A Gift from the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  It’s only Auburn, and it could have been Van, and a tiny part of me regrets my choice. Still, it was the right choice. The sensible choice.

  I tell myself this repeatedly as I get ready, tiptoeing around upstairs so I don’t wake up Saul. The cat follows me silently, looking at me with what I can only describe as scepticism.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I whisper, as he perches on the toilet seat and watches me put my slap on. ‘I’m not ready for anything like that, okay?’

  In response, he twists one leg up and elegantly licks his own bottom. Well, that told me.

  Now, after bidding farewell to my mum and telling her where I’ll be in case of emergencies, I’m out. Standing in the doorway of the pub, wondering if it’s not too late to change my mind. The bus stop with a plastic bottle of cider is looking more attractive by the second.

  I make my way inside, and am amazed at how different it is at night. I’ve brought Saul here in the day once or twice, just to fill in time. He likes it well enough, but there’s only so long a little boy stays amused by a glass of orange juice and a bag of Quavers.

  It tends to be quiet in the day, a few locals, a few walkers, the aroma of pub grub wafting around the place, the tinkling sound of the fruit machine. That sound always makes me smile, and remember holidays to Somerset as a kid, where my nan had pots full of coins to use in what she called the ‘one-armed bandits’.

  Tonight, though, it’s bustling – a veritable cacophony of chatter and laughter and cheers from the corner, where some kind of highly competitive game of darts seems to be going on.

  I glance around and nod to the few people I know, giving a wave to the landlord as I walk past the wooden-topped bar. It’s a good, old-fashioned boozer, with two main rooms and various tucked-away alcoves and corners, and every chair and stool seems to be occupied.

  I search the crowds, looking for Auburn’s distinctive hair, and failing to find it. I mill around a bit, checking in the corners and cubbies, wondering if I’m early or if I’ve gone to the wrong pub. That, though, would be difficult, as there’s only one in the village – the other one roughly classed as local is a drive away.

  I’m on the verge of giving up and creeping back home in shame when I spot a familiar face over in the back room.

  Familiar, but not what I expected. It’s not Auburn, for sure. It’s Van.

  My heart does something skippy and thuddy that under normal circumstances would have me heading straight to A&E, and I stand still, staring at him. He hasn’t seen me yet, so I could still make a run for it. I silently curse Auburn and chew my lip, and manage to be both excited and terrified at the same time.

  It’s Van – not Count Dracula. It’s Van, who is my friend, and why can’t we have a friendly night out as friends, discussing things that friends do?

  Because I fancy the arse off him, that’s why. And I think he feels the same about me. And there’s alcohol in this pub. And … no, this is a terrible idea.

  I’m on the verge of turning around and leaving when he spots me, and waves. He’s grinning at me, and looks so happy that I can imagine him as a little boy. Damn. I can’t just snub him like that. I have to stay, even if it’s just for one Diet Coke.

  It still takes me a moment to force myself forward, though, climbing over discarded bags and umbrellas and random legs until I reach him.

  He’s managed to hook a small table by the fireplace, which is one of those that begs to be described as roaring, logs blazing and crackling in a massive stone hearth so big you could roast a suckling pig in it. He already has a pint in front of him, which looks like a member of the real ale family, and probably has one of those borderline rude names like the Bishopric or Old Bessie’s Buttock.

  Unlike me, he hasn’t been able to do much with his hair – it’s cut so short – but he is wearing a navy blue T-shirt that stretches over his shoulders and brawny upper arms in such a snug way that I can almost imagine him without it.

  This, obviously, is not the kind of thought I want to be having as I walk over to the table, especially as this is not a date. This is just two friends, out for a friendly chat about friend things. As friends. It’s not my fault that one of us looks like he does. Probably not his either, but … well, he could’ve worn a baggier top.

  I giggle to myself as I think this, as it is a ridiculous thought to have had. This confuses him as it coincides with me arriving at the table.

  ‘What?’ he asks, looking down at himself self-consciously. ‘Did I accidentally wear my pyjamas or something?’

