Sunshine at the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I brush stray sugar off the seat, and plonk myself down on it. As soon as I do, that thing happens – that thing where you don’t realise how tired you are until you stop for a second, and the exhaustion sneaks in and bops you over the head like an inflatable cartoon mallet.

  I see Laura asking the remaining customers if they need anything else, offering coffee top-ups, and pausing to tell the kids to carry on working. They pull tongues at her behind her back, and she immediately says – without even looking – ‘Put them back in. You’ll need them for being rude to me later.’ Mum powers to the max.

  She wipes her hands down on her pinny, and tucks one of her many wild curls behind her ear as she sits. She’s brought the coffee pot, which can only be a good thing. The coffee pot is my friend.

  ‘Phew! What a day!’ she says, blowing air out of her cheeks and kicking off her Skechers. ‘But at least it means the time passed quickly … you all right, Willow?’

  She’s the second person to ask me that in as many minutes, so I start to wonder if I’ve accidentally lipsticked my eyes or forgotten to put clothes on.

  ‘I am indeed all right,’ I reply, once I do a quick check to ensure neither of those things are true. ‘And even better now I have coffee and cake.’

  I see Laura and Cherie exchange glances, so I stuff a huge spoonful of cake into my mouth in anticipation. They’ll be talking for the next few minutes, I can tell.

  ‘You’ve seemed a bit distracted today,’ says Laura, tactfully. I frown, wondering what she’s talking about.

  ‘You put the butter in the freezer instead of the fridge, the milk in the oven, and the avocado salad in the blender.’

  ‘Oh. I made an avocado salad smoothie?’

  ‘You did. I’m actually thinking I might put it on the menu, but … well, are you actually all right? You’re tense. You’re never tense. Ever. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve not seen you tense.’

  I lay down my spoon, sip some coffee, and wait. Cherie soon pipes up: ‘She’s right. You’re never tense. Even when you’ve had a bad day with your mum, you’re just tired, and sad, and pink. What’s going on?’

  She lays her hand on my arm as she speaks, and I fight away a slight sense of being invaded. These are my friends. My allies in life. My cheerleaders. They’re worried about me, and that is good – we all need someone to worry about us every now and then.

  ‘Sorry, ladies,’ I say, trying to smile reassuringly. ‘Bit of a headache, that’s all.’

  ‘I noticed that lump on the side of your head …’ replies Laura, whipping a hankie out of her apron pocket and looking dangerously like she might be about to spit on it and attack me.

  ‘Yeah. Let’s just say I walked into a frying pan and leave it at that,’ I say, leaning out of reach.

  Cherie nods, and drops the subject – but not before I see the look of pity and understanding flit across her weathered face.

  ‘Plus,’ I add, hoping to distract them both from feeling sorry for me, ‘I have a friend visiting in … well, very soon, hopefully. If he bothers coming, anyway.’

  Both women immediately perk up. Laura’s eyebrows shoot so far up her face that they disappear behind her hair, and Cherie actually whistles out loud. Wow. I must be a tragic figure indeed, if referring to a friend has this effect. I really should get out more.

  ‘And if …’ I add, unable to resist. ‘He’s actually real. I mean, I could have imagined him. It’s always possible. I might have accidentally created an imaginary friend, along with an avocado salad smoothie.’

  Cherie nods sagely, accepting what I say as an entirely feasible proposition. What can I say? She’s known me for a long time.

  ‘If,’ she says, gazing past me thoughtfully, ‘you were going to create an imaginary friend, I can just picture him. Tall, dark, handsome.’

  ‘Yes,’ adds Laura, totally deadpan. ‘Tall, dark, handsome. Wearing an old-school Star Wars T-shirt, and accompanied by a bloody big dog.’

  I’m momentarily lost for words, speechless at their powers of perception, until Laura bursts out laughing and spoils the illusion. They’re looking right over my shoulder at the doors that lead into the garden where, I see as soon as I twist my head around, Tom and Rick Grimes are currently lurking.

  Tom is moving hesitantly from one foot to another, looking behind him as though he’s considering making a run for it. Rick Grimes is muzzled, but still looks happier than his owner.

