A Gift from the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I lodge the bike in the rack, and grimace as I stand up straight. My back has been in a weird position for the whole cycle ride, and the fall didn’t help anything. This, I decide, was not one of my more brilliant ideas. I glance around, and have no clue where Van might be, which makes it an even less brilliant idea.

  He does maintenance and gardening for Tom here, which means he could be anywhere. He could be in the house, fixing a leaky tap, or he could be miles away, in the deepest, darkest jungle of the Briarwood grounds. It’s a bit of a dilemma.

  I walk away from the bike, and into the hallway of the house. I never saw it when it was a children’s home, where Tom spent part of his childhood, and I never saw it when he bought it earlier in the year, when it was neglected and abandoned.

  Now, though, it’s clean and bright and filled with light. The impressive staircase and original wood panelling are polished and shining, and I can hear the sounds of music coming from deep within the building. I follow the sound towards what used to be the ballroom, where Edie had her birthday party last time around. The one I chickened out of.

  It’s a grand room, with high ceilings and intricate plasterwork and dado rails and a huge, ornate fireplace. The bay windows are massive, the frames restored, the curtains thick red velvet drapes. If you screw your eyes up and only concentrate on those parts, you can totally imagine this place hosting dances during Victorian times and beyond.

  If you don’t screw your eyes up, though, it’s harder – because then you get to see lots of young people with weird hair and flannel shirts and beards and bare feet, working in small teams at their work stations. The work stations contain various things I don’t recognise, like machine parts and computer casings and tools that look like torture devices, and various things I do, like soldering irons and laptops and spirit levels.

  I have no idea what they’re doing, and decide it’s probably better not to ask. I glance around the room, eardrums throbbing from the bass beat of the music, and hone in on the henna girl from earlier – the one who actually spoke.

  She’s staring at her laptop screen, chewing the end of a pencil, her face frowning in concentration. I walk over, and wave my hand in front of her eyes to get her attention. I have some nasty scrapes on my palm from my plummet from the bike, I notice, and probably should get them cleaned up. Soon.

  ‘Hi!’ I say, once she’s torn her gaze from the screen.

  ‘Hi?’ she says, staring at me like she’s never seen me before in her life.

  ‘We just met, outside … I fell off my bike?’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ she says, grinning and pointing at me. ‘That was funny! Are you all right, though?’

  She adds the last part in quickly, as though she feels guilty for laughing at my misfortune, and continues to look slightly confused by the whole exchange.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I was just wondering if you could help me – I’m looking for Van? You might know him, he comes and does work in the house and gardens?’

  She nods and smiles, and taps out a message on her screen: ‘Anyone know the location of Van the Man?’ She presses a button, and it must ping around the whole room on some kind of internal system, because I notice everyone else looking at their screens as well.

  Within a few seconds, she gets a reply from someone called LostInSpace666, who says: ‘Van the Man was heading to the second floor living area. He had his Toolbox of Justice.’

  Henna girl points at the words to make sure I’ve read them, and I nod in thanks.

  ‘Cheers,’ I reply, pausing before I leave. ‘Erm … wouldn’t it have been quicker to just ask out loud?’

  ‘Nah,’ she says, raising her voice slightly. ‘Then we’d have had to turn the music down.’

  Okay. Well. I am clearly about 108 years old and living on a different planet to these guys. I leave the former ballroom, wondering what Ye Olde Dancers of Yore would have made of its current inhabitants, and head back to the staircase.

  I make my way up, admiring the way Tom’s managed to bring the place back to life, combining the character of the old with the functionality of the new. On the second floor, I find a row of individual rooms, and at the end of the corridor, a big communal living room and kitchen.

  I find Van – or at least part of him – in the kitchen. He’s lying on his back on the floor, with his head and chest beneath the sink. I can hear the clanging of tools, and assume that he’s fixing something – loudly.

  His legs are bent, his body twisted with the effort, and he’s wearing cargo pants and thick work-boots that look like they have steel caps in the toes. Plus, I can’t help but notice, one of those tool belts that automatically makes a man look macho and sexy. At least to me.