  ‘No, no … just me. Being weird. No pyjamas involved. Do you wear pyjamas? You don’t strike me as a pyjama kind of man.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m not. I’m usually a buck-naked kind of man. But I don’t half feel the cold, living here, after years travelling around much warmer places. Winter in Budbury is not a prospect I’m relishing. Last night I used a sleeping bag and two duvets, and I was still a wuss about it. You look nice, by the way – I like that hair thing. Makes you look like a ballerina. What would you like to drink?’

  This is a good question, especially right after his distracting buck-naked comment. It’s also skipping right past the other, more glaring question that needs to be asked.

  ‘What are you doing here, Van?’ I ask, trying not to sound upset. That would be rude.

  ‘I’m meeting you for a drink …’ He frowns, looking as confused as I feel, then continues: ‘Didn’t you know I was coming?’

  ‘Umm … no. I’d arranged to meet Auburn.’

  ‘She said she had a migraine, because I’d set her on fire. She said she couldn’t come, but didn’t want to let you down at the last minute, and she said she’d told you and it was fine.’

  He takes in my bewildered expression, and the way I’m hovering by the chair but not actually sitting on it, and I see a moment of hurt flicker across his face before he wrestles it into something more neutral.

  ‘I take it from your reaction that she didn’t?’ he says. I nod, and he smiles at me.

  ‘Well, don’t worry,’ he adds, standing up. ‘It’s not a big deal. Either stay for a quick one, spend the night with me getting hilariously drunk, or we’ll call it a night right now and go home. I don’t mind. It’s your choice.’

  Every single one of those options sounds both acceptable and wrong. There is no right thing to do – so I go for the middle ground.

  ‘I’ll stay for a quick one. Or maybe two. That’d be nice.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘Because the way you say “nice” makes it sound a bit more like “I’d rather be stung by a thousand angry bees.”’

  ‘Sorry. I was just surprised to see you. I’m staying, honestly.’

  ‘All righty then … well, as I’m up, what do you want to drink? Arsenic? Invisibility powder? Man repellent?’

  ‘Hmmm … just a Bacardi and Coke please,’ I reply, grinning. I used to drink that when I was much younger, and it seems as good a time as any to revive the tradition. He raises one eyebrow in what might be surprise, and goes off to fetch it. I quickly grab my phone out of my bag, and see a text has just landed from Auburn. Well, not so much a text as a screen full of devil emoticons and laughing faces. I tap out a reply that informs her in simple language that I am planning to kill her the next day.

  ‘So,’ says Van, when he returns with my glass – complete with little umbrella, very fancy – ‘how are things going? With your mum? I’m guessing not brilliant if it’s actually driven you out.’

  ‘That’s a harsh assessment,’ I reply, taking my first sip and trying not to sigh out loud. ‘But an accurate one.’

  ‘I can imagine. I know how weird it is being back with your family after years away, believe me.’

  For him, of course, it must be even weirder – he’s been abroad for so long, and now finds himself not only back in Dorset, but sharing a house with his sisters, and a mother with Alzheimer’s. So, yeah, I believe him when he says he understands.

  ‘Well,�
� I reply, staring into the fire, ‘it’s a work in progress, I suppose. I mean, it’s not easy – she’s not easy. But she needs to be here for a while, and that’s okay. Half the time I want to hug her, and half the time I want to kill her. But that’s kind of normal for families, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so. It’s easy to love your family – but not always easy to like them. Have you spoken to your dad yet? And how do you feel, about the whole them-splitting-up thing? Are you sad? I know you’re not a kid or anything, but it’s still got to hurt.’

  I let out a laugh at that one. I can’t help myself.

  ‘No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s confusing, and strange, and part of me doesn’t even believe it yet – mainly because I’ve not spoken to him beyond a couple of texts. He’s not good at texting, or apparently using phones at all. Mainly, to be honest, I just wish they’d done it years ago.’

  Van looks understandably flummoxed by this, so I explain: ‘They’ve been making each other miserable as long as I’ve known them. Seriously, I grew up in a war zone, Van. They fought constantly. It was one long line of rows and screaming matches and actual physical fights.’