  I leap out of my chair so fast it topples over, and make a mad dash for the door, leaving Cherie and Laura in my dust. That’ll give ’em something to talk about.

  I emerge into the garden just as Tom has clearly decided to leave. He’s started to make his way back to the pathway that leads back down the hill.

  ‘Oi! You! The man with the dog!’ I yell, just as he reaches the wrought-iron archway that marks the entrance to the Comfort Food Café. It’s decorated with metallic roses as well as the name of the place, and most people find it charming. Tom is obviously not one of them.

  ‘Freeze!’ I shout. ‘We have you surrounded!’

  He does indeed freeze, but when he turns around, he has a sheepish grin on his face. It’s a good grin – a bit lopsided, like he can’t quite keep it straight.

  ‘Caught in the act …’ he says, as I trot over towards him. Rick Grimes gets excited as soon as he sees me, his muzzled head bouncing up and down and making him look like Hannibal Lecter trying to reach his fava beans. I’m not foolish enough to think for a minute that it’s me he’s interested in – he just associates me with Bella, his One True Love. He’s going to be disappointed though, because she’s at home today. I lean down anyway, and tickle him behind his velvety ears, running my hands through the thicker fur on his neck.

  I stand up straight again as soon as dog greetings are dispensed with, and see Tom taking in the café garden. It’s a higgledy-piggledy place, wooden benches and tables placed on uneven ground, parasols flapping in the sea breeze, napkins swirling. It’s been busy out here today, and it’s littered with empty plates and mugs and juice glasses. The perfect next job for Lizzie and Nate.

  ‘This is nice,’ says Tom, his eyes doing a full circuit of the ramshackle structure of the café, the new bookshop in the extension off to the side, and breathtaking views of the bay. ‘Like the café on the edge of the world.’

  ‘Yep. I know what you mean. It’d be a good place to hunker down for the zombie apocalypse.’

  He narrows his eyes and I can tell that he’s giving this issue some serious thought, as I also have, on quieter days.

  ‘Plenty of food and water … cliffs on one side … steep hill on the other …’ he says, glancing at the pathway.

  ‘We could get that fence reinforced,’ I say, joining him in his zombie-check. ‘Put some spikes on it to catch them as they pass.’

  ‘Good idea – but a perimeter fence at the bottom would be good as well. How are you for drugs?’

  ‘Well, Cherie’s flat probably has some old spliffs in it, but beyond that … hmm. Maybe we’d need to raid a pharmacy beforehand? Stock up on antibiotics and first aid supplies?’

  ‘Definitely. Antibiotics are the new currency in the post-zombie apocalypse world. Personnel, weapons?’

  ‘Weapons … well, a lot of knives. Some wicked-looking blenders. One of those moon-shaped cutting devices that Laura uses to shred herbs. Frank probably has a couple of shotguns as well. Personnel would be good, if we get the full crew to safety – we have farmers for the long-term sustainability plan, we have cowboys who can probably wrestle crocs; we have a vet – which is as good as a doctor in desperate times – and we have an abundance of street fighters. Plus – you’ll like this – the café has its own back-up generator, and that shed over there houses a massive gas barbecue and canisters.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, dragging his eyes away from the shed and giving me a big smile, ‘I’d say we’re sorted then. Bring it on!’

  We simultaneously look off down the path again, a
nd I know we’ve both convinced ourselves that the walking dead will be slowly staggering up towards us at any moment, with their tattered clothing and clumped-up hair. When it doesn’t happen, I say: ‘Well. I’m glad we cleared that up. Now come and do something I think you’ll find much more frightening – meet Cherie and Laura.’

  ‘I think I can see them,’ he says quietly. ‘They’ve practically got their face squashed up against the glass, watching us. And I can tell which one is which because of the handy fact-file you sent over. Okay … let’s do this. Where shall I put Rick?’

  ‘There aren’t any other dogs in there, so he’ll be fine. Don’t let him near the kitchen, though – he might end up eating his own body weight in chocolate chips.’

  I turn and head back to the café, not giving him the chance to come up with any more excuses. Cherie and Laura immediately leap into action, scurrying around clearing tables and pretending that they haven’t spent the last few minutes staring at us.