  I’m quite keen on not surprising him so he jumps and bangs his head, so I cough a little, clearing my throat in the time-honoured manner of warning someone you’re in the room. Naturally enough, it makes him jump, and he bangs his head.

  He scoots himself out from the space under the sink, and emerges rubbing his scalp with one hand, holding a wrench with the other. He stays there for a moment, like he’s doing a weird stomach crunch, staring at me, before getting to his feet.

  ‘Sorry!’ I say immediately. ‘I didn’t want you to bang your head …’

  ‘No worries. My head’s tough enough to take a few knocks. Just trying to get a plastic Yoda figure out of the drainage pipe. Apparently it’s quite valuable.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, surprised. ‘How did Yoda end up down the drain?’

  ‘Have you met any of the residents?’

  ‘I have … and yes, well. Fair enough. Look, Van, I just wanted to say that—’

  ‘Are you all right? What did you do to your hands?’ he interrupts, taking hold of my wrists and examining the gravel-scraped skin.

  ‘Oh, nothing … well, I kind of fell off Auburn’s bike. In front of all the geniuses. That was fun.’

  He shakes his head, wearing one of those expressions that people get when they decide not to even ask. He leads me off to the next door along, which turns out to be a bathroom, and waits while I give my hands a scrub.

  He produces a first aid kit from a cupboard by the fire extinguisher – clearly essential items at Briarwood these days – and leads me back through into the kitchen.

  ‘Sit down,’ he says, firmly, ‘and don’t argue. I know you’re a nurse, but you have grit in both hands, and nobody is good enough to do that on their own.’

  His tone is stern, and I don’t know exactly what he’s annoyed at – me for last night, me for today, the unfairness of his mum’s situation, of life in general. Whichever it is, I’m sure me disagreeing with him isn’t going to help.

  I sit on one of the chairs, and he drags one next to me. He reaches out and takes hold of one of my hands, spreading it out on the table so my palms are facing upwards. He picks up the tweezers he’s just cleaned with a sterile wipe, and very, very gently begins to pluck out the biggest lumps of gravel.

  I force myself to relax, because I know that will make this all so much easier, and look on as he works. At the broad hunch of his shoulders as he leans in; at the still-tanned face with its tiny white laughter lines; at the big hands that hold mine so delicately.

  Watching him now, under the strip lighting, I can see the strain on his face. His usual smile has faded; his eyes look tired and dull, and he seems half asleep still, concentrating hard on what he’s doing.

  I reach out with the hand he’s not treating, and gently run it over his hair. It’s short and soft and lovely, and I let my fingers briefly caress his cheek before I say: ‘I’m really sorry about last night, Van. I was a complete dick, to use a technical term. I took all my frustrations out on you, and didn’t even give you the chance to tell me the news about Lynnie. I was selfish, and rude, and I hope you can forgive me.’

  He tenses slightly – at the touch or at the words, I don’t know – and pauses in his work to look up at me. He raises his eyebrows, staring at me as though he’s trying to wei
gh something up.

  ‘Are you just saying this because you feel bad about my mum?’ he asks. ‘Because I didn’t expect you to be psychic and somehow know.’

  ‘No! Well, of course I feel bad about your mum – but even if that wasn’t part of it, I’d still be apologising. I wanted to apologise as soon as you’d gone. I felt awful, and was going to text you right away …’

  ‘Why didn’t you, then?’

  ‘Well, my dad turned up on the doorstep, fresh from becoming Mr Mindfulness 2018 – so I couldn’t. As soon as I found out where you were this morning, I quite literally got on my bike and came to find you. And I am honestly a really shitty cyclist. ‘

  This, at least, does make him laugh, and I feel some of the tension fizz out of the room.

  ‘I can see that,’ he says, taking hold of my hand again. ‘Now try and keep still and be quiet until I’ve done this, all right?’

