I just walk, grateful for the chilly air against my overheated skin, while Van amuses himself in the way of overgrown boys everywhere – by throwing sticks and stones into the sea. As we get further along the coast, the sound of the music fades, and all I can hear is the gentle hiss and fizz of waves lapping up onto the sand, and the occasional splash when he lobs one of his beachcomber finds into the water.
Eventually, after about ten minutes or so, I decide to stop. I can’t just keep walking until I hit Devon – I’ve left my son in the café, apart from anything else. I sit down on one of the big, water-smoothed boulders that line the bay by the cliffs, and Van joins me.
He places one of the fleece blankets over our knees, and one over our shoulders.
‘We could have had one each,’ I say, smiling.
‘I know. But that would have foiled my masterplan to get you to snuggle up to me. Anyway, it’s not too disgusting, is it?’
I feel my thigh crushed up against his, and his arm around my shoulder, and realise that I feel small and warm and safe.
‘Not completely, no,’ I admit, staring out at the sea and the shimmering stripes of the moonlight, rippling across the undulating waves.
‘So, what’s up, then? Apart from the party, that is. I can tell there’s something else going on. Is it your mum?’
I shake my head, and wonder how he can possibly see so much in me. It’s like he has some kind of spyglass set up in my brain.
‘No, she’s fine. In fact she’s more than fine – Cherie’s offered to let her stay in the flat for a while, so she’ll be moving out.’
‘I hope she takes her curtains with her.’
‘Me too. But that’s all good … it’s other stuff.’
‘Oh,’ he says, seriously. ‘Other stuff. Well, that can be a bastard. Would you like to be more specific, or should I start guessing?’
I laugh, and gently poke him in the ribs. After that my hand somehow finds its way to his thigh, where it decides to stay. He covers my fingers with his, and links them into mine.
‘I was in touch with Saul’s dad today,’ I explain. I clearly need to talk to somebody about this, and Van is the person who knows more about it than any of my new friends. That I’ve been here for two years and not shared any personal information with anyone else probably tells me all I need to know about my privacy issues.
‘Okay. Is that uncommon?’ he asks.
‘Hard to say. We’ve always stayed in touch, but it’s been by email – maybe three times a year. All very civil. Very distant. Very grown up – like we were both trying to make up for the lack of civility we were displaying by the time we split up. This time, though, we were messaging each other on Facebook, which I know makes me sound like a teenaged girl—’
‘Teenaged girls wouldn’t use Facebook,’ he says, grinning. ‘They think it’s for old people. They think it’s something from the past, like thimbles, and soap dishes, and flip-phones.’
‘Thank you, Mr Down-With-The-Kids. Anyway, being an old person, I do use Facebook. Occasionally a soap dish, but never a thimble. So, we were chatting. Jason and me. And he wants to see Saul, and his wife is pregnant, and Saul is going to have a baby brother or sister, and—’
‘It all feels like a bit too much right now?’
‘Exactly! He’s even talking about meeting up when he’s back in Bristol for Christmas. And I know it’s not a bad thing – I know he’s Saul’s dad, and I don’t want to be the kind of mother that keeps them apart, and ends up giving Saul all kinds of daddy issues. But even though I know that, I still feel worried.’
‘Do you trust him?’ he asks, frowning. ‘After … what happened with you two?’
I know what he’s alluding to, and I reply: ‘Yes. I think so. He wasn’t ever that keen on being a dad, to be honest. He was too young, and we were incredibly ill-matched. But when he was with Saul, he was never anything but kind.
‘After we split up, before I moved here and he moved to Glasgow, we saw each other – and there weren’t ever any problems. No rows. No raised voices. Nothing … else. Just two people who had gone quite a long way down the path of destroying their self respect. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we both ended up relocating – it’s like we both needed a fresh start. That was right for us both, then – but now I suppose I also need to think about what’s right for Saul.’
He nods and ponders this silently, his fingers tracing swirling patterns on the palm of my hand.
