A Gift from the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I’ve been worried about how close Saul is to Van. Frankly, I’ve been worried about how close I am to Van. But right now – here in my cosy home, surrounded by the people most important to me – I simply feel content.

  And that, I think, is possibly the most worrying thing of all.

  Chapter 20

  I’m woken up the next morning by Saul banging saucepans at the side of my head. Any parent out there will understand this: it’s perfectly normal. I startle into consciousness with a rush of adrenaline, my body preparing me for battle or buggering off.

  Saul is still in his PJs, and is slamming a frying pan against the milk pan, singing an extremely annoying song he’s learned at pre-school that seems to be a constant repetition of words involving ‘wake up’ and ‘shake up’. Luckily this morning, at least, it doesn’t include make up.

  ‘Get up, sleepy-head!’ he shouts, clattering his pans and jumping up and down on bare feet. ‘Time for my breakfast!’

  I practise opening my eyes one at a time, eventually building up to the full set. I glance at my watch and see that it’s 6.30 a.m. Oh joy.

  The sofa is empty, the blankets neatly folded up and left in a squishy square on the corner. Tinkerbell is mewing by my side, having clearly been woken, and shaken, and now looking forward to some food. I can hear footsteps upstairs, and the sound of the toilet flushing.

  I stand up, stretch myself out, and force myself out of my stupor for long enough to give Saul a morning cuddle.

  ‘Where’s Van?’ I ask, yawning.

  ‘He’s gone up for a wee-wee,’ says Saul, putting his hand over his mouth and giggling. Bodily functions – is there anything more amusing to a 3-year-old boy?

  ‘Okay. Right. Well, what do you want for breakfast?’ I say, hoping he says cereal. I don’t feel up to anything more complicated. Even that might be a challenge.

  Saul ponders this important question, looking serious for a second, then bangs his pans together as though creating a drum roll.

  ‘Pancakes!’ he announces gleefully. ‘With blueberries! And squirty cream! Just like Laura makes them!’

  I frown at this. I’m not sure I have blueberries. Or eggs. In fact I think I only have the squirty cream.

  ‘How about something even better than that …?’ I say, as I walk through into the kitchen. He looks as though he’s going to argue, but his face lights up when I get the cream canister out of the fridge and wave it in his face. I squirt a cream beard on his chin, and he dissolves into a fit of laughter as he tries to manoeuvre his tongue low enough to lick it off.

  Tinkerbell jumps up onto the table to try and help him, and I shoo him away. I know as soon as my back is turned Saul will let him, but it’s my parental duty to at least try and stop the human-feline bacteria exchange.

  I pop some bread into the toaster, and sip a glass of water, leaning back against the sink. I’m already thinking about Edie – if I’m honest, wondering if she’s even made it through the night. It’s by no means guaranteed that she has, and I can’t imagine how Budbury will look without her. I feel tears sting the back of my eyes, and shake it off – no use worrying about that until I know for sure.

  The toast pops up, slightly burned as usual, and I put it on one of Saul’s dinosaur-patterned plastic plates. He watches closely, fascinated by what I’m planning, as I cut it into triangles. I then take the cream, and squirt it all over the slices, so thick it wobbles.

  ‘Squirty cream on toast! Mummy! That’s brilliant! I can’t wait to tell Auntie Babs about this …’

  I give him a mock curtsy, and hand him the plate. I smile, but inside I’m grimacing. Auntie Babs is one of the ladies who runs his pre-school, and she’s a bit of a dragon. A retired head teacher who will probably report me to social services for serving my child such a nutritionally reprehensible breakfast.

  I’m wondering how I can avoid seeing her for the next few days when Van walks into the room. He’s clearly had a quick shower, and his closely cropped hair is still damp and shining. He’s wearing yesterday’s T-shirt, his plaid flannel jacket thrown over one shoulder. He looks like a lumberjack, and way too big for my small kitchen.

  ‘Squirty cream on toast?’ he says, peering at Saul’s plate as he trundles off towards the sofa to watch TV.

