A Gift from the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I dash right through and serve him, then go and help Auburn with the prescriptions. I hand them out to the waiting ladies, checking their addresses first, while she carries on getting together some asthma medication that needs delivering later in the day.

  We’re busy for a solid hour, with customers and preparing scripts and taking a delivery that needs to go straight into the fridge, and by the time the coast is finally clear, it’s nearing the end of my shift. I have to go and collect Saul, and then go home to see my dad, and then possibly referee a meeting between him and my mum. Even without the bedrock of anxiety about Van, it wouldn’t be a vintage day.

  ‘Cor blimey,’ says Auburn, her eyes wide and slightly manic. ‘That was intense! I think we should get more Christmas stuff in … we’re almost out of the scented candles and snowman mugs, did you notice?’

  ‘I did. I’ll order some. Plus maybe some more gift wrap and tags. Might as well make hay while the sun shines.’

  She nods, and glances out of the window.

  ‘Or while the snow falls …’ she says, as I follow her gaze. It is snowing, she’s right – but not heavily, just a gentle dusting that probably won’t settle. At least I hope not, or the buses might not be running.

  She leans back against the counter, and I see her reach for a whistle pop, then think better of it and shove her hand into her pocket instead. Must be that health kick she’s on. She’ll probably have a fag instead, replacing sugar with nicotine – her whole life seems to be one big juggle between potentially harmful substances.

  ‘So, did you find him?’ she asks, staring at me, as though daring me to try and avoid the subject. ‘And are you coming to the big bash at the café on Christmas Day?’

  There are two questions there, but delivered in one rush of words. This is often the way with Auburn – her mind moves so fast that her lips can barely keep up.

  ‘I did find him,’ I reply, chewing my lip and wondering how much to tell her. I decide on ‘not very much’, as she is, after all, his sister.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Fine. All sorted. Thanks for the loan of the bike. And as for the café … when was this decided?’

  ‘I got a text from Cherie a bit ago. You might have done as well, have you checked your phone?’

  I haven’t, not since I did my last ‘making-sure-Saul-is-okay’ surveillance for missed calls from his pre-school. I look now, and see a couple of messages. One from my dad, saying he’s okay to go and pick up Saul if I let him know the address of the nursery, and one from Cherie.

  First I answer my dad, telling him I’ll be home in five and will drive there with him. It takes a lot of pressure off, knowing our journey will be so much quicker. I really must learn to drive; I’m sick of relying on favours to get through the basics of my day. And if I learn to drive, I’ll never have to cycle again.

  Cherie’s text is simple and to the point: ‘Your presence is requested at the Comfort Food Café for a Christmas feast, in thanks and celebration for all we have. Fancy dress optional, from noon onwards. Bring nothing but your Christmas spirit xxx’

  I slide my phone back into my pocket, and try not to feel stressed. It’s an invitation to a party – one that will undoubtedly be splendid, which Saul will love, and which will surely do away with the need for me to overcook a turkey and peel parsnips.

  But as I chat to Auburn, and gather my coat and belongings, I can’t quite shake off the feeling that maybe a party at the café might be a step too far for me right now. That maybe I’d prefer to be at home, on my own with Saul, the same way I have the last couple of years.

  That maybe I’d even prefer to be somewhere else entirely, like on a last-minute flight to the Caribbean. Or, being realistic, somewhere cheap and cheerful in Spain.

  I had a brief spell, I realise, where everything was settled. A brief spell where I happily sat with the café ladies and gossiped; where I started to relish my place in their lives, and feel safe and secure in the home I’d built for Saul and me in this community. A brief spell where I even began to open up to the idea that Van could be something more to me than the friend I flirt with.

  Now, it feels like that brief spell is over. Like things have changed up again, just when I least wanted them to.

  There’s been drama, and hospitals, and illness, and exes coming back on the scene. There’s been the reappearance of my parents, inserting themselves into my life with their usual carelessness. There’s been Van, basically rejecting me when I feel like I offered myself to him. Not that simple, I know – but that’s how it feels right now.

  No matter how much I understand what he’s saying, and even partly agree with it, the rejection still feels raw. It still stings. I’d almost forgotten how bad it does sting, as I’ve not been rejected for so long – keeping my emotions under bubble wrap has its advantages.

