Sunshine at the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘Last time she tried to make it here, she was on the main road up the hill, thank God. There are all kinds of shortcuts and pathways, but she stuck to the main road. Let’s try there next. I’ll just check in with the others.’

  Tom ushers me back into the hallway of Briarwood, to the smell of sawdust and paint, while I check my phone. There’s already a text from Zoe, telling me she’s not at the Community Centre, but they’re carrying on looking around the village. I tap out a quick reply, asking them to look in the Pet Cemetery, in case for some reason she’s gone to visit Pickle, our late, great Border Terrier. I add in a thank you and several kisses, remembering at the last minute to be grateful, before I call Auburn.

  ‘Anything?’ I ask, when she answers after a couple of rings. I can hear her panting and wheezing, and guess that she’s run the whole way from the cottage to the café. Her poor ciggie-addled lungs are not happy.

  ‘No! I’m here now, in the garden, and she’s nowhere. I even checked in the dog field, and in the sheds where they keep the barbecue, and around the back of the bookshop. Nothing. Where else should I go? I’m so scared for her, Willow – it’s bloody awful out here, anything could have happened!’

  ‘Thinking like that won’t help,’ I reply, as it’s exactly what I’ve been telling myself. ‘Check down by the bay – she likes sitting on those big rocks and watching the sea. It can come in quite high, so be careful. If she’s not there, walk up the pathway along the side of the cliffs – there’s a little bench there where you can look down at the beach. She likes that too.’

  ‘I know the one,’ she replies, and I can hear her moving off again. ‘We went there the other day and she told me the names of all the birds. I think she was making them up though – I’m not sure the Snozz-Wozzle Puffin-Pie is real …’

  I have to smile at that – our mother, channelling her inner Roald Dahl. I say goodbye to Auburn, and Tom and I set off again.

  He leads me towards his car, and I try to shrug him off.

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, seeing raindrops fly from it with the gesture. ‘It’s better to walk, so we can check out the footpaths as well.’

  ‘It’s not,’ he replies firmly, opening the car door, and bundling me inside. ‘You said she took the main road last time. There’s no reason to assume she hasn’t this time, and this will be quicker and dryer. We can do a quick circuit in the car, and if we don’t see her, we can double back and do it again on foot. Trust me, I’m a mad scientist.’

  I can’t argue with his logic, and am grateful that at least one of us still possesses some. I’m trying to sound level-headed to my sister, but inside, I’m coming apart. Tom flicks the heating on full, and I’m even more grateful when warm gusts of air start to cloud out onto the skin of my wet, trembling hands.

  ‘Does she have a phone?’ he asks, putting on the lights, carving out two tunnels of yellow in the gloomy air around us. The rain stripes down through them, neon blobs against the darkness.

  ‘No,’ I say, regretfully. ‘We tried – I thought it would be sensible. But she just couldn’t get the hang of it at all, and it made her feel bad about herself, so we gave up. Maybe we shouldn’t have, maybe I should have tried harder …’

  ‘Stop doing that,’ he says, frowning as he negotiates the car through the gate posts and heads for the main road.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop beating yourself up. We can set aside some time for that later, if it makes you feel better. But for now, concentrate on looking through the windows – I have to concentrate on not crashing.’

  I nod, because he’s right. I can’t let my self-pity party get in the way of the mission.

  He drives at a snail’s pace, because he can – it’s not like there’s any other traffic out here at this time of day.

  I wind the windows down, because I can’t see out of them properly when they’re steamed up, and the rain lashes in, slapping my face and his. He doesn’t say a word, just blinks it away, because he obviously knows why I’m doing it. Killer brain, three steps ahead.

  I look out of my window, and out of his, and out of the windscreen, the wipers flashing away on the highest setting. I shine the torch out into the hedgerows, startling a fox, who stops what he’s doing and stares up at me, the light reflecting from his eyes before he scampers away, fur flattened and wet.

  Tom stops at each of the footpaths, and I examine the gates and stiles, looking for any evidence she’s passed this way. Auburn calls from bench, to say there’s no sign of her – I tell her to head to Frank and Cherie’s farmhouse.