  ‘Yep. I thought it was about time I gave someone else a shot at winning the Mother of the Year Award.’

  ‘Can I have some?’ he asks, grinning at me and looking for all the world like an overgrown kid himself. ‘Such delights were only dreamt of when I was growing up … Lynnie was way ahead of the curve on the whole holistic diet thing. It was a multi-grain and lentil kind of house.’

  I nod, and do the honours on the next slice. He crunches into it, his face blissfully happy, a huge cream moustache left above his lips.

  He suddenly leans in and kisses me on the cheek before I have time to dodge him, holding me by my shoulders so I can’t escape.

  ‘Right – I’ll be off!’ he says, darting out of the kitchen in case I retaliate. ‘Just wanted to leave you with a little reminder of the first night we spent together …’

  I hear him say goodbye to Saul, and the sound of the front door closing behind him, closely followed by the clunking of his truck doors and its engine revving up.

  I’m still standing there, wiping squirty cream off my face, when my mother walks into the room. She has a full face on – a fresh one, not the one Saul did in his Beauty Parlour, which was possibly slightly less garish. She’s still in her pyjamas, and the pink lipstick set against the purple fabric is not something easily beheld on an empty stomach. Or probably any stomach. I pop some more bread in the toaster for us both and hope I don’t get a migraine.

  She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows at me, takes in my face – by now bright red as well as creamy – and says: ‘I thought we had company?’

  ‘He’s gone to work,’ I reply, pouring us both some orange juice and sitting down at the little dining table. I clean up my cheeks with a wad of kitchen roll and hope she doesn’t ask what happened.

  ‘These countryside types don’t half start early …’ she says, sitting herself down. She stares at the toast – devoid of cream – and pushes it around her plate a bit before taking a tiny, mouse-like nibble. I am reminded again that despite the newly found obsession with make-up, my mum is still in a painful place.

  ‘Any news? About Edie?’ she asks, for which I give her credit. I know what she really wants to ask about is Van, but she reins herself in and makes an effort to be polite first.

  ‘Not so far,’ I reply, having checked my phone and not seen anything. No news, I tell myself, is definitely good news in this particular case.

  ‘So … what’s going on with you and Van then? He’s quite rugged. Reminds me of a young Clint Eastwood when he was in those Spaghetti Westerns, but, you know, bigger. And without the poncho.’

  It’s taken her over a minute to get there, which is longer than I expected.

  ‘Nothing’s going on, Mum,’ I reply patiently. ‘He’s just a friend, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s great with Saul, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘And he seems to really like you …’

  ‘Well, yes. I like him too.’

  She ponders the whole thing for a few more moments, still barely touching her toast, before saying: ‘Mind you, they say Alzheimer’s runs in the family, don’t they? Might be for the best to keep him at arm’s length.’

  I’m initially left speechless by this. Not only has she thought as far along the line as me and Van having a future together, possibly even procreating – she’s decided it’s potentially a bad idea because of the tragic circumstances Lynnie and her children have found themselves in.

  I shake my head and take a deep breath. She really is quite a piece of work, my mother.

  ‘All kinds of things run in families,’ I reply. ‘And that’s irrelevant. I’m not looking for a man, Mum. I don’t need one.’

 
She nods and chews on her lip, and looks thoughtful. I wonder what kind of fresh hell I’m about to be subjected to, before she says: ‘Not need, no. Maybe not. But perhaps you might … want one, at some point?’

  I say a silent prayer that she’s not about to start talking about my libido, at least partly because I have no defence on that front – much as I try and play it cool, Van definitely sets off a few earthquakes whenever I’m near. Even if he’s just kissed me with squirty cream.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I answer. ‘And I promise you’ll be the first to know. But at the moment, I’ve got my hands full with work and college and mainly Saul. I want things to just … settle down for us.’