  I open the doors, and see Tom pause as we walk through. Sometimes I forget how weird this place must look to fresh eyes. Cherie has owned the café for a long time, and the interior design is as quirky as she is.

  The tables and chairs are covered in gingham cloths and decorated with little vases full of wildflowers. There’s a long wooden counter and a chiller cabinet, packed with home-made cakes, fresh sandwiches, pies, and little individual jugs of rich cream. So far, so normal, for a café.

  What sets it apart is the fact that literally every available space is crammed with random objects that Cherie has collected over the years. You know when you go into some chain restaurant, and you can tell that there’s a corporate design – fake antique books, pretend old photos, plastic sea shells, that kind of thing?

  Well the Comfort Food Café is the direct opposite of that. There are all kinds of objects hanging from the ceiling – oars from a rowing boat, mobiles made of old vinyl singles, conch shells, a witch’s broomstick, dangling fishing nets, a miniature cider press. The shelves that line the walls are like something from an eccentric flea market. A quick glance shows an old black-and-gold Singer sewing machine, half a kayak, framed pictures of the coast taken by Cherie’s late first husband, and piles of old-school board games like KerPlunk and Chinese Chequers.

  There’s an entire corner full of books – now neatly categorised by Zoe, our resident bookworm – and colouring pads and pens and puzzles for kids. The whole effect is a treat for the eyes, and a minimalist’s living nightmare. Tom is cataloguing it all, and I see that it’s making him smile. It might be the opposite of the way he runs his own home, but I’m glad he likes it.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I say, as I lead him through the door. ‘It’s a lot. Watch your head, you might get whacked by a low-flying kipper.’

  Laura bustles over, wiping her hands on a tea towel, pretending badly that she’s only just noticed us. And the Oscar most definitely doesn’t go to …

  ‘Hello!’ she says, beaming, tilting her head so she can look up at him. Tom is maybe a full foot taller than Laura, and the effect is comical. ‘I’m Laura! It’s so nice to meet you – can I get you some cake? Coffee and walnut? Or I have some sticky chocolate and orange pudding left? Or a fresh scone and some cherry jam?’

  Poor Tom looks thoroughly overwhelmed – whether at the company or the bewildering choice of baked goods, I don’t know. Luckily, he’s given a bit of breathing space by the fact that the last remaining official customers make their way out of the café, waving as they go. I hear one of them make a comment about how he’s so full now, he’ll have to roll all the way down the hill. Job done, Team Comfort Food.

  ‘He looks like he needs the pudding to me,’ says Cherie, ambling over towards us. She raises her eyebrows, and he nods, smiling.

  ‘Pudding it is! With butterscotch sauce!’ replies Laura, clapping her hands together with glee. She never feels better than when she’s plying someone with cake. She’s like the Walter White of sugar.

  Cherie is absently-minded stroking Rick Grimes’s head, and I realise she’s waiting for an introduction. Dang it. Distracted again.

  ‘Cherie, this is Tom. Tom, this is Cherie.’

  ‘Of the House Moon-Farmer,’ he responds, correctly.

  ‘You can explain that one later,’ she says, looking understandably confused. ‘But for now, who is this beautiful big boy?’

  ‘I’ve just told you … it’s Tom,’ I reply, in a ‘duh’ tone of voice. Cherie bites her lip as she tries not to laugh, and Tom gently adds, ‘I think she means the dog.’

  I can feel myself blushing, and I don’t think I’ve blushed since I was thirteen – our mother always raised us not to be embarrassed, and to own everything we did with the courage of our convictions. I applaud the sentiment, but it’s no use to me now.

  Tom quickly covers for me. ‘This is Rick Grimes. He loves people, but isn’t too keen on other dogs. Apart from Bella, that is.’

  ‘Ah, well – that’s understandable. Bella’s milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,’ says Cherie, bizarrely quoting Kelis. ‘But there are no other pooches here now, so let’s unleash the beast, shall we?’

  Tom nods, and unfastens the muzzle. Rick’s big teddy bear face emerges in all its glory, and he proceeds to lick all our hands in gratitude.

