Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

  I bite down on the sarcastic retort I want to give – that that’s never stopped her before – because I am both grateful for her unexpected sensitivity and aware that I am now the one who has some explaining to do.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say simply. ‘I appreciate that. I’m guessing you have questions?’

  ‘Erm … I don’t know if I do. I mean, it all looked pretty lame. There wasn’t even any snogging, just all that laughing and looking into each other’s eyes. And the hand-holding. It was a bit Fifty Shades of Tame if you ask me.’

  I can’t help myself, I laugh out loud. Almost against her will, she joins in and we both end up with tears in our eyes. But good tears, for a change, not the angry/morose/desperate ones we’ve both shed so much of in the recent past.

  ‘Well, that’s me well and truly put in my place,’ I say, wiping my face. ‘And, in all honesty, there isn’t much more to tell. Not much has happened. I’m glad I didn’t embarrass you with any old-lady snogging and don’t worry, I’m not about to start. I … like Matt. He’s kind and sweet, and when you get to know him he’s really funny. Plus, you know, he’s got that whole Han Solo thing going on … and the guitar, and the singing … and …’

  I drift a little at this point and Lizzie makes a retching sound to demonstrate how she feels about it.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, snapping back to the here and now, ‘the thing is, it’s not even a thing. It may never be a proper thing. It might just stay at being a tiny fraction of a thing, a hand-holding thing. And even if it was more of a thing, if you were unhappy with the thing, I wouldn’t take it any further. Does that make sense?’

  ‘All I heard was the word “thing” on repeat, Mum,’ she replies, grinning at my discomfort. It must be nice for her, this role reversal.

  ‘Right. I’m bad at this. What I’m trying to say is that whatever happens with Matt, or doesn’t happen with Matt, some things will stay the same. I will always love you and Nate, and your Dad. Nothing will change that. Ever.’

  Lizzie ponders this for a moment. Either she is thinking some deep thoughts or just has an especially chewy bit of scampi.

  ‘I know that, Mum. I know you’ll always love me and Nate, and Dad. We’ll all always love Dad. But Dad’s dead, Mum. It’s not like he’s coming back, is he? And I really don’t think he’d mind the fact that you’re holding someone else’s hand.

  ‘Maybe I’d have felt funny about it nearer the time, or if it had been some bloke you met at home, but … well, it feels different here, doesn’t it? Everything here just feels different.’

  She’s right, I think. She’s completely right. Everything here does feel different. And I’m not sure that any of us will be going home as the same people we were when we arrived.

  Chapter 20

  I have specifically asked Lizzie to take some pictures of Surfer Sam so my sister can check him out.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, contrarily, considering she’d been taking pictures of pretty much every bloody body else in Budbury, including the postman and guy who works in the village chippie. Actually, now I come to think of it, that might be the same person. Anyway.

  ‘Because I think Becca might fancy him, and it’ll be funny,’ I said.

  ‘So you want me to take slutty-looking photos of Sam, so my auntie can lech over him?’

  I’d thought it over, looking for ways I could argue with that statement, and nodded.

  ‘That about sums it up, yes.’

  To be fair, she’d done a lovely job and actually showed me the pictures before she posted them. Sticking to our agreement, she’d got Sam’s permission and I suspect had blagged him into thinking she was writing something about surfing. Although Sam is nothing if not a flirt – if we’d simply told him we wanted some stud-muffin shots to send to a family member, he’d probably have been fine with it.

  Now, it is quite late in the evening – by which I mean 8.30pm – and I am on the phone to Becca in Manchester, waiting for her to log on and look.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ I ask, realising I sound pathetically eager. I am not at all sure why I want Becca to fancy Sam. She is hundreds of miles away and that is unlikely to change. I think I just want her to be as enthusiastic about this place, about these people, as I am.

  She is my family and, truth be told, the people of Budbury are starting to feel a little bit like my family as well. Even though I have only been here for just under a month, they have welcomed me so completely, involved me so totally, accepted me without analysis or judgement or too much probing, that I feel like a whole new me has been allowed to emerge.

