A Gift from the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘So, where’s your mother, then?’ he asks, looking around the room, a bit like he expects her to leap out of a cupboard dressed as a pantomime villain.

  ‘She’s moved out. Got herself a new job and a new place.’

  His eyebrows shoot up into his forehead, and he seems temporarily thrown by the whole idea.

  ‘What did you expect, Dad?’ I ask, half amused by his reaction, half annoyed on Mum’s behalf. ‘Did you think she’d be here waiting for you, like a good little woman, all apologetic and submissive?’

  ‘God, no,’ he says quickly, shaking his head. ‘I’d never expect that of your mother! But the way you were talking about her last time, it seemed like she wasn’t doing so well.’

  ‘People change, don’t they?’ I say, pointing a finger at him. ‘When you least expect it. They run off with the ice cream woman, and start wearing turquoise shirts, and going on mindfulness retreats.’

  ‘Fair point,’ he concedes, grinning. ‘And … well, I’m happy for her, then. I think we both needed to realise there was a life out there for us that didn’t involve battle stations at the breakfast table. I just got there a bit earlier, that’s all. What’s she doing, then?’

  ‘She’s working at the café – you know, the one I told you about? She’s living there as well. One of the staff is pregnant and they needed an extra pair of hands. There’s a flat she’s using. She’s … happy about it. She feels useful again. So, lovely as it is to see you, Dad, I have to ask – why are you here? Are you going to mess it all up?’

  ‘No, love, I’m not. I just thought I owed it to her to talk about everything. Explain about Fiona. Whatever our faults, we loved each other once. We built a life together. We’ve been married for a long time, even though if we’re honest most of it fell into the “worse” category, not the “better”. And we had you – we did at least one thing right.’

  He sounds so genuine when he says that, so emotional, that it makes me realise that I’m his Saul. I might be all grown up, with a child of my own, but to him, I’m the equivalent of that magical little boy I was gazing at in his sleep.

  I stand up, yawning, and walk over to him to give him a hug. He looks like he needs a hug.

  ‘All right, Dad. Look, I’m knackered. I need to go to bed. Saul’s in with me, so you can take his room. We’ll sort it all out in the morning, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Katie,’ he says, holding on to the hug for as long as he can. ‘And I promise, I won’t mess anything up.’

  Those, I think, as I trudge up the stairs yet again, sound suspiciously like famous last words.

  Chapter 28

  I leave Dad in bed the next morning, despite the fact that Saul is desperate to see him. In particular, he wants to jump on his head making gorilla noises.

  I channel his enthusiasm away from that concept, by telling him he can take his toy gorilla – now named Marmaduke for some unfathomable reason – into pre-school, along with the map of the zoo we brought home as a keepsake.

  ‘And,’ he says excitedly as we make our way on the bus, ‘I can tell them about my daddy too!’

  Great, I think, gritting my teeth. I will now officially be the Jeremy Kyle mother of Applechurch pre-school. Just another day in paradise.

  I promise Saul that his granddad will still be there when he gets home, and try not to think about the alternative – that he goes to the café unannounced, Mum skewers him with one of Laura’s posh chopping knives, and disposes of the evidence by feeding his body into the smoothie blender.

  They’re grown-ups, I tell myself. I can’t control them or their lives, and I shouldn’t even want to. I have enough problems of my own.

  I called Van early this morning, because I know he’s always up at the crack of dawn, but he didn’t answer. It feels weird, being potentially at odds with Van. It throws everything off balance, and I hate it. I hate the fact that I’m worried about him, I hate the fact that I might not even see him for days to sort this out, and I hate the fact that he’s not answering his phone.

  The fact that I did exactly the same to him the day before does very little to make me feel better about the situation.

  I try and put it out of my mind and concentrate on what I can do – go to work, after getting Saul safely dropped off at nursery. It’s his last few days in before they break up for the Christmas holidays, and both the staff and the kids seem to be going giddy with excitement about it. Possibly for different reasons. I don’t have any more classes at college until the New Year either, which also feels like something of a Christmas miracle.