  She lets out an unladylike snort and replies: ‘Settle down? Crikey, Katie, if your life gets any more settled you’ll be comatose! I know you’ve got Saul to think about, but you’re still a young woman. You need to think about living a little. Think about your future. You don’t want to end up like me, a dried-up old crone, useful to no one, thrown into the gutter like yesterday’s chip wrapper …’

  She delivers this speech with such fervent pathos that I’d feel sorry for her if it wasn’t also a bit funny.

  ‘Mum, you’re not dried up, or a crone! You’re in the prime of your life. And Dad … well, maybe it’s more complicated than it seems. I’m sure it’s not just that he threw you in the gutter.’

  Of course, I have the advantage of knowing more about it than she does. I’ve promised my dad I won’t say anything just yet – but his time is running out. I decide to text him later to express exactly that. It’s not fair on Mum, and it’s definitely not fair on me, being caught between them. Again.

  ‘Well, that’s what it feels like! All those years together, and now this … dumped for the ice cream lady! It’s … well, it’s crap, to use a vulgar word. Just crap. And I’m lonely, if I’m honest. And sad. And … I don’t want you to end up the same way. I want you to find someone, Katie – someone nice, who’ll treat you and Saul well, and build a good life with you.’

  She doesn’t add ‘someone like Van’, but I wonder if she’s thinking it – or if she’s discarded him as a potential suitor and provider of further grandchildren due to his suspect gene pool.

  ‘I understand that, Mum,’ I say, reaching out to cover her hand with mine. She’s so thin her bones feel like a sparrow’s beneath her skin.

  ‘And I know you want the best for me … but I’m not convinced that getting married and spending the rest of your life with someone is the answer. I mean, I can’t deny that I find Van … not disgusting. And it might start out well. But how long would it last? How long before we started to annoy each other, or get bored, or start being cruel and snippy? How long before all the excitement magically disappears, and we start fighting about whose turn it is to put the bins out? How long before Saul gets stuck in the middle of it, and ends up losing Van all together? What if it ended up getting so messy, we had to leave Budbury, just as we’ve started to fit in? It’s a small place, you know – we wouldn’t be able to avoid each other, it’d be terrible! And then we’d have to start all over again …’

  Once I start, I find I can’t stop. The words pour out, vocalising the exact thing that worries me about the whole situation. Mum squeezes my hand and stares at the table top. I see a tear sneak its way from one of her eyes, and feel terrible.

  Before I can apologise, she speaks: ‘Well, I’m really sad you feel like that, love. It’s not always like that, you know? You and Jason weren’t right for each other … but that doesn’t mean it always has to end badly. Look at your friends here in the village, and how happy they seem to be with each other.’

  ‘I know, and I’m happy for them,’ I say. ‘Every single one of them. But I’m still not sure that’s part of my future.’

  She draws in a deep breath, and looks up at me from her spidery lashes.

  ‘I know you’re not, Katie. And I know you probably didn’t have the best role models, did you? Me and your dad were hardly examples of marital bliss when you were growing up. We did our best, but I’m not stupid – I know our best wasn’t good enough.’

  We’re both silent for a moment, and it strikes me as strange that the only time either of my parents have acknowledged my less-than-idyllic childhood is now, when their marriage is in tatters. It’s taken a complete breakdown in their relationship for them to see it as it really was, rather than the way they probably had to tell themselves it was in order to survive.

  I always thought I’d relish this moment – feel some sense of victory or vindication. But now it’s happened, I just feel sad. The way she’s talking isn’t the way you want to hear your mother talking – she’s broken, defeated, lost. The fact that all of this is unfolding to the background sounds of Saul chortling away at a mega-loud TV show about a family called the Thundermans, who are all secretly superheroes, makes it even more weird.

  Meanwhile, back in the real world – literally feet away in the kitchen – none of us are superheroes. None of us are villains. We’re all … just doing our best, like Mum said.

  ‘I had an interesting conversation with Cherie … erm, yesterday, I suppose. God, it feels like a longer time ago than that. But it was yesterday.’

  ‘Oh? What about?’ asks Mum, apparently welcoming the opportunity to change the subject, swiftly wiping her purple pyjama arm across her leaky eyes.