‘And I suppose,’ he says eventually, ‘that this has all assumed monstrous proportions in your mind? In your imagination, it’s gone from something small, like meeting up for a coffee, to something huge? Like Saul going there for holidays, and his dad deciding he wants to keep him, and your whole life falling to pieces?’
I let out a short, sharp laugh. He’s battered the nail on the head.
‘Of course. I am female. That seems to be one of our specialist subjects, doesn’t it – blowing things out of proportion?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment. I live with three women and I’m not falling into that trap, thank you very much. What I would say is that perhaps you need to break it down; take it one step at a time. Deal with each development as it comes, rather than try and control it all and freak yourself out with the what-might-be scenarios. That’s one thing I’ve learned through Lynnie being in the state she is.
‘Maybe you could try to concentrate on the what is happening, rather than the what-could-happen – and at the moment, the thing that’s actually happening could be really positive. He’s not talking about abducting Saul and running away to Marrakesh – he’s talking about meeting up in your home town. And if his wife is having a baby, maybe you’d like to meet her as well? If – and I mean “if” – Saul ends up spending any time with them, it would be good to meet her. It could put your mind at rest.’
I think about what he’s said, and know that he’s right. So right there’s no way I can argue with it – except, I do.
‘That’s all true,’ I say sadly. ‘But somehow it’s not helping. I know what I should do – but at the moment, I don’t seem able. It’s like it’s all set off some kind of chain reaction inside me, and I’m on the verge of exploding. And yes – I need to meet his wife. And I want Saul to like her, and her to like Saul. Eventually, if it goes that far. But if I’m being honest, even that freaks me out … because what if she’s so fantastic, Saul prefers her to me?’
There, I think. I’ve said it. It makes me feel like poo, but at least I’ve made myself acknowledge it – the deep, dark fear that’s stubbornly lurking inside me.
I don’t know quite how I expected Van to react to that admission, but I have to say, it wasn’t with laughter.
Laughter is what I get, though – big, full, whole-hearted laughter. The arm around my shoulder squeezes me in tight, and he rests his chin on top of my head, his body shaking with amusement. I’m taken aback by this, and also considering punching him in a place no man likes to be punched.
‘Oh, Katie, I’m sorry,’ he says, once he’s regained control of himself, ‘but that is so stupid the only sensible response is to laugh! I can actually understand why you feel like that – it’s always been you and Saul against the world and this feels threatening. But to even think for a minute that the little man would prefer someone else to his mum? A mum who loves him and laughs with him and makes him feel like the centre of the whole world? Well, that’s a step too far.
‘I know you don’t have a lot of confidence, and I know life has taught you not to believe in yourself as much as other people do. As much as I do. But you have to listen to me when I say this: you are a great mother. Saul adores you. Nothing will ever break that bond – Saul’s world getting bigger just means he’ll have more people to love him, not less love to give. Is there any way you can try and believe that?’
I nod, and tell myself he’s right. That I’m being foolish. I’m not sure I’m convinced, but I need to take my anxiety down a notch or ten before so
me vital part of my brain snaps in two.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I say. ‘And thank you. For the cheerleading.’
‘It’s one of my specialist subjects,’ he replies. ‘I’ll dress up for you next time, if you like.’
‘With pompoms and everything?’
‘If that’s what floats your boat. Look, if you want me to, I’ll come with you. When you go to Bristol. If you need the moral support or, you know, a lift.’
‘I’m not sure that would help,’ I answer honestly. ‘It’s only going to make an already awkward situation even worse, me bringing my … friend along. And I’m not convinced you won’t go all macho on me.’
‘I promise I wouldn’t. I might look like a caveman, but I don’t always act like one. Anyway. No pressure – just keep it in mind. You’re not alone in this. Not if you don’t want to be. Now, do you think you might be ready to go back to the café? They might have noticed they’re missing their guest of honour by now.’
I make a sound that is a suitable expression of my lack of enthusiasm for being the guest of honour – the noise a whoopee cushion makes when you sit on it – and he laughs again.