  ‘What?’ he says, looking distraught. ‘He hit her?’

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t that simple. She hit him too. She’s small but scrappy, my mum. It wasn’t one of those mean-dad scenarios – they were both mean. I’ve seen her literally hanging off his back trying to gouge his eyes during one of their spats. He was more of a shover and a grabber. Basically, neither of them ever came out of it unscathed.’

  ‘And neither did you, from the sound of it. That must have been terrible. My childhood was hardly conventional – you know, born in a hippy commune, Dad died young, moved here and got raised by Lynnie during the Yoga and Incense years. But it was never, ever like that. Mum was all for peace and self-expression – she never even raised her voice. The only violence in our house was between us lot when she wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Still the same now, isn’t it?’ I reply, smiling. ‘Did you really set Auburn’s towel on fire?’

  ‘Just a little tiny bit. It was all under control, honest. And you’re avoiding the subject. Is that why you came here, to get away from them?’

  I chew my lip for a moment, and then decide to break the habits of a lifetime and actually talk openly about all of this stuff. Maybe, I think, it’ll help. I’ve joined the Cake Club. I’m in the pub. Maybe things are changing, and I need to push them along a little instead of being a passive witness to my own life.

  I don’t think I’d have had this conversation with Auburn – we are both highly skilled at talking about nothing of consequence for hours on end – but with Van, it feels more natural. More organic. Maybe that’s what scares me.

  ‘Not just them,’ I say. ‘I needed to get away from Saul’s dad as well … from everything, to be honest. Me and Jason – well, we were heading down the same path as my parents.’

  I see him stiffen slightly as I say this, and his hand clenches into a fist on the table top.

  ‘Don’t get all macho on me,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. ‘I never let it escalate. It was about me and what I needed as much as him – we were never going to work as a couple. But that’s the past, and this isn’t one of those situations where some big tough man can come to the rescue and sort my life out, okay? I sorted my own life out, and, I think he’s sorted his out too. He lives in Scotland, with the woman who’s now his wife, and that suits us all fine.’

  ‘What about Saul? Doesn’t he see him?’

  ‘He did, a bit, when he still lived in Bristol. And he stays in touch, sends cards and presents, that kind of thing. He was talking about making a trip down to see him a while ago, but it hasn’t materialised … I suppose I’m kind of hoping it won’t, which is very selfish of me. He’s still Saul’s dad, at the end of the day, and sometimes I do worry about him growing up without one. I’m not very good at football, you know.’

  Van gives me a little grin as he replies: ‘I bet you are. And there’s more to being a dad than playing football anyway. I grew up with Lynnie as the sole parent, and I turned out … well, maybe I’m not the best example, I’m just a professional backpacker and basic New Age slacker. But I did learn how to play football, and Saul will too. He has all of us for that as well – it’s not like you’re on your own with him.’

  He’s just vocalised, in a nutshell, the very thing that I struggle with. All of these baby steps – going to the café more, my job, socialising – are taking me somewhere I have mixed feelings about going. Most of me wants to be more rooted, more involved, to give Saul the stability and sense of community that this place offers us both.

  But part of me is still anxious and concerned – what if it all goes wrong? What if things break? What if I need to leave? What will that do to Saul, and to me? And more importantly, why am I such a nutter that I always assume the worst? I seem to live my life waiting for the other shoe to drop – in fact, waiting for an enormous great boot to not only drop, but land firmly on my head and squish me into the ground. It’s about as much fun as it sounds.

  I’m trying to override it, to be brave and sensible and optimistic, but unfortunately, I don’t seem able to completely change my world view. It’s my default setting. I don’t suppose there’s any point analysing it – I just have to try and manage it, and not let the fear of things going wrong get in the way of things going right.

  Just now, for example, I am sitting in a pub, finishing off a delicious Bacardi and Coke, getting a supportive pep talk from a man who makes my girl-brain tingle. Why can’t I simply relax and enjoy it? Maybe I just need to drink the rest of the bottle of Bacardi and go with the flow.

