She gestures down at her own body, which to be fair is a little on the round side. She’s not fat, not by any means. Just … comfortable. And curvy. And perfect.
‘Thank you. Toast would be great,’ I reply, as we emerge back into the café. There’s another couple of customers now, a fresh-faced teenager and what looks like his granddad, and I feel momentarily bad that I took Laura away from her work. She glances at my face, and seems to know that immediately.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says, patting my hand. ‘Cherie’s sorted them, look. About time she got off her lazy backside anyway.’
She says the last part extra-loud, and Cherie laughs from behind the counter, waving a spatula at her threateningly.
‘Watch your cheek, lady,’ she answers, grinning. ‘You’re never too old for a good spanking!’
Frank looks up from his newspaper, blue eyes twinkling, and adds: ‘You’re right there, love!’
This is something of a conversation stopper, and Laura and I exchange wide-eyed glances as we both try very hard not to imagine Frank getting his 82-year-old bottom smacked. Crikey. Grey panthers rule – and they’ve definitely got a better love life than me.
Laura does a mock shiver and settles me down at one of the tables. She knows I won’t want company, and doesn’t push it. The ladies here, in particular, tend to gather at the café for mammoth sessions of gossip and world-righting. I often see them, clustered around a couple of tables shoved together – Cherie and Laura and Becca and Zoe, Edie and Willow and Auburn. They always look so comfortable with each other; sitting there guzzling endless rounds of freshly baked scones and hot chocolates.
Sometimes, I want to join them. I want to take that simple step of walking in, sitting down and chatting with the tribe. But I never have, so far – in fact I’ve sometimes turned away from the café once I’ve seen them there, not quite ready to break my solitude.
Maybe one day I’ll take the daring step of joining them for one of their sessions.
Not quite yet, though, I decide, looking on as the new customers stare around the room in wonder. They’ll always remember this place – the weird café on the cliff they found when they were out walking. They’ll probably tell their friends about it, go home and try to describe it. I see the teenager whip out his phone and start taking photos – because, of course, teenagers don’t settle for just describing something when they can post it on social media instead.
Cherie comes over with a mocha – my favourite – and a plate heaped with granary toast. The butter is laid on so thick it’s melting and oozing over bread that I know Laura will have baked herself. I have died and gone to heaven.
‘There you go, love,’ says Cherie, laying one gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Fill your boots, as they say. That little dynamo of yours will be back in soon, so enjoy the peace. Oh, by the way, did Laura tell you there was a phone call for you?’
I already have a mouthful of toast when she asks this, and all I can do is shake my head, butter dripping down my chin, looking up at her inquiringly.
‘Laura!’ she bellows, so loud that small mountain ranges in Nepal probably shake and quiver. ‘When did you take that message for Katie?’
Laura stops what she’s doing – slicing tomatoes for the day’s salads – and stares up, looking horrified.
‘Oh no!’ she says, biting her lip. ‘I’m so sorry – I completely forgot about it; I don’t know where my head is today! Katie, your mum called – she said can you call her back, please? She also said, “Don’t worry, nobody’s dead.” Which is nice.’
Chapter 8
Van walks back into the café at that stage, Saul trailing behind him, cheeks rosy from the autumnal chill and his hair ruffled.
‘Mummy!’ he shouts, dashing over full of excitement. ‘We found treasure!’
He grabs hold of my knee with one muddy hand, and in the other brandishes his booty – a one pound coin. I’m guessing that Van managed to distract him while he buried it in the garden, then helped him re-discover it. He winks at me over Saul’s head, and I blink rapidly in response.
‘It’s a Spanish doon!’ Saul says, spinning it around on the table top. He looks so thrilled, it momentarily distracts me from Van, my mother, and wondering what the hell is going on back at home.
‘A Spanish doon? Wow!’ I say, widening my eyes in suitable awe. ‘That’s amazing!’
‘Shop?’ he asks, hopefully, his tone slightly wheedling. He might think it’s a Spanish doubloon – or doon, I should say – but clearly still expects to be able to exchange it for a carton of juice and a chocolate bar.