  As I push open the door of the pharmacy, setting off the tinkling bell, Auburn leaps up from the giant red lipstick chair and rushes towards me. She seems to have been lying in wait, which is slightly terrifying. Her red hair is loose and flowing behind her as she makes her dash, and she looks a bit like some kind of super villain in her white coat – one of those beautiful but mad scientists who’s trying to create a mega-virus to wipe out the human race because she was bullied at school.

  Before I even have the chance to take my coat off, she throws her arms around me and physically lifts me up off the floor, spinning me around like a child. Did I mention how tall the Longville sisters are? And how short I am?

  I splutter and protest and struggle to breathe, and she eventually puts me down again, where I wobble slightly on unsteady feet and feel confused.

  ‘What the hell, Auburn? What was that all about?’ I ask, backing away from her slightly in case she tries to do it again. You never know with Auburn. She can be strange and unpredictable, it’s all part of her offbeat charm.

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you!’

  ‘What for? And since when did spinning someone until they’re dizzy constitute an accepted way of showing gratitude? I would have preferred flowers, or cake, or a diamond necklace!’

  ‘Well, I’ll get you all of those as well,’ she replies, grinning at me. ‘Or being realistic, maybe a cubic zirconia necklace off the shopping channel …’

  ‘Okay. I’ll look forward to it. But what have I done that’s made you all thankful? If it’s for sorting out that new delivery of Gaviscon, then don’t worry, it’s all part of my job …’

  She frowns and perches her head on one side, like some kind of exotic parrot.

  ‘I thought you’d heard?’ she says mysteriously. ‘Didn’t Van come over last night?’

  ‘He did,’ I reply, biting my lip in shame at the memory. ‘But I was tired, and he left, and we didn’t really get a chance to talk properly.’

  Her lips form into a small ‘oh’ at that, and I can tell she’s picked up on the fact that there’s something wrong from my tone. I’d never make it as a Russian spy.

  ‘Right. Well. I’m sure you’ll sort it out,’ she says eventually. ‘But I wanted to thank you because of Mum. You know we were taking her for her health checks because she’s been so off recently?’

  ‘I do. Wasn’t that a few days ago?’

  ‘It was, and because of your suggestion, I basically insisted they check her bowels as well. It was all pretty hideous – you’ve not met hideous until you try explaining a camera up the bum to an Alzheimer’s patient. Anyway, they found something, and they took a biopsy, and the results came in yesterday. Bowel cancer.’

  I stare at her, blinking rapidly as I try and digest this news.

  ‘What … why is that good news? Why are you thanking me? How is she? What happens next?’ I splutter.

  ‘Well, it’s good news because we’ve caught it really early. It’s only stage one, and the docs are sure they can sort it out. She’ll need surgery, which will be another barrel load of laughs obviously, but hopefully that’ll be all. They’ll know more after some CT scans, but fingers crossed it’s a small op—’

  ‘A local resection?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Forgot how clever you are. Hopefully one of those, yes. And if the margins are clear and the lymph node tests come back okay, she won’t need any chemo or radiotherapy. So that’s
why I’m thanking you – because of you saying we should get it checked, we’ve found it now. While it’s just a teeny-tiny bastard tumour, rather than a ginormous flesh-eating bastard tumour.’

  This isn’t a funny subject, but I have to laugh at her language. I wonder if she used terms like that when she was sitting her pharmacist’s exams.

  ‘You’re welcome – although I really did nothing. I don’t like this new trend for treating me like I’m a hero just for doing normal things. Promise me you won’t throw me a party and make me a cardboard medal?’

  ‘I make no promises,’ she replies, punching me in the arm. ‘But probably not – it’s going to be a bit busy anyway. We’ll know more soon, once the other scans are done. Sorry to ambush you – I genuinely thought Van had told you. I heard him come home last night, but he just disappeared off into his new man cave straight away.’

  ‘His new man cave?’

  ‘Yeah. His new man cave on wheels.’

  ‘Oh! Tom’s camper van? It’s arrived?’