  ‘About you, actually,’ I say, raising my eyebrows at her. She perks up immediately, sitting straighter and suddenly looking much more lively. She might be an ego-maniac – but she’s my ego-maniac.

  ‘Me? Why? What was she saying? Was it about my lipstick? She was admiring it the other day and I did offer to give her a few make-up tips … I don’t mean to be rude, but I think she needs them.’

  I grimace inside but manage to keep my face neutral. The thought of Cherie in a full face of slap simply does not compute. She’s a woman who would never dream of hiding a wrinkle or dying her hair – she’s happy with who she is and doesn’t give a damn if the rest of the world disagrees.

  ‘No,’ I reply slowly, ‘but that was very kind of you. She was actually saying that she could use some help at the moment. That they’re struggling for staff, what with Laura being in a delicate condition and all that. She was actually wondering if you’d like to work there … and even live there?’

  I add the last part cautiously, not wanting for a minute for my mum to feel like I’m trying to get rid of her. I am, of course – but it’s a secret, much like the Thundermans’ super-powers. She’s in far too fragile a state to be able to cope with another perceived rejection, so if she quails even slightly, I want her to know that she’s still welcome here.

  ‘She has a flat,’ I explain, ‘in the attic of the café. It’s really nice, she used to live in it before she married Frank. So if you wanted to, you could use it for a while. But only if you wanted to. You’re a huge help here, and I’d miss you, obviously, so don’t feel any pressure. I love having you here, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

  I’m treading carefully, not to mention outright lying, all to spare her feelings. I really needn’t have bothered.

  ‘Oh God, yes! I’d love to!’ she shrieks, jumping to her feet as though she plans on running right upstairs and packing her suitcase this exact moment. She realises that might have sounded a little overeager, and sits down again.

  ‘I mean … only if it’s all right with you, Katie? I’ll stay if you want me to, you know I will. Family comes first.’

  I’m laughing inside as we look at each other across the tiny kitchen table. Laughing at the games we all play in an attempt to be decent – the lies we tell in an attempt not to be hurtful.

  It’s completely obvious to me now that my mother has been struggling with our enforced proximity as much as I have – she couldn’t have been keener on moving out if I’d offered up Cal and Sam stark naked and covered in icing sugar to help her with her luggage. She’s been hiding it as much as I have – and now we’r
e both sitting here pretending that we want to do whatever the other one wants. If we’re not careful she’ll let me talk her into staying, and we’ll both lose.

  ‘That’s okay, Mum,’ I reply, without a trace of laughter in my voice – we both need to keep up the pretence of enjoying each other’s company a little while longer so we can escape with our mother-daughter dignity intact.

  ‘I think it’d be really good for you,’ I add, watching as she actually starts eating her toast. ‘And Cherie needs the help. Maybe you’re not as dried up and useless as you thought, eh?’

  ‘Maybe not!’ she says, her eyes sparkling.

  It’s the happiest I’ve seen her in years.

  Chapter 21

  A couple of hours later, Mum sets off to take Saul to pre-school, still full of verve after my news about her new life and new temporary home, and I make the long commute across the road to the pharmacy. There’s a light sheen of frost on the windowsills, and the air is bitingly cold again. Tinkerbell didn’t follow me out onto the street but stayed glued to the radiator, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  The shop door is open, but nobody seems to be at home. I walk through, and predictably I find Auburn out back, having a cigarette. Less predictably, she’s jogging on the spot as she smokes, the cigarette waving around between puffs in her fingerless-gloved hands.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ I ask immediately.

  ‘Smoking? Because I have an addictive personality, an oral fixation and no will power. Have you met me?’

  ‘Yes, and I get all of that. But why are you jogging on the spot?’

  ‘Oh!’ she says, her ponytail bouncing. ‘It’s my new fitness plan. You’re supposed to do, like, 10,000 steps a day or something stupid, aren’t you? And even with walking to and from here from the cottage, I don’t do anything like that. So I thought I’d maximise my time by doing a quick thousand or so every time I’m on a ciggie break. Cool, right?’