  Maybe it’s that holiday thing. That thing where you get to know people so much faster and life feels so much more intense. Part of me knows it’s not real, but it still feels so good to be here and to be part of their lives, even if it is only temporarily.

  ‘Wow,’ says Becca, as she flicks through the pictures. ‘He’s a hottie, all right. Totally ripped. And I love his tattoos. I would hundred per cent definitely do him.’

  I laugh and feel like fist-punching the air in victory.

  ‘I knew it!’ I say. ‘Isn’t he? And I like the tattoos too … didn’t even know they were there until I saw those photos …’

  ‘Hang on,’ says Becca, interrupting me. ‘Back off my man, girlfriend! I thought Sam was mine? What are you doing panting over him?’

  ‘I’m not panting! I’m just … appreciating, that’s all. And now I feel a bit sleazy, because he’s actually a lovely bloke as well and we’re just objectifying him because of his magnificent abs …’

  There is a moment of silence, where we both appreciate their magnificence a little bit more, before Becca replies, ‘Don’t be daft. A man who looks like that isn’t going to complain at being objectified. I bet he’d be chuffed.’

  ‘He would, actually,’ I say, grinning. ‘He likes ladies. And I don’t mean that to sound like he’s a player … though he might be, I don’t really know … I mean he likes women. He comes from a huge family on the coast in the south of Ireland and he has seven older sisters. He misses them like mad and he hasn’t been home since February. I get the feeling he was desperate to get away from so much mothering, but now he’s escaped, he wishes they were here … anyway. Because of that, he just kind of gets women.’

  ‘He sounds like a dreamboat. I may name my new vibrator after him.’

  I pull a face and don’t respond to that one. It’s best not to encourage her.

  ‘So, the kids still look great,’ she says. ‘I’m liking Lizzie’s new unpaid job as a drug-pusher.’

  ‘She’s not a drug-pusher, she’s managing the Twitter account for Joe’s cider cave. And I think he might occasionally give her the odd fiver as well.’

  ‘Wow. Big spender, eh?’

  ‘Not really. But I think she does it as much to spend time with Josh as anything. Apparently, they’re just friends.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, we’ll see. Maybe there’s a holiday romance brewing for one of you at least, eh?’

  I bite my lip, realising I look a bit cagey even though she can’t see me. If there was ever a time to tell Becca about Matt, this is it. I don’t like keeping things from her, but I also don’t want the pressure of being quizzed by her. Anyway, as I remind myself again, there isn’t much to tell. One roll in the hay – or wheat – and a bit of flirting and hand-holding since. By Becca’s standards, it is virginal.

  ‘There’s a lovely picture here,’ she says, when I remain quiet, ‘of Nate. He’s playing football on the beach, with Matt the Hot Vet – who is topless, I might add, very nice – and the sexy old farmer.’

  ‘Do you fancy everyone?’ I ask, laughing.

  ‘Not Nate, I assure you. But the rest are fair game … anyway. It’s just nice. You know, for him to have blokes in his life again, even if it’s just for a few more weeks.’

  I know what she means and yet I still feel a prickle of annoyance. I recognise the prickle for what it is – being overly defensive – and ignore it.
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br />   Nate and David used to spend hours kicking a ball around in the garden. Pretty much every day when it wasn’t raining, they’d be out there. The lawn was a streaked and scuffed mass of sliding tackle mud, with bare patches where they stood in goals, and I was forever hearing the sound of plant pots smashing and windows getting whacked. It was the soundtrack to my life when I was in the kitchen.

  After his death, Nate would sit in the conservatory, looking outside, the football abandoned and the garden neglected. All of us neglected, truth be told. My dad did his best and I tried very hard to master some silky skills, but it wasn’t ever quite the same.

  Here, with the kids who’ve been staying at the Rockery, with his friends from the village, and with the likes of Matt and Frank and Sam, he’s been blossoming. Turning into a proper boy again – in other words, constantly starving hungry, always filthy, smelling awful and able to fall asleep the second his arse hits the couch. It’s a joy to see.