  ‘Pudding! Custard! Coffee!’ shouts Laura like a demented tea-lady dictator, and gestures us all towards one of the bigger tables. As is traditional, she doesn’t say a word until Tom has tasted his cake, waiting for his reaction.

  His face melts into something orgasmic at the first spoonful, and she grins at him.

  ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ she says, patting his hand. ‘So, Tom – how do you know Willow?’ I suspect she knows the answer to this question already, but wants to hear his version.

  ‘Umm,’ he begins, licking his lips clean. ‘We met at Briarwood. I’ve … well, I’ve just bought it.’

  Cherie is immediately enraptured, and proceeds to question him about all the details – why he bought it, what he plans to do with it, if he’s staying, where he’s living, if he needs any help, what the timescales are, whether he wears boxers or briefs. He answers everything apart from the last one, because she didn’t actually ask that, I made it up. He answers, but is looking increasingly flustered by the end of the interrogation.

  ‘One more question,’ she says, finally running out of steam. Tom looks like he might be about to face-plant in his pudding at the prospect. ‘Do you want some more coffee?’

  He nods in relief, and she’s in the middle of pouring it when Lizzie and Nate wander over to us. They’ve been watching from the other side of the counter, feigning non-interest. I’d been wondering how long it’d take them to give in and join the grown-ups.

  I introduce them, and Nate immediately says, ‘Cool T-shirt.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replies Tom, looking down at his own chest. ‘I suppose you’re more of a Force Awakens kind of guy, as you weren’t even born when this one came out?’

  ‘I am,’ Nate responds, glancing at his mum. ‘But we’re not allowed to mention it in maternal company.’

  We all look at Laura, who visibly shudders.

  ‘They killed Han Solo,’ she says sadly. ‘I shall never recover.’

  Lizzie pulls a face – the kind of face that only teenaged girls can manage in response to their own mother’s embarrassing behaviour. ‘We’re off down to the beach. Sam’s doing one of his utterly fascinating talks on ammonites, and we promised we’d help out. Tom … can I take your photo? It’s for my online journal.’

  Lizzie, since she first arrived here in Budbury, has been the village’s unofficial documentarian. Our whole lives are captured on her Instagram account, and one day, it’ll probably form the basis for a historical archive, leading future generations to believe that it’s completely normal to live your entire life in fancy dress and eat nothing but cake.

  Tom looks horrified, but slowly nods his head. He poses awkwardly, glancing at me just
as she takes the picture.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, reassuringly. ‘We’ve all been there. It’s part of life in House Walker-Hunter.’

  Lizzie frowns, not having a clue what I’m talking about, but decides she doesn’t really care. As she and Nate trot off towards the garden, I can already see her fingers flying across the keyboard of her phone, and know that within minutes Tom’s image will be circulated to the relevant parties more efficiently than the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

  She looks over her shoulder, and gives me a cheeky thumbs up paired with an exaggerated wink. Lord help us all – I do believe I’m being given romantic encouragement by a sixteen-year-old.

  ‘I think,’ says Cherie, her sandalled feet now trapped beneath Rick Grimes’s hefty body, ‘that you need to explain all this “house” stuff to us, Willow. Just wait a minute, though, here comes Zoe … her house must have loads of names!’

  Zoe comes flying into the room, a bundle of fizzing energy and crazy ginger hair. Her eyes immediately latch onto Tom, and I know instinctively that she’s already seen Lizzie’s post and dashed straight across to see what all the fuss is about.

  ‘Hello!’ she says, pulling up a chair and helping herself to a coffee. ‘Heard we had a visitor … rush hour at the shop seems to be over with, so I thought I’d have a break.’

  ‘I’m Zoe,’ she says directly to Tom. ‘I run Comfort Reads, next door. How’s the interrogation going? Has Cherie held you down and shone a torch in your eyes yet?’

  Cherie pretends to look offended, but really has no defence. Tom looks like a rabbit trapped in the headlights in the face of all this attention, but manages to reply. ‘No, but I was worried in case she tried to wrench my fingernails off at one stage …’

  ‘I get it,’ says Zoe, knowingly. ‘I only arrived here in September last year, and within minutes they knew more about me than I did. Literally. But … well, just grin and bear it, Tom. The pros outweigh the cons – I’m still here, anyway.’