‘Later, sweetie,’ I respond. ‘I’ll take you to the shop later. Right now it’s time for me to take you to see Lynnie and Willow while I go to work. How does that sound? You can show them your Spanish doon.’
He ponders this, and I see him weigh up the pros and cons with his little boy brain. On the one hand, no shop. But on the other – fun times! Luckily, he lands on the side of Lynnie and Willow, which is exactly where I want him. Life is much easier if you don’t have to argue with a toddler. I mean, I usually win the arguments – I am technically the grown-up – but it’s tiring.
‘Lynnie will love my doon,’ he pronounces, pulling up the hood of his coat in the way he does when he wants me to know he’s ready to go somewhere. It’s like his signal – I’m ready for action, Mummy!
I nod, and cram as much toast in my mouth as I can without choking. I swill it down with my mocha, feeling disrespectful – it deserved better than that. Life with a small child often leads to indigestion, I’ve discovered.
I glance at Cherie apologetically, feeling bad for my lack of appreciation, but she just nods and gives me a ‘don’t-worry-about-it’ wave as I put my coat on. I’m wondering already how I’ll manage to call my mum, and plan to try and fit it in on the walk to Lynnie’s cottage. I have a few hours to do at the pharmacy, while he’s on his weirdly formed playdate.
‘I’m heading back,’ says Van, now wrapped up in a navy fleece jacket and wearing a beanie hat that makes him look a bit like he should be in some mountainous ski resort in the Alps. ‘I’ll walk with you, if that’s okay?’
I see Laura watching us, pretending not to, and know that she’ll be thinking what a nice couple we make. Laura is a great believer in happy endings, despite all her own trials and tribulations. I catch her eye and raise one eyebrow, and she at least has the grace to blush and start bustling around with a cheese grater.
‘Okay,’ I say simply, as Van waits for a reply. I mean, I could hardly say no, could I? Even if I wanted to.
We say our farewells and start the short walk to the cottage. It’s a beautiful day, cold but sunny, with that fresh, crisp light you sometimes get in autumn. Dazzling blue skies hover over the sea, the colour so bold and solid it looks like you could reach out and touch it.
The coastal pathways are slightly muddy from the melted morning frost, and the sound of birdsong is melodically present in the background, along with the gentle hiss and hum of calm waves lapping the sand.
We leave the cliffs behind us, and emerge onto footpaths that criss-cross Frank’s farm. Tucked between glorious green hills, the fields are literally covered in seagulls and other birds, hovering and flapping over the ground like a living carpet made of fluttering wings.
‘Why all the birdies?’ Saul asks, tugging at Van’s sleeve and looking up at him inquiringly. He correctly assumes that I wouldn’t have a clue.
‘Ah,’ replies Van, pointing across at them. ‘That’s because it’s after harvest, and we’ve been getting the fields ready for their new seeds. We spread muck on it – cow poo! – and then we plough it and all the soil gets squished and turned over. When we do that, lots of worms come out to play, and the birds come along for an extra big dinner time. It’s like the Comfort Food Café for seagulls, but instead of cake, they eat long, wriggly worms!’
Saul immediately giggles at the mention of cow poo, obviously. I know from my dealings with men that th
is will be the case even when he’s thirty. He watches the birds and makes wriggling gestures with his fingers, making them into worms and laughing.
He’s trotting along, feet squelching, one hand in mine and one in Van’s, occasionally asking us to ‘give him a swing’. We usually oblige, and his squeals of delight as he flies up into the air are joyous to hear. Anyone looking on would assume we were a young couple out for a stroll with our son, and the thought chokes me a little.
Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s an underlying worry about my mum, but I’m quiet as we walk. Smiling, so I don’t look like a complete misery-guts, but not exactly chatty either.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Van, giving me a sideways glance. ‘You seem a bit … off, today.’
I snap myself out of my fugue state and reply as breezily as I can: ‘Yes, I’m fine. Sorry. Just a bit tired, you know?’
‘I can imagine. Maybe you need a night off. Maybe … we could go for a pint. Together. Like grown-ups do, or so I’m told. I don’t know many of those.’
‘Oh … well, I don’t think I could. I wouldn’t have a babysitter.’