  ‘You’re freaking out inside, aren’t you?’ he asks, grinning. ‘You’re feeling overdosed with community spirit, and too involved, and wishing you could run away to your nan’s house?’

  ‘How do you know about my nan?’ I ask, genuinely surprised.

  ‘You told me about her. You told me you used to run away there when you were fed up at home – although you didn’t explain why. You told me she was kind and sweet and fed you cake and custard and always smelled of Parma Violets. You tell me a lot of things without even noticing, Katie. I’m like your stealth confidante.’

  All I can do to that is make a small hmmph sound, and decide that ever so possibly he’s right. When I’m with Van, I do open up more than when I’m with other people – he just seems to have this easy knack of peeling back the layers of self-protection. It’s probably why I’ve avoided being alone in a pub with him for so long.

  ‘Do you want another?’ says Van, pointing at my empty glass. I think he’s picked up on the fact that this has all got a bit too serious for me, and is giving me time to process it all.

  ‘It’s my turn to go,’ I reply, preparing to move.

  ‘No. Let me. I have to get rid of my big tough man urges somehow, you know. At least allow me to be a caveman when it comes to your booze requirements.’

  He doesn’t give me much choice, as he’s already walking away, chatting to people from the village as he goes. I lean back, and feel the warmth of the fire on my face, and the warmth of the alcohol in my system, and I have to say – it does feel pretty good. Like I said, baby steps.

  By the time he comes back, I’ve snapped myself out of whatever morose and overly analytical mood I was heading for, and restart the conversation on a different tack. One that isn’t about me. I’m bored of me.

  ‘So,’ I say, nodding in thanks for both the drink and the bag of dry roasted peanuts he offers, ‘tell me about travelling. Tell me about Tanzania.’

  He immediately smiles, but also looks a little wistful. A little sad – like he’s happy to be here, but he’s also missing his old life.

  ‘Well, that’s a big topic. I left home when I was nineteen, and apart from a few visits back for birthdays and such, kept moving until this spring, when I came home again. I’m thirty-three now, so that’s a lot of years spent with a back
pack on my shoulders. Mainly, I spent my time getting dirty, getting drunk, getting high. They were the early years – when I was hanging around with posh kids called Tristram who were on their gap years. It was a lot of fun, but it does start to wear you down after a while – you start to yearn for more in life, like a clean toilet.

  ‘So then I stayed in Tibet for a bit. That was … amazing. It taught me a lot, about myself and others and the whole big world. Made me realise I needed to find a different path, not to go all Dalai Lama on you or anything. And that’s when I started working for charities.’

  ‘In Africa?’ I ask, genuinely fascinated. The furthest I’ve ever travelled is for holidays in the Canary Islands, where you eat and drink yourself to death in an attempt to break even on your all-inclusive deal. And since Saul was born, I’ve never left the UK – or even the southern half of it. Very lame indeed.

  ‘Thailand initially, then Tanzania. I’ve been there for the last few years, setting up a school. It’s … well, it’s a beautiful place. But complex, like most beautiful things.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  He blinks hard, like he’s trying to clear his mind, and replies: ‘Only every day. I think I left a part of myself there, to be honest. I miss the air, and the space, and the landscapes, and the people. Mainly the people. The kids. The kids were so great … it’s hard to get used to things the way they are here, you know? Over there, even though life is harder in so many ways, they’re also so much happier when things go right. They don’t take anything for granted; there’s a kind of joyfulness over small triumphs. But I’m okay here, honest. I love my family, even when I’m setting their towels on fire, and my mum … well, she needs us, doesn’t she?’

  ‘I think your sisters need you too. I can only imagine how hard it is to settle back down to normal life.’

  ‘Ha!’ he snorts, laughing. ‘Normal is a relative term in our house, between the Alzheimer’s and the dogs and the fact that we’re all basically crazy anyway … but it’s all right. I’m enjoying lots of it. This, for instance. I’m enjoying this. It’s nice to be out with someone I’m not related to and don’t work for.’