  Now, I feel like the walls are closing in, and I might get crushed. I might suffocate. I’m trapped in a web of other people, and suddenly need to get out. It’s irrational, I know, and I’m going to try and ride out the storm. Take things one step at a time, and not overreact. Not go into shut-down mode at the first sign of trouble – or, to be fair, approximately the first ten signs of trouble.

  It’s a party. At the café. It will be splendid.

  Auburn is looking at me with some concern, as I faff around getting ready to leave.

  ‘You might want to take a few deep breaths,’ she says, placing a hand on my arm. ‘You’ve gone super-pale, and you look like you’re about to fall over. Do you want a whistle pop? Is your blood sugar messed up? Is anything messed up?’

  Pretty much everything feels in some way or another a bit messed up right now – but Auburn has enough to deal with without adding my pathetic personal crises to the list.

  ‘Nope, I’m fine, honest – just having a moment. It’s probably a delayed reaction to the shock of riding your bike! Anyway, I’m off – let me know if you get any more news about Lynnie, all right?’

  ‘Aye aye, captain,’ she says, saluting me as I leave.

  Chapter 31

  I’ve tried calling my mum to warn her we’re coming, but there was no answer. I texted as well, but got no reply. I should have done it last night really, or at the very least earlier this morning, but … well, I had other things on my mind. Way too many other things.

  So now, as Dad pulls up in the little car park by the bay, I have no idea how this is going to work out. Saul is incredibly excited, clutching his gorilla by its arm with one hand, holding his granddad with the other.

  ‘That’s our beach, Granddad!’ he says, pointing down at the shoreline. ‘And our sea!’

  ‘It’s lovely, Saul,’ my dad replies enthusiastically. He’s been here before, to the beach at least, but it was when we first moved, and Saul doesn’t remember it.

  ‘And that’s the path to our café,’ he adds, pointing upwards. ‘And our snowflakes.’

  Dad takes in the hill, and the café perched on top of it, and the snowflakes, and smiles.

  ‘That looks even lovelier. Do you think they’ll have cake?’

  ‘They have ALL the cake! Every cake in the world! Come on, come on … they’ll be waiting for me!’

  My dad and I share a look over Saul’s bobble hat as he dashes off, scrambling up the path like a baby goat. If you can’t be an egomaniac when you’re three, when can you?

  We follow on a bit more slowly, Dad grimacing at the sharp slap of sea air on his tanned face. It’s still beautiful here, but climate-wise, it’s not quite the Canary Islands.

  ‘So, how is this going to play out, do you think?’ I ask, as we trudge upwards. We’re both taking our time. Probably both a bit nervous. ‘And are you sure we should even be doing it? Why don’t we just arrange to meet her somewhere else, later? This is all a bit … public.’

  ‘I know, love,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘That’s why I chose it. She won’t stab me in public, will she?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dad. Maybe
she will. And if she does, it’ll be your own fault. I don’t feel comfortable with this at all.’

  ‘I can understand that, Katie, and you don’t have to come with me, you know? Feel free to give it a miss. Leave it to the grown-ups to sort out.’

  I make an involuntary snorting noise at that. The grown-ups. Ha. He might have changed, but it’ll take more than a few weeks to convince me that he’s not the same dad I’ve always known – the dad with a temper, who’s quick to anger, who can be loud and hurtful and just as up for a fight as my mum.

  He glances at me, and I know he heard me. That he knows what I’m thinking. That he wisely chooses not to engage with a debate about his newfound maturity as we finally emerge through the wrought-iron Comfort Food Café sign and into the garden.

  The garden is, understandably on a day like this, deserted. The dog crèche field is empty, and only the inflatable Santa greets us, his tiny arms wobbling in the wind like a festive T-Rex, his flowing red hat dusted with snow.

  Saul has already run ahead and gone inside, and I can see him through the windows, giving Laura a big hug. We follow him in, and I immediately cast my eyes around, searching for my mum. I have my phone in my hand, in case I need to call 999, and have already planned to take Saul for a rapid walk down to the beach if things look as though they’re going to turn nasty.

  I don’t want to see them fighting – and I’m determined that he won’t.