  I nod, and do as he asks. He’s good at it – I’m guessing all those travels abroad and working in a school have taught him a few first aid lessons the hard way. He’s gentle and steady, and somehow, even though ‘picking gravel out of your bloody hand’ isn’t on anyone’s list of Top 10 romantic occasions, the physical contact with him still makes me feel alive.

  ‘Okay …’ he says eventually, turning both my hands up to inspect them. ‘I think we’re all done. You’ve been a good patient. I’ll give you a lollipop and a sticker on the way out.’

  ‘Thank you. And I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘please believe me.’

  He nods, and leans back in his chair and yawns and stretches at the same time.

  ‘Katie,’ he says, evenly, ‘it’s okay. I get it. I know you’re sorry. Anyway, you’re perfectly entitled to keep the riff-raff standing on the doorstep whenever you want to. Don’t worry about it, apology accepted. Was your day all right then? With the ex?’

  ‘It was fine. Just left me with a bad case of crazy bitch-itis afterwards. How are you, more importantly?’

  He shrugs and gazes off into the distance, as though he’ll find some answers there.

  ‘I don’t know. All right, I suppose. Can’t quite reach Auburn’s giddy heights of enthusiasm, and Willow’s pretty bummed too, but … well, I keep getting told how lucky we are it was caught early. All I keep thinking is that “lucky” isn’t a word easily used in association with Lynnie these days. Still, we shall overcome and all that – no use moping about it or complaining.’

  The words sound a bit rehearsed – as though this is what he’s been telling himself. That he shouldn’t mope, shouldn’t moan, shouldn’t make a fuss.

  ‘You have every right to mope, and to complain,’ I say firmly. ‘And if you don’t want to bring your sisters or your mum down, you can mope and complain to me. I’ll be your mope mopper-upper.’

  Just a day or so ago, he’d have found that amusing. He’d have made a suggestive comment, and we’d have flirted a bit, but also known it was true – that we could confide in each other.

  Today, he just nods and smiles – perfectly pleasant, perfectly civil, perfectly contained in his own headspace.

  Despite him telling me that all is forgiven, things still feel slightly strained. I’m probably overreacting, and making everything about me when it’s actually about him and his mum, but I get the sense that he’s keeping his distance. That he still seems a bit wary of me.

  That makes me feel even worse than I did before I came here. I’ve always seen this budding thing with Van from my own perspective – I’ve measured it in terms of what I have to lose, what I’m risking, what could go wrong for me and Saul.

  Now I’m starting to realise that Van has opened himself up to risk as well, and that maybe right now he’s decided to err on the side of caution.

  He has no idea how much I want to fix that. How much I want him to trust me, to see me as an ally in life at a time when he needs one. To be honest, I didn’t have any idea how much I wanted that until just this minute.

  ‘So, Auburn tells me you have your camper van all set up,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. ‘She seems very jealous.’

  ‘Yep, she is,’ he replies, grinning. ‘But it’s mine, all mine …’

  I pause, and wonder if he’ll invite me round. If we’ll go ahead with our scheme, and sneak off for the night together. If everything we planned will actually happen. He stays silent, and I don’t know quite how to interpret it.

  ‘I can’t wait to come and see it,’ I say, mustering all my courage.

  He doesn’t quite meet my eyes, and is tapping the table top with his fingertips.

  ‘Or not,’ I add quietly. ‘No pressure. Whatever you need, Van.’

  I realise that I need to get out of there pretty quickly, or I might start crying. That I’m starting to feel overwhelmed by emotions I don’t quite understand, and don’t want to drag him down with me. He’s got enough on his plate without me turning into a wailing woman at his workplace.

  I stand up, and start bleating on about needing to get back to work, and then to pick Saul up from pre-school, and how first I have to do battle with evil road wizards and low-flying crows.

  He gets up from his seat, and puts the palm of his hand gently over my mouth to stop me from bleating any further. Thank God for small mercies.

  I look up at him, and nod. He lets his hand drop, and twines his fingers into mine.

  ‘It’s all a bloody mess, isn’t it? Our timing?’ he asks, leaning into me as my head rests against his chest. He smells of oil and manliness and Fairy Liquid.