  Mum’s never gone there before, but at the very least, I know they’ll look after Auburn – who is now sounding so desperate and anxious that I’m almost as worried about her as Mum. She’s been tense ever since she got here – I’ve noticed all the twitches and tics and nail biting and the constant movement. This might be enough to push her over the edge, and nothing will be more effective in preventing that from happening than getting some TLC from Cherie.

  I see texts have landed from Laura, and from Scrumpy Joe, and realise that Zoe and Cal must have raised the alarm to spread the search more widely. Becca and Sam are left alone as they have Little Edie to care for, and Big Edie is automatically immune due to being almost a thousand years old.

  I feel my eyes fill up a little with truly pathetic tears – this is a terrible situation, but I am so grateful to have such friends around me. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the police force would consist of two bobbies in a patrol car if we were lucky – hopefully it won’t come to that, and this lot are likely to be even more effective. Their help means the area around the Rockery and the outer edges of the village are now also being checked.

  ‘No news?’ asks Tom, eyes still glued to the road. The light is starting to filter through the rain clouds now, as the sun at least tries to rise. The world looks grey and miserable, but those first fingers of brightness chase the shadows from the trees and begin to dispel at least some of the apocalyptic gloom.

  ‘No, not yet,’ I say, resuming my eagle-eyed surveillance out of the side of the car. I feel his hand reach out and squeeze my thigh, but don’t have it in me to respond beyond a small smile.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he says firmly, following the curve of the road down the hill.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I reply, feeling unfairly annoyed – it’s exactly what I’ve been saying to Auburn, but for some reason, I don’t want to hear it myself. ‘You don’t know it’s going to be all right. Look at this weather. It’s dark, it’s dangerous – anything could have happened to her. I never should have left her …’

  He ignores that, but keeps his hand on my leg. I leave it there, because none of this is his fault, and I already feel bad for snapping at him.

  My mind is working overtime, conjuring up every hideous scenario it can – the flip side of having a vivid imagination is the way it can mess with you. I see Mum lying in a heap on the beach, pale and still as the waves wash over her lifeless form; I see Mum collapsed and in pain on one of the treacherous cliff-side paths; I see Mum kidnapped by human traffickers and on her way to Marrakesh … and finally, miraculously, I see Mum.

  Not in my imagination – I actually see her. We’re crawling down the hill, me shining the torch through the open windows, and I catch a glimpse of something that doesn’t quite belong. It stands out from the soggy green shades of the bushes and hedgerows and the black tar of the road. It stands out because zebras do not roam wild and free in the Dorset countryside.

  ‘Stop!’ I yell, trying to pull open the car door before he’s even had time to brake properly. ‘I think I see something!’

  I almost fall over as I clamber out of the car, and he is by my side in seconds. We abandon the Fiat, doors open, headlights cutting a path through the grim dawn morning. I run over to the side of the road, and see one leg stretched out – a leg dressed in a zebra-print onesie.

  My relief only lasts for a few seconds, because as I reach her, scra
mbling through the bushes, overhanging branches tearing at my face, I see that she is in a bad way.

  She’s curled into a foetal ball, her arms wrapped around herself to try and stay warm. Her onesie is soaked through, clinging to her body, her hair a slick tangle around her face. Her cheeks are pale and glistening with rain, and her ankle is swollen and twisted, skin shining white around the bruises. She’s wearing her fluffy moccasin slippers; one is still on, coated in mud and clinging leaves, the other cast off from her injured foot.

  I throw myself down next to her, aware that Tom is right behind me, and cradle her head. I drop the torch, and it lands next to us, casting a bright light over the bushes and sending a flurry of scared wildlife away in a sinister scuttle.

  I stroke her hair away from her face, hold her cold hands, and call her name, praying that she responds.

  ‘I’ll get an ambulance,’ says Tom, reaching for his sandwich-bagged phone. The rain isn’t letting up.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I say, rubbing her hands, and hoping for her eyes to open. ‘It’ll take forever for one to get here – if she’s conscious, we’re better just getting her in the car, warming her up, and going straight to the hospital.’