He sighs, and when I look up at him, his blue eyes are crinkled at the corners. He looks partly amused, partly exasperated. Wholly gorgeous.
‘Katie, you have a whole village full of babysitters. Saul could stay over at the cottage. Becca and Sam would have him for a few hours. Edie would sit in with him. Cherie and Frank would love to have him. Laura would probably see it as a treat and bake a whole oven full of cupcakes for him. There are several teenagers who would be desperate to earn a tenner for the privilege of sitting on your sofa using their phones. Babysitting isn’t a problem.’
‘Right,’ I say, trudging on, half wishing that Saul would fall face first into a cowpat or something so I could use the excuse to end this particular conversation. He remains annoyingly upright, singing a song to himself about a worm that lives at the bottom of his garden. I recognise it immediately, and find myself singing along: ‘And his name is Wiggly-Woo …’
Saul giggles again, and carries on singing. Van is quiet, but not in an annoyed way – coming from his family, I’m guessing he’s used to eccentric women who randomly burst into song. I know Willow does it all the time, often serenading us with her highly individual versions of Disney classics.
‘Right,’ I say again, brushing my hair away from my face and feeling annoyed with myself. I don’t know quite why, but I feel silly, for a whole variety of reasons.
‘Well then,’ I continue, trying to stride ahead but not managing it, as Van is so much taller than me. ‘Maybe I will come out for a drink some time. Maybe I won’t. I suppose what I’m saying is that I’ll do it when and if I want to. Is that all right?’
He grins, and then laughs. I’m not sure I expected him to laugh, but it’s better than him being offended.
‘I love that thing you do,’ he answers, looking on as Saul trudges off to investigate a pile of Wiggly-Woos.
‘What thing?’
‘That thing where you say stuff in a quiet voice that makes you sound apologetic and shy, but when you actually look at what the stuff you said was, it’s the opposite of apologetic and shy. You sound all weedy, but you’re actually kind of channelling a Chaka Khan “I’m Every Woman” vibe.’
I glance at him from beneath my fringe, and can’t help but smile. He’s totally right, of course. The new me is striving to be a strong and independent woman – but my attitude hasn’t quite caught up with it. I’m like a mouse trying to roar.
‘I’m a work in progress,’ I reply, smiling at him. ‘And by the way, I think your mother is on her way to meet us …’
He looks up and squints into the sunlight to make her out. Lynnie is cutting a path in our direction, wearing her pyjamas, a faux fur stole, and a pair of ancient Hunter wellies. Now, Lynnie does have Alzheimer’s, but in all honesty, dressing like that probably isn’t part of her symptoms – the whole family has what you might call a relaxed approach to social conventions.
The rolled-up yoga mat under her arm, though? That’s usually a sign that she’s decided to set off somewhere to give a class. At a guess, the café.
Sure enough, Willow isn’t far behind her, eating up the distance with her stupidly long legs to catch her up, pink hair streaming in the breeze. Bella Swan, her Border terrier, is next in line.
We all meet up in the middle, Willow puffing slightly, Lynnie looking confused at all the fuss. It’s hard to know how she’ll react in situations like this – sometimes a gentle reminder of the here and now sets her back on track. Other times, she understandably lashes out at the fact that a group of strange people are trying to kidnap her.
Luckily, Saul is usually the salve in all of these scenarios. He runs straight up to her, and wraps his arms around her legs, making delighted sounds muffled by his scarf.
‘Well, hello!’ says Lynnie, squatting down to get on eye level with him. ‘Where are you off to, little man?’
‘Your cottage, silly billy!’ he replies joyously, reaching out to stroke the faux fur around her shoulders. ‘Mummy’s going to work at the chemist shop and I’m coming to look after you.’
I meet Willow’s gaze, and see the frown lines and anxiety on her face. She tries to hide it, and often manages, but it’s all there – the worry and the fatigue. She’s one of life’s optimists, Willow, always seeing the best in the world and the people she meets – but having a sunny disposition doesn’t always count when your mum has dementia.
We all wait to see what Lynnie’s reaction is going to be, and there is almost a communal sigh of relief when she stands up straight and offers her hand to Saul.