  She nods enthusiastically, and replies: ‘It has, and it’s a thing of beauty. I wish I’d thought of it to be honest. I’m hoping he’ll let me have a turn. I might just move in when he’s out at work one day, and cover all available surface space with bras and knickers and tampon boxes so he can’t face the thought of stepping foot inside ever again …’

  She’s gazing off into the middle distance, and I recognise the signs that she’s gone off into some kind of mindscape known only to herself. Auburn World. She’s tapping one toe, and chewing a fingernail, and tugging at her hair – never still, always hyper.

  It does, at least, give me the chance to scuttle off to the back of the shop, and put the kettle on. I fill it up with water without even thinking about it, then realise that I don’t actually want a cup of tea. All I seem to have done for days is drink hot beverages.

  I’m doing it because I’m on auto-pilot. I’m looking for something to do with my hands while my mind is busy elsewhere. My mind is busy making me feel awful.

  I put the still-empty mug down, and notice that Auburn has tacked up some tinsel along the stock shelves, along with some mistletoe. I better watch myself.

  I wash up the mug – which is still clean – and realise that no matter how busy I try and keep myself, I’m going to carry on feeling awful.

  Van was standing there, on my doorstep last night, knowing that his mother has cancer. He’d been calling me all afternoon, knowing that his mother has cancer. He got sent packing by a selfish cow he was foolish enough to think of as a friend (that would be me), knowing that his mother has cancer.

  Van’s mother has cancer. As well as Alzheimer’s. And I didn’t even give him the chance to tell me – I assumed he was there to find out about my day, and didn’t even engage with the concept of his day. I shrivel up inside a bit more each time I remember our non-conversation. The tone of my voice. My body language. The fact that I kept him on the step. That I gave him the impression he was a burden, that he was crowding me.

  Even if he had only come there to check up on me, it would have been unforgivable. What a nasty way to behave. But under the circumstances I’ve just been made aware of, it’s even worse. He probably needed someone to talk to who wasn’t a member of his family. He probably needed some space, away from the cottage. He probably wanted someone with a medical background to talk to. He probably just wanted a hug, and for me to tell him it was all going to be all right.

  Instead, I rejected him – because I was tired. Because I was stressed. Because I’m probably fundamentally evil.

  No, not evil, I tell myself – but I definitely have issues. Van was getting too close, on a day when being around Jason and Jo had rattled my cage already. I shut him out, and it wasn’t right, and it’s especially not right now I know about Lynnie.

  ‘Are you going to wash that mug again?’ asks Auburn, jolting me out of my self-hatred meltdown. ‘You’ve already done it three times …’

  I stare at the sink; at the mug, still in my hands, submerged in soapy water. I pull the plug out, and grab a towel to dry myself with.

  ‘You okay?’ she says, leaning in the doorway, watching me while she sucks on a whistle pop.

  ‘Hmmm … I don’t know. Would you be all right without me for a bit?’

  She glances back in to the shop. Mrs Newton from the local butcher’s shop is browsing hand cream.

  ‘Not sure. The rush might kill me … of course I can. Where are you off to?’

  That, I realise as I get my coat from the hook, is actually a very good question. Where am I off to? There are any number of places.

  ‘I don’t have a clue, but maybe you can help me. Where’s Van working today?’

  She screws up her face, trying to remember, then replies: ‘Briarwood. I remember because we had a conversation about it yesterday. I was there for some Star Lord interviews in the morning, before we had our appointment. And he said he was there today, fixing a whatsit with a whoojit. Or possibly something more technical than that. Why?’

  ‘I was a complete bitch to him when he called around last night, and I want to apologise.’

  She pulls a face, and says: ‘You? A bitch? It seems unlikely.’

  ‘It was likely. So … I need to get to Briarwood. That’ll take ages to walk, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Can you teleport?’ she asks.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Maybe if you think about it really, really hard?’

  ‘It’s okay … I’ll walk.’