  ‘I know,’ I say to Becca, ‘he’s loving it. So’s Lizzie. So am I …’

  ‘You don’t have to come back, you know,’ Becca says, quietly. She sounds serious, which is so unlike her that I am worried I should be calling the paramedics.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what I said. You don’t have to come back. You’re all happy there. Maybe this is what you need – a fresh start.’

  ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’ I ask, in an attempt to lighten the tone.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, sarcastically, ‘I am desperate to get all of Mum and Dad’s attention to myself. Not. I just … well, I miss you. And I really miss the kids. But all three of you seem so much more carefree than you have for … well, since. All I’m saying is that if it works for you, perhaps you should consider sticking with it. It’s been over two years, Laura – and this is the first time I’ve heard you sounding even remotely like your old self.’

  Although I have been sad at the thought of leaving, I have never seriously considered making Budbury my permanent home. We have the house in Manchester, which isn’t just a roof over our heads, it’s the place we lived with David.

  It’s full of memories and I would struggle to part with it. Plus the kids are settled in their school and my parents are there, and David’s parents are there when they’re not on a cruise, and … no. It’s insane. I couldn’t afford to live down here without a job anyway, and I’m guessing café work is much harder to come by in the winter when all the tourists have left.

  Plus, I silently acknowledge, if I stay here, then this thing with me and Matt – this small, precious, thing that is growing between us and helping me heal – will be exposed to the trauma of too much time and the frostbite of familiarity. I would rather enjoy it briefly blooming than watch it wither and die.

  ‘I don’t think so, sis,’ I reply. ‘This isn’t real life. It’s just … a very special holiday.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she answers, sounding unconvinced. ‘When are you coming home, then?’

  ‘Well, apparently the highlight of the social whirl down here is Frank’s birthday party. They have it on the last night in August, which pretty much marks the end of tourist season as well. They have a big bash every year, stay open at night and everyone who’s anyone comes and joins in. It’s his eightieth this time, so it’s going to be a biggie. Lizzie’s trying to persuade Cherie to let her new band play.’

  ‘She’s in a band now?’

  ‘No, she’s not. But she heard Matt and Nate on the guitar and reckons she could sing. Josh has a bass, though he’s not played it for three years. So far she’s thought of a name – the Dead Tulips – but nobody else is interested. But who knows? They may change their minds and make their rock and roll debut at the party … hey … maybe you should come!’

  ‘I honestly don’t think I could take the excitement,’ Becca replies, and I can picture her smirking as she says it. ‘Especially if your stoner boss lady is arranging it.’

  ‘Cherie is not a stoner,’ I reply ‘She’s a successful business woman and property-owner.’

  ‘Who likes a spliff every now and then.’

  ‘Yes, so it seems. But it really is every now and then – a bit like other people would have a glass of wine at the end of the day, maybe. I don’t ask and she doesn’t tell.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask,’ says Becca, and I can hear the laughter in her voice. ‘Maybe you should loosen up and join in.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Becca. It’s not my style.’

  ‘Hey, don’t – ‘

  ‘Yeah, I know. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it – your motto in life. I’m happy with the glass of wine, thank you.’

  What neither of us says – because, why would we? – is that another reason it’s not my style is because of her. Becca was a precocious teenager on the narcotics front and we had more than one scare with her. Her life seems relatively even now, in comparison, but it was enough to put me off for life.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continues, happy to move on. ‘I have to warn you about something. You’ll be getting a phone call sometime soon. Mum and Dad are talking about coming to visit. I’m clearly not keeping them busy enough.’

  Oh good, I think, slightly shaken by this news. Now I really have something to look forward to. You know, in the same way you might look forward to a smear test or getting a filling done.

  It’s not that I don’t love my parents, I really do. But I am conscious of how far I’ve stretched them – admittedly not through choice – over the last few years. I realise, because I have kids of my own, that we never, ever stop feeling for our children; they can break our hearts just as easily when they’re grown as when they’re tiny. In fact, it’s somehow even worse when they’re older – because you can’t protect them.