  He nods, and takes off his coat, covering her with it to shelter her from at least some of the rain. His Goonies T-shirt is immediately soaked through as the storm continues, but he doesn’t seem to even notice.

  ‘Mum … Mum, wake up! It’s me, it’s Willow!’ I say, desperately.

  Her eyelids flicker, and her fingers weakly grasp mine, and eventually, she opens her eyes and looks up at me. She stares, and smiles, and finally speaks.

  ‘Willow. I was looking for her,’ she says, her voice tiny and low. ‘I was looking for Willow. The one with the pink hair. My baby girl. She went for a sleepover, and I had to go and collect her.’

  I realise that my hair is plastered to my scalp, dark with rain, and to her, probably doesn’t look even the smallest bit pink.

  ‘It’s me, Mum,’ I say, sounding ragged, ‘I’m Willow, the one with the pink hair. I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s all going to be okay now …’

  Chapter 29

  ‘Where are we?’ asks Mum, clinging on to my hand. ‘Why are we here?’

  She’s lying in a hospital bed, and I’m sitting next to her on one of those hard plastic chairs that’s already made my bum go numb.

  ‘We’re at the hospital, Mum,’ I say, calmly. ‘You had an accident, and you needed some X-rays, so we brought you here. Everything’s all right.’

  She nods, and settles, letting her damp head fall back onto the pillows. This is approximately the fifteenth time that she’s asked me this, and each time, I have to explain again.

  She was rushed through triage and on to an assessment ward, where she was warmed up and given pain relief before being taken through for the X-ray. They’re holding off on giving her anything to eat or drink until we know if she needs surgery, but the staff here seem to think she’ll be okay. She was cold but not hypothermic, and other than the ankle, doesn’t seem to be hurt.

  I’ve not left her side since we got here, apart from a quick trip to the loos to get changed. Laura turned up with spare clothes, which I’m now wearing – the red tartan jumper is way too big on the chest, and way too short on the arms, and the green leggings end just below the knee, but at least they’re dry. I’m finally starting to warm up, and have been force-fed hot coffee and chocolate croissants.

  Cherie has opened the café early, and Laura’s headed back there now – sounds like it’s turned into a refugee camp for survivors of the Great Lynnie Longville Escape Plot, with Matt and Laura and Cal and Zoe and the teenagers and the Scrumpy J Jones Collective all retreating there to eat and drink and reassure each other.

  Laura looked relieved to see we were all alive, but couldn’t get out of the place quick enough – I know from Cherie that she hates hospitals, a throwback to the time her husband David was on a life-support machine and she had to decide to switch it off. I appreciate the fact that she’s faced her fears, and done a charity run anyway, bless her.

  Tom has also changed – Laura brought some of Matt’s things with her as well – and is modelling the same clownish look as me, in jeans that end above the ankle. Serves us right for being stupidly tall. Just like I’ve not left Mum’s side, he’s not left mine.

  Auburn arrived half an hour after us, wet and bedraggled, her long hair snaked over the shoulders of her Berghaus coat, her face pale and stressed, and her huge eyes panicked.

  ‘How is she?’ she’d asked, running over towards us, her wet boots sliding on the floor.

  ‘She’s going to be all right,’ I replied, smiling. She looked terrible, and Laura hadn’t brought spare clothes for her because she didn’t know she was there. She was dripping all over the lino, looking far from fine, and once she was reassured that Mum was okay, I persuaded her to go off with Tom and find the canteen.

  He didn’t want to go, but I insisted.

  ‘Please,’ I said, holding his hand. ‘She needs to calm down, and warm up, and you’d be doing me a favour. She needs a break and she won’t go alone.’

  He’d nodded, and led Auburn away in the direction of the lifts. I watched them go, and felt a sense of relief that I wasn’t proud of. Truthfully, I needed a break too. I needed a break from worrying about Auburn, and a break from worrying about Tom, and a break from simply being around people. Obviously, I was still around people – even in the morning the hospital is busy – but they’re not people I need to do anything for.