‘I get it,’ he says, ‘I really do. This place can be so claustrophobic sometimes. Everybody is always in your face – in the nicest possible way. I struggle with it too. At least it’s by the sea. Sometimes, when I’m feeling a bit hemmed in, or the cottage feels like a battery chicken cage, I come and sit out here and tell myself it’s all okay – I’m perched at the edge of the world.’
‘It must feel so small,’ I reply, gazing around us. ‘The village. Compared to what you’re used to.’
‘Well the village itself feels like a major metropolis to be honest – there’s a fish and chip shop for starters. Running water. Usable roads. All the big city attractions. But yeah – the landscape is very different. The culture? Not so much. People get in your face in Africa too, once you’re part of the community. But you’re only ever minutes away from the most beautiful wide open spaces; the best sunsets and sunrises, the animals … it’s a special place. Maybe I’ll take you there one day.’
I stand up and stretch out my limbs. Now we’ve been still for a while, the cold is catching up with me, and even my eyelashes feel frosty.
‘Maybe you will,’ I reply, smiling at him. ‘Wouldn’t that be something?’
‘It would,’ he answers, standing up to join me. ‘We’ll do it, I promise. When Saul’s all grown up, and I’m not sleeping on a sofa, and life is simpler. If life ever does actually get simpler. But for now … I’ll settle for this …’
He’s standing so close to me I can feel the warmth of his body, and the touch of his breath. He places his hands on my shoulder, and leans forward to kiss me.
It’s tentative at first, as though he’s giving me the chance to slap him away. I probably should, I know.
But when I don’t, his arms close around me, pulling me closer, his hands sliding up to tangle into my hair, the intensity of the kiss building.
I can’t deny that I’ve fantasised about this moment. I’ve imagined the touch of his lips on mine; the feel of his fingers on my skin. Of my hands, splayed across the width of his chest. I’ve thought about it many times – and I can honestly say that everything I’d hoped it would be is nothing at all compared to the reality.
From the minute we make contact, I’m swept away. Every thought, every anxiety, every worry – swept away. Every doubt, every question, every self-recrimination – swept away. Every pain from the past, or fear for the future – swept away. All that’s left is the present: me, and Van, and the sound of the waves and the bright stars in the dark sky around us.
I don’t know how long we stand there, tangled up in each other, tangled up in the moment. It could have been a minute. It could have been a lifetime.
All I know is that when we finally pull apart, our bodies still touching, our eyes locked, every part of me is tingling and alive.
‘Wow,’ says Van, giving me a crooked smile, his fingers still stroking my hair, his breathing coming fast and hard. ‘You really do have superpowers.’
Chapter 24
Laura takes forever to get out of the car, me and Saul waiting by her side as she constantly finds reasons not to leave it. She checks for her glasses in the glove box (where she just put them); she carefully places the CD we’ve been listening to back in its sleeve, and she puts the handbrake on and off repeatedly. Once she’s out, she uses a bottle of water to clean an already clean windshield.
Eventually, when that’s done, she locks the doors approximately sixteen times, checking each one individually, before slowly walking with us out of the car park. When we reach the entrance to the building, she pauses, and eyes it slowly and warily – as though it’s a rabid dog about to bite her.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, laying a gentle hand on her arm. Frankly, she looks like she might be about to pass out. Her skin is drawn and pale, and her pretty face is furrowed into a deep frown.
‘Yes. I’ll be fine. I just … don’t like hospitals,’ she replies, shaking her curls and very clearly trying to snap out of her fugue state.
‘Not many people do,’ I say, keeping a tight grip on Saul’s hand. He’s jogging up and down, pipping to get inside and visit Edie.
‘I’ll be okay. I just need a minute. It’s because of David, you see … he died after a head injury, and we had to turn the machines off, and it was all very, very grim. So sometimes, in a hospital, I have a bit of a funny turn. If I do, don’t worry – it’s not related to me being pregnant or anything.’
I nod my head, and keep my hand on her arm. Between her and Saul, I’m fully occupied now.
‘I understand,’ I say quietly, ‘take your time. If you want to stay in the car, that’s not a problem – I’ll tell Edie you weren’t feeling well.’