‘Come on then,’ she says, heading back to the house, him ambling at her side. ‘If you’re going to look after me, we’d better make some toast to keep our strength up.’
She nods at me and Van politely as she goes, as though we are strangers deserving of a pleasantry as she passes. It’s more than Willow gets.
‘I’m the bad guy today,’ she says sadly, as we follow on. ‘She didn’t want to take her tablets, or eat her breakfast, or get dressed. Then she waited until I was in the bathroom and made a break for it. Crazy like a fox, that one.’
Van nods and stays silent. I know he struggles more than his sisters with his mother’s condition. Maybe it’s because he’s not been back as long; maybe it’s a gender thing – he’s the kind of guy who’s used to being able to fix things. Build things. Make things work properly. Now he’s facing something that isn’t fixable, and I know it eats away at him.
‘If it’s too much to have Saul around, I can take him with me,’ I say, touching Willow’s arm as we walk.
‘No, honestly, it’s fine,’ Willow replies, pasting a smile onto her drawn face. ‘It’s actually easier when he’s here. It’s like having a kid around somehow overrides the other impulses; some instinct kicks in and she just enjoys being with him and playing with him. Besides, can you imagine Saul in a pharmacy?’
I grin as I picture this, and bite back a giggle.
‘I know. It’d be dangerous, wouldn’t it? He’d be snorting athlete’s foot powder and painting his face with antibac-terial cream …’
‘Not to mention swigging the Gaviscon, getting high on caffeine pills, and possibly treating the antibiotics like Skittles.’
We all pause as we let these images sink in.
‘You’re right,’ I say, finally. ‘He’s banned from the pharmacy for life. Anyway … if you’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ she says, gently but firmly. ‘I’d speak out if I needed to, don’t worry. No, off you go – might as well make a break for it while he’s distracted. I’ll see you this afternoon, all right? He’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. Tom’s coming round anyway, so he can ride Rick Grimes around the garden like he’s that dog-dragon in The Neverending Story.’
Rick Grimes is part Rottweiler, part golden retriever, part mystery. He can be unpredictable with other dogs, but
adores children. As we don’t have any pets of our own, it’s a good set-up – Saul gets all the fun, and I get none of the responsibility.
I nod and say goodbye to her and Van, and head off towards the village. I seem to spend my life traipsing across various fields and footpaths, juggling time and childcare and favours. Life might be easier if I had a car – but as I can’t drive, maybe not. Perhaps, I think, as I leave them behind and follow a different path, I should invest in one of those motorbikes that has a sidecar I can put Saul into. He’d love that.
I’m still smiling about that particular image when I arrive at the pharmacy. It’s in the centre of the village, and is imaginatively called The Budbury Chemist. It’s quite quaint and old-fashioned looking on the outside, with mullioned windows and a wooden sign that hangs like the ones you find outside old pubs. On it is a painted version of an old apothecary symbol, a pestle and mortar, with a border made of green ivy. The place used to be owned by a lady called Ivy Wellkettle, who left to live with her daughter last year, and the sign has stayed as a reminder of her.
I push the door open and hear the familiar jingle-jangle of the bell as I make my way inside. The warmth of the room envelops me, and makes me realise how cold it’s been getting recently. This will be my third winter here in Budbury, and last year’s was a humdinger. At least Saul is walking much more now, so I won’t be wrestling his pushchair through the snow as often.
I look around at the well-stocked shelves and the pristine counter and the various posters about flu jabs and controlling asthma and giving up smoking, and spot Auburn sitting on the sprawling sofa at the back of the main room, next to Edie May.
You don’t often get sofas in chemists’ shops, but this is Budbury. Everyone likes a place to sit wherever they go – otherwise, they might have to stay upright while chatting. This sofa was a gift from Cherie, and it shows – it’s in the shape of a giant pair of bright red lips. Like an enormous lipstick-on-tissue kiss that’s been stuffed and covered in velvet and given little legs. Personally, I find it quite scary, and always feel like I’m about to be eaten by a cartoon alien whenever I sit on it.
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 4