  I remember how cold it is outside, and the fact that Briarwood’s nickname with the locals is the House on the Hill. And I remember exactly how steep that hill is. Arrrgh.

  ‘You can use my bike if you like?’ she suggests, shrugging her shoulders in a ‘this is a crazy idea but it might just work’ way. ‘I cycled in today. New fitness regime and all. It’s out back. Not sure I’ll do it again; too hard to hold a fag and control a bike at the same time.’

  I am not the world’s greatest cyclist, even when I’m not holding a fag. In fact, I’m pretty awful, unless I’m going in a straight line. Still, it seems like a plan – and it’s the only one I’ve got.

  I nod, and tell her I’ll be back as soon as I can.

  Just as I’m about to leave, she shouts: ‘You could just call him, you know?’

  I shake my head, give her a wave, and go back out into a freezing cold winter’s day, to cycle up a steep hill. It doesn’t sound like fun, but it has to be done. I was a bitch to his face, so I need to say I’m sorry to his face as well.

  Chapter 29

  I gracefully arrive at Briarwood by skidding to a halt on the circular gravel driveway that leads up to the house.

  Unfortunately, I skid to a bit too much of a halt, a bit too quickly, braking so hard the whole bike wobbles and judders and inevitably throws me so much off balance that I end up on the ground, a tangle of legs and feet and swear words.

  This bike is pure evil. It absolutely hates me. I decided this on the way here, which was a journey fraught with peril. Seriously, it was like something out of The Hobbit – scary trees at the side of the road, tangled roots jutting out into my path, overflowing brooks, crows flying inches past my face, evil wizards. Well, okay, not evil wizards as such – but van drivers who overtook me with inches to spare. The Saurons of the Highway.

  By the time I actually make it to the House on the Hill, I’m not only out of puff – that is one supremely steep hill – I’m a jibbering wreck. Every nerve I possess is frayed, which might explain my not-exactly-proficient braking technique.

  I lie on the ground for a moment, looking up at a vivid blue sky and catching my breath. I’m not injured precisely – maybe some chunks of gravel in the palms of my hands, maybe a bruised coccyx. Most definitely a wounded sense of dignity.

  I kick my way out of the bike, and climb to my feet. By this time, I seem to have an audience, which is a new kind of wonderful.

  Several of Tom’s budding geniuse
s have emerged from the house to see what’s going on, which leads me to believe that I made a lot more noise than I thought I did. It was probably the swearing that attracted them.

  They stand in small groups, staring at me like I’m a member of an alien species, in various stages of surprise and fascination. None of them have put on outdoor clothes, and most of them are dressed in variations of T-shirt and jeans. Some of them are even barefoot, or wearing flip-flops. They all look cold, as they stand shivering around the fountain that’s in front of the big old Gothic building, but it doesn’t seem to occur to them to go back inside.

  They all look curious about who I am and why I’ve been rolling around on the floor, but none of them asks who I might be or what I’m there for.

  Suddenly, I understand why Tom is looking for a Star Lord. These are not practical people we’re dealing with. Clever, but also stupid, if you know what I mean.

  I dust myself down, brushing gravel off my legs, and then put the bike upright again. It’s basically way too big for me, as well as being evil and hating me. I’m wheeling it away to the bike stands at the side of the house when the spell seems to break, and the geniuses finally realise that I am actually a real human being, not something conjured up by brains way too mashed on caffeine drinks and science all-nighters.

  ‘Are you okay?’ a henna-haired girl asks as I walk by. She’s one of the barefoot ones, I notice.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I reply. ‘But you really should get back inside before your toes get frostbite.’

  She stares at her own feet as though surprised to see them there, and nods.

  ‘Yeah. Good call. See ya!’

  She turns to go back inside, where presumably she can continue her world-changing research without the need for socks or shoes. All the others follow her, as though they have one hive mind, trailing back in through the big wooden front door.

  I notice as I walk past the fountain that the cherub-style figure in the middle of it has been decorated for Christmas, and is wearing a Santa hat on its head and has tinsel draped around its chubby midriff. Frankly, it looks terrifying.