  I’ve towel-dried my hair, and taken off my boots, and can finally feel my toes again, snug in Laura’s fluffy red bed-socks. I lean back in the chair, and look at Mum.

  She seems so small and vulnerable, tucked up in her bed. Her hair is bunched up around her like a halo, and her eyes are closed. I can tell she’s not asleep, but at least she’s resting and not in pain. I cling onto her hand, as much for my reassurance as hers.

  Now that I’m finally alone, I let myself breathe. I let myself acknowledge how close I came to losing her, and how terrifying that was. I know that I’ll never, ever forget that sight – the sight of her, curled up in a ball in the mud in a zebra-print onesie, looking for all the world like she’d gone forever.

  I feel the trauma seep through me, as chilling as the rain, and screw up my eyes in fatigue. Hospitals are always so bright, aren’t they? My eyeballs are sore from exhaustion and strip lighting.

  Mum stirs slightly, and looks up at me. I know what’s coming before the words even leave her lips.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asks, her gaze darting anxiously around at the other cubicles and the passing nurses and the squeaky-wheeled trolley of tea being pushed by an auxiliary. ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘You had an accident, Mum,’ I reply, again. ‘You hurt your ankle, and we needed to bring you to the hospital for an X-ray. It’s all fine, honest. I’m here.’

  She nods, and accepts what I’ve said.

  ‘Can I have a cup of tea?’ she asks, like a child begging for pudding.

  ‘Not just yet,’ I say, looking around for someone to bother. I see a harassed-looking doctor walking towards me, and stand up to get his attention.

  He nods, and walks over, and I see the effort it takes for him to smile. He’s probably been on shift all night, and even in Dorset, has most likely been dealing with more than his fair share of drunks, drug addicts, and car crashes. We were probably just the cherry on the cake.

  ‘Good news, Mrs Longville,’ he says, patting my mum on the shoulder. She smiles at him, but I can tell she’s feeling uncomfortable – she doesn’t know who he is or what he’s talking about. Her short-term memory seems to be completely shot to pieces by the events of the night. All she knows right now is that she wants a cup of tea.

  ‘The ankle is broken, but it doesn’t need surgery,’ he tells us both. ‘It’s just a minor fracture, and should heal well. We’re going to keep you here for a day or so, Mrs Longville, wi
th a splint on, until the swelling goes down. After that, if all goes to plan, we’ll fit you with a very stylish support boot – we have them in different colours, you’ll be the envy of all your friends!’

  Mum looks at him like he’s mad, and I hold back a laugh. He’s trying to be nice, obviously, but it isn’t working.

  ‘I can’t imagine that I will,’ she replies, frowning. ‘If I’m wearing odd boots, that’s not going to get me on the Britain’s Best Dressed list, is it? Plus, it’s “Ms”, not “Mrs”. Can I have a cup of tea now?’

  The doctor looks slightly taken aback, but agrees to the tea, which is when she loses interest in him completely. She lets out a mammoth whistle to attract the attention of the auxiliary with the trolley, and all seems to be well with her world, at least for the time being.

  I let her get on with it while the doctor takes me to one side and explains more – she’ll take at least six weeks to heal completely, he says, but once the swelling is gone and the boot is on, she’ll be able to walk on crutches. She might need to use those for a couple of weeks, or possibly be able to bear weight sooner, depending on how it all goes.

  ‘She’s actually in very good physical condition,’ he adds, glancing at her sadly. I feel his pity, and decide I don’t like it. I like it even less when he carries on.

  ‘If you need more help, I can arrange for a visit from social services. You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone,’ he says, sympathetically.

  ‘I’m not alone, and we already have a social worker, and I’m fine. Thank you.’

  My tone is maybe a little sharper than it should be – the man is only trying to help – and he raises one eyebrow at me.

  ‘Well, it’s not just about you, is it?’ he replies, not unkindly. ‘It’s about her. She was lucky tonight. These things happen, and it’s nobody’s fault – I’m just saying that if you need help, then get it. For both your sakes.’