  When they’re tiny, you can scoop them up and hold them tight and fight off all the wolves. When they’re taller than you, you still feel just as protective, but the reality is that they will go out into the world on their own and the world will very likely hurt them.

  To my mum and dad, I’m still a little girl, and I always will be. I get that. I understand it and I’m devastated that they’ve gone through so much on my behalf.

  I know they’ve felt my pain as their own and have been unable to scoop me up and hold me tight, as I’m sure they wanted to. They had to watch me grieve and watch me fall apart, and watch me suffer, over and over again. That’s unbearable for a parent and I really want it to stop – for them to get on with their own lives and stop keeping an eye on mine.

  Being here, in Budbury, has allowed me to outrun that sense of guilt, at least for a little while. It’s allowed me to break the never-ending cycle of them worrying about me and me worrying about them worrying about me and us all generally worrying about each other.

  Now, it seems, they’re chasing me down. And I feel the worry popping right back up again.

  ‘Any idea when? Or why? Or if there’s any way to stop them? Can’t you pretend you’re having a baby with one of the United players or something?’

  ‘Ha! That would definitely give Dad a heart attack … I don’t think he’d mind if it was City … but no, I’m not sure. I think they’re bored, truth be told, and fancy seeing the kids. They said something about taking them off for a night in a caravan. I think Lizzie will be absolutely thrilled at the prospect, don’t you?’

  ‘Beyond belief,’ I reply. ‘Especially if they bring their 1980s edition of Trivial Pursuit. Look, I’ve got to go. I can hear a lot of yelling from upstairs and I need to check if she’s drowning Nate in the toilet.’

  ‘Roger that. Over and out,’ says Becca as I end the call.

  There is a lot of yelling upstairs and Lizzie may well be trying to drown Nate in the toilet. But he’s almost as big as her now, so I’m fairly confident that mama’s little soldier can take care of himself. There’s a sudden Lizzie-shaped squeal that confirms I’m right and I decide to leave ‘em to it.

  Mum and Dad are coming. And they’re taking the kid
s away for the night.

  There are several downsides to that, which I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to ponder when I’m lying awake at night thinking about it.

  But, it suddenly occurs to me, there is also an upside. I will have a whole night to myself. Or, if I manage to find enough courage to see this one through, not by myself.

  Chapter 21

  The night starts off normally enough.

  All three of us are in Hyacinth, watching Avengers Assemble, which Lizzie and Nate found on DVD in the games room.

  It’s been my afternoon off and the three of us have spent it at Charmouth beach with Jimbo. We took a picnic and hired fossil-hunting kits that involved huge plastic goggles that made us look like spacemen, and used hammers to whack rocks very hard.

  It was all very cathartic and everyone is quite tired and happy, in that languid way you feel when you’ve been outside in the sun all day and it seems to leave its warm fingerprints on your skin.

  I am quite happy sitting there with them, sipping wine and trying to decide if I fancy Thor or Iron Man or Captain America more, and finally choosing non-Hulk Bruce Banner as my superhero date. With Hawkeye as a close second.

  Lizzie, predictably enough for a girl of her age and eyeliner inclination, is firmly in Camp Loki. Nate is simply disgusted with the whole conversation, before grudgingly admitting that Black Widow is ‘not a minger.’ I’m sure Scarlett Johansson would be thrilled.

  My phone beeps and I see a text from Matt has landed. I am immediately distracted from the movie and spend the next few minutes tapping away in a conversation that goes something like this:

  Matt: ‘How was your day?’

  Me: ‘Good. Yours?’

  Matt: ‘Fine. Be better if you called round.’

  Me: ‘Can’t. Having movie night with kids. Sometime soon?’

  As I hit send on that last one, I become aware of the fact that both my children are staring at me with annoyance.

  ‘What??’ I say, annoyed at their annoyance. ‘It’s not like you guys don’t spend half your lives texting! And we’ve seen this film, like, three times already! You know Agent Coulson dies!’