  ‘I guess so,’ I reply, nodding against his T-shirt. ‘And I’m really sorry about last night. And about Lynnie. And I would like to come and see your camper van.’

  He nods, and wraps his arms around me. When he speaks, I can feel his lips moving against my hair.

  ‘I think I’m probably breaking some kind of man code here, Katie, but I’m not sure the whole no-strings sex thing is a good idea right now. I’m not sure either of us is capable of it … not physically, I mean. I am capable of that, honest. But last night, I was upset – no, please don’t apologise again! It’s not necessary. I know you’re sorry, and it wasn’t that big a deal – but it did make me realise that I’m maybe already in a bit deeper than I thought I was. And that’s okay – but I know you’re not. Not yet, at least. I think maybe we need to figure it out a bit more before we get even deeper.’

  I slip my arms around his waist, and listen to his heart thudding quietly away through the soft fabric of his T-shirt.

  I want to tell him I’m in as deep as he is – or at least that I’d like to be. I want to tell him we should wade out together, and see just how deep we get. I want to tell him all kinds of things – but none of them would be fair, because he’s right.

  We need to figure things out a bit more. We need to make sure we’ll float, and not drag each other down.

  ‘Now come on,’ he says, pulling away from me. ‘Let’s get Auburn’s bike in the back of the truck, and you back to the village. I’m not sure you’d survive the return route.’

  Chapter 30

  We just about manage horrendous small talk on the blessedly brief journey back to the village. It feels so odd, all of this – so different to the way I usually feel when I’m with Van. He hasn’t said it, not out loud, but I recognise when somebody has put their defences up. I should do – I’m a world expert at hiding behind my own.

  He pulls up outside the pharmacy, and I turn to him before he gets out to retrieve the bike.

  ‘Are we all right, Van?’ I ask, quietly. ‘Are we still … friends?’

  He stares out of the windscreen for a moment, then turns to face me with a smile.

  ‘Of course we are, Katie. That won’t change, I promise. If you need me, let me know – I’ll be there.’

  ‘And what about you? What about if you need me? You know it applies in reverse, don’t you?’

  He nods, and swipes his hands over his hair, as though brushing off dust.

  ‘I do. I prom
ise, I do. I’m not trying to be an arsehole here – I’m just tired. Didn’t get much sleep, and my brain feels like some kind of black hole, sucking all logical thought out of my head. Look, don’t worry about it. It’s all good. Come on, I need to get back to Briarwood before Yoda makes it to the great sewer in the sky …’

  He gets out of the truck, and I watch as he lugs the evil bike out of the bed. He hands it over to me, and I stand holding it steady as he gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, climbs back into the driver’s seat, and toots his horn as he starts the engine.

  I watch the truck pull away onto the road, knowing he’ll do a U-turn at the car park by the café and come back up again. Part of me wants to stay there, rooted to the spot, so I can wave at him again as he drives past for the second time.

  Luckily I realise this would be an insane and counter-productive thing to do. He’s exhausted, and needs a bit of space, and it’s probably a sensible choice to ditch the crazy lady and her complications and lose himself in some mindless plumbing tasks. It might just keep his head from exploding.

  I wheel the bike down the entryway and through the gate into the back yard at the pharmacy. I half expect to see Auburn there, smoking, but she’s inside. Only the big pink shell she uses as an ashtray remains.

  I lean the bike against the wall, and resist the urge to kick it. I’d probably get my ankle trapped – that bike is definitely the boss of me.

  I make my way inside, shedding my coat and scarf, and wonder if I should make some tea. Because, you know, I haven’t had enough of that recently.

  I glance through to the shop floor and see that there is, by Budbury standards, a rush going on. Two people are sitting on the lipstick sofa, presumably waiting for the prescriptions I can see Auburn working on, and there’s a man standing at the till holding a packet of corn plasters and a roll of wrapping paper. I hope the two aren’t connected, or someone’s in for a big disappointment on Christmas morning.