rescue remedy.

  Nate is with Frank for his tea and Lizzie doesn’t seem to have plans for the evening, so I suggest that we go out for an early dinner. There are lots of nice-looking pubs and cafés scattered along the picturesque esplanade and Sidmouth feels a little like Las Vegas after living in Budbury.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘Dinner? Just us?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, heading towards an especially pretty pub with whitewashed walls and splendid hanging baskets. ‘Is that a problem?’

  I don’t wait for an answer, I simply head straight for a table. It’s quite dark inside and there’s a huge stone fireplace that looks like it could be used to roast a rhino. There are a few scattered families and some elderly couples, and a menu that includes everything you could want in a pub lunch.

  Lizzie follows – she really has very little choice as she can’t drive – and slumps into a seat opposite me. Her phone is on the table and I see the screensaver is a selfie of her and Josh with the bay shimmering blue behind them. It looks like it was taken from the café’s clifftop garden and they both look very young and very happy.

  Becca had told me the night before that Lizzie had changed her Facebook relationship status to It’s Complicated. I couldn’t help wondering exactly how complicated a fourteen-year-old’s relationships could be, but what did I know?

  ‘Scampi and chips?’ I say, knowing the answer, because it’s what she always has in pubs. She nods and glances at her watch as though she has somewhere better to be.

  I order the food and sit back down. I point at the phone and the photo, and I say: ‘That’s really nice. Are you and Josh … you know, seeing each other?’

  I try not to gulp audibly as I force the words out, reminding myself that she is in fact almost fifteen and it’s perfectly natural for her to be interested in boys, and that even though Josh is sixteen and therefore a much older man, he seems a nice-enough kid. Plus, I know where he lives and will disembowel him if he hurts her.

  Lizzie looks at me with an expression that is half horror, half hope. I suspect my expression is very similar. I want to be able to talk to her about this stuff in a way I couldn’t with my mum, but I’m also grappling with sheer embarrassment and hoping it doesn’t show. If I seem to feel comfortable and relaxed, there’s more chance that she will.

  ‘Umm,’ she starts, sipping her Coke. ‘Not really. We’re just friends, mostly.’

  ‘Oh. Right. What do you mean ‘mostly’?’

  ‘I mean just friends. He’s just come out of a long-term relationship and he’s not looking for anything serious.’

  I have to stifle back a laugh at that one – the thought of the lanky, beanie-hatted wonder having a ‘serious relationship’ makes me want to giggle. Obviously, she notices.

  ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to comment, Mum, as you and Dad were planning your wedding by his age.’

  She has a fair point and I try to wipe the smirk off my face. Teenagers, I sometimes forget, can be very serious. Life seems to get sillier as you get older and you realise how little point there is in trying to control anything – but at her age, with the future rolling in mystery and her every feeling magnified by wayward hormones, it all feels Very Very Big.

  ‘True enough,’ I reply. ‘But, as you always tell me, that was weird, wasn’t it? I’m not saying that people you meet at your age can’t be important, or really special – but they’re not usually the person you end up marrying.’

  ‘I do realise that,’ she snipes, and I suspect I have touched a nerve. That she likes Josh a little more than she is letting on, and she is in that horrible wilderness of I-like-him-but-I-don’t-know-if-he-likes-me. The one I pretty much skipped, but saw Becca and all my friends tortured by.

  ‘All right, then. Well, we’re here for a few more weeks – are you having a good holiday, at least?’

  Our food arrives and she spears a chip straight away. Her appetite has increased since we’ve been here, because of all the time she’s spending outdoors, I think. Plus, perhaps, no longer being surrounded by a group of borderline catty friends who are all obsessed with clothes, make-up, looking ten years older than they actually are and hanging round Affleck’s Palace pretending they’re in a band.

  She munches away and looks thoughtful.

  ‘I am having a good holiday,’ she eventually replies. ‘I didn’t think I would, Mum, but I’m really enjoying it. I like taking my photos and I like helping out at the cider cave, and I like helping Josh and Joe with their social media. I know I’m still in school, but I think it might be something I could do as a job when I’m older. And I just … like it here. It’s dead pretty and the other kids are cool, and there’s definitely a lower shithead per capita ratio.’

  I grimace at her choice of words, but am grateful to hear her sounding so positive. A small part of me would like to say ‘told you so’, but I am mature enough to squash it down.

  She narrows her eyes at me, staring from beneath her long blonde fringe, and adds, ‘You really want to say ‘I told you so’, don’t you?’

  ‘As if!’ I exclaim, laughing, and holding my hands up in protest. ‘I wouldn’t dream of actually saying it. I’m just thinking it … and, anyway, I’m really glad. I know you didn’t want to come and I know you hated me for a while, but I’m enjoying it too.’

  ‘I know you are,’ she replies, looking a bit smug. ‘And I think I know why. I should be the one asking you about boys, not the other way round.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, suddenly feeling my eyes widen and an adrenaline rush slam through my veins.

  She doesn’t answer and instead picks up her phone. She swipes it on and flicks through a few screens. I’m desperate to nose at her photos, but purposely don’t. One day, I like to think, she’ll show them a
ll to me anyway. I’ll receive an invite to join her precious Instagram account and all will be good in the world.

  ‘Well,’ she eventually says, ‘I was down at the beach the other day. Josh and his dad were doing some heavy lifting and I couldn’t be arsed, I’m too much of a delicate flower for manual labour. So I got the book that Edie May let me borrow – Thomas Hardy, don’t you know – and I just went and had a lie-down.

  ‘It was when you were on a late shift and I think Nate was in the park or playing footie or doing whatever he does all day. It was pretty quiet down there and I was tucked between two rocks at the end of the bay. Far from the Madding Crowd and all that.’

  I nod and poke my chips and drink my orange juice, and play with my hair, and find the fake oil paintings of haywains and shire horses very, very interesting. I know exactly the spot she’s talking about – it’s the most remote part of the bay and I’ve only walked along there once recently.

  ‘And lo and behold,’ she says, clearly enjoying my squirming, ‘who should appear from nowhere but you and Matt the Vet? Which wouldn’t be weird, really, as Jimbo was with you. What was a bit more weird was the fact that as soon as you got round the corner and presumably thought nobody could see you, the two of you started holding hands. You and Matt, I mean. Not you and Jimbo.’

  She turns the phone towards me and I see a picture that I would normally think was pretty gorgeous. The sun is setting over the glimmering turquoise waves and Matt and I are both barefoot, and Jimbo is ambling along behind us carrying a stick in his mouth. We’re both laughing and yes, indeed, we are holding hands.

  I am well and truly rumbled. And also a bit confused.

  ‘Have you posted this online?’ I ask, wondering why it is that Becca and Cherie and Frank and the rest of the world who watch my life via my daughter’s photo-sharing accounts haven’t commented on this development.

  ‘Of course not,’ she replies, frowning at me as though I’ve accused her of kicking kittens. ‘This is private.’