I’m not a stranger to hospitals, and they hold no fear for me – luckily they’re places I see as work, not vivid reminders of hellish personal trauma. But I’ve been around them long enough to appreciate the fact that for most people, they don’t signify a long shift and beans on toast in the canteen – they signify something much more upsetting. Especially in a case like Laura’s.
Saul picks up on some tense adult thing going on around him, and gazes up at Laura’s face. He inserts himself between the two of us, and takes one of our hands in each of his.
‘It’s okay,’ he says to Laura. ‘I’ll look after you.’
She stares down at him, her distress causing a bit of a time lag between him speaking and her processing the words, then breaks out into a big smile.
She ruffles his hair, and beams at him as she replies: ‘Thank you, sweetie. I feel much better now. Shall we go and see Edie?’
She puts one brave foot in front of the other, and together we make our way inside. Through the familiar corridors, through the familiar smells, through the familiar worried faces and harassed-looking medical staff. She blanches slightly when we pass a room with a bleeping monitor, but shakes it off and carries on.
Eventually, we reach Edie’s ward. It’s evening visiting, and busy, crowded with family and friends all searching for extra chairs and looking for a spare surface to lay down their chocolates and flowers and cards. I can hear that weird low-level buzz from the strip lighting humming behind the bustle and chatter, and resist the urge to start looking at charts.
We find Edie in a corner spot by the windows, propped up on pillows, her silver head bowed over her iPad. I pause for a moment myself, and say a little prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. I don’t think anybody quite realises how miraculous this is – for a woman of her age to recover from pneumonia. If I’d been pushed at the time, having seen the state of her lying in her bed at home, I’d have bet against it.
Saul breaks free as soon as he spots her, dashing straight over to her bed, and clambering right up to sit next to her. He throws his small arms around her shoulders, and gives her a kiss.
I follow on quickly, worri
ed that she might still have an IV in, or be in some discomfort that an agile three-and-a-half-year-old chunky monkey might exacerbate.
I needn’t have been concerned. Edie is hugging him back, and is blessedly free of a drip. There’s still a cannula in the back of one hand, and the skin around it is purple and bruised, but other than that she looks good. Frail, as is to be expected, but good.
I gently pull Saul down from the bed, and lean forward to give Edie a kiss on the cheek. Her wrinkled skin feels like parchment, but her grip is firm as she takes hold of my hand.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘For finding me. I’ll be home in no time, and it’s all down to you.’
I smile and tell her it was nothing, and settle myself in the chair next to the bed, Saul on my lap. Laura hovers at the end of the bed, apparently not quite ready to commit to actually being seated.
‘How are you, my dear?’ asks Edie, peering at her over her tiny specs. ‘How’s the precious cargo?’
Laura’s hand instinctively goes to her tummy, and she manages a smile.
‘All doing brilliantly, thanks, Edie. You look great. I’m so sorry I haven’t been in before, but …’
She trails off, and Edie waves her papery hands, dismissing the comment.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ she replies firmly. ‘I wasn’t fit company for the first few days anyway. Afraid I put poor Becca through the mill, acting as though it was still wartime, all kinds of nonsense! It’s wonderful to see you all … especially you, Saul. There’s a new episode online, you know.’
Saul perks up at this, stops fidgeting, and stares at her intently.
‘Can we watch it? Can we? Please?’
Edie nods, and fiddles with the screen of her iPad while Laura and I exchange confused looks. Within seconds, she’s found what she was apparently looking for, and hands it to Saul. I peer over his shoulder to try and see what it is that they’re both so excited about.
It’s something on YouTube – something that comes with some terribly cheesy music, some vivid coloured graphics, and lots of animated cartoon make-up and hair products who have tiny hands and feet and faces. They all do a little dance around one of those lightbulb framed mirrors you see in film versions of a star’s dressing room, and then the lipstick speaks: ‘Kick off your heels, kittens! Sit back, and prepare to be pampered … it’s time for your session at the Beauty Parlour!’
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 19