  Laura straightens up, tucking her curls behind her ears as she smiles at us both. There’s a question in her gaze, and I say: ‘Laura, this is my dad. Colin. Is Mum around?’

  She blinks rapidly, and chews her lip as she nods, and looks basically as nervous as I feel. I haven’t seen Mum for a few days, not since she moved in here – I’ve been busy, and felt like we both needed some space to decompress from our enforced house-sharing. I didn’t even tell her about meeting Jason, because I knew she’d have some strong opinion or another on it, and I needed to stick with my own.

  I can tell from the expression Laura’s currently wearing, though, that Mum has clearly filled them all in on her domestic situation, and probably painted Dad as some kind of evil philandering monster who broke her heart.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Colin,’ she manages, staring at him as though searching for the devil horns. ‘And yes, Sandy’s around – she’s was just out back getting some fresh milk from the fridge … she should be through in a minute. Come on, Saul, let’s go and get you and Marmaduke a snack, shall we?’

  She leads him away by his hand, and I mouth a quick ‘thank you’ to her.

  Dad hasn’t really noticed Laura’s cool reaction. I don’t suppose he even realises it was cool, as he doesn’t know how warm Laura usually is.

  Mainly, though, he’s too busy doing what most people do when they come into the café for the first time, and looking around at the decor. It’s especially glorious with its Christmas clothes on, and he seems completely bemused by it.

  As Laura disappears off with Saul in tow, he looks at me and says: ‘Nice place. Great atmosphere. And since when did your mother become Sandy?’

  ‘Gosh, Dad, let me think – probably about the same time you were sitting in Fiona’s front room discussing your feelings with a bunch of strangers? Change isn’t a one-way street, you know.’

  As my mother wanders out from behind the counter, I realise that I have never spoken truer words. My mother has changed – into some kind of chameleon, who adapts her colours to her surroundings. Living here, in Cherie’s rock chick lair, has clearly had an effect.

  The garish make-up has gone; her hair is free of its usual sheen of lacquer, and she’s wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt she’s obviously filched from Cherie’s wardrobe. It’s way too big, and she’s cinched it in at the waist with a belt made of seashells. Matching shell earrings drape down from her lobes, and she’s completed the ensemble with open-toed Birkenstocks she’d never previously have been seen dead in. In summary, she looks exactly like the kind of woman who would go on a mindfulness retreat in the Canary Islands.

  She stops dead still when she spots us, and I look on in horror as she lets go of the plastic milk bottle she’s carrying. It seems to happen in slow motion – her look of shock; her fingers loosening; the bottle upending and falling to the floor, milk cascading in a river of white all over her feet.

  Nobody reacts for what feels like forever, but is probably only a few seconds. Frank, who was sitting at his usual table in the corner reading a newspaper, jumps to his feet and grabs the bottle from the ground, stopping any more milk spilling out. Cherie, who was making cappuccinos at the machine, grabs the towel that lives next to it and spreads it over the liquid, stamping on it to mop the worst of it up.

  Laura joins in, unspooling what looks like a whole tube of kitchen roll around the edges, and swiping it over the rest of the milk.

  My mum seems to suddenly notice that she’s in the middle of a hive of activity, and jumps, holding her hands to her face and bursting into tears.

  Cherie abandons her cleaning duties, and puts her arms around her, squeezing her in tight. I have no idea what she’s saying, but I’d be surprised if it doesn’t include the words ‘crying’, ‘spilt milk’, and ‘no use’.

  Whatever it is, it seems to do the trick, and Mum emerges from their huddle blinking and pale but looking more together.

  I take a few steps towards her, but am deterred from getting any closer by a combination of the still squishy floor, and the look on her face. It’s a look that says she feels betrayed, and it makes me feel terrible. Like I’ve let her down.

  I glance back at my dad, and he’s equally horrified, although at what I’m not sure. In fact, only Saul seems to be all right, and is using Marmaduke’s feet to soak up some stray milk splatter. Gorilla in the washer tonight, then.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, hearing the waver in my own voice. ‘I’m sorry we surprised you. I did call, and text, and …’

  ‘It’s not her fault, Sandra,’ says my dad, stepping forward. ‘Don’t blame Katie. I insisted on coming. I’m sorry I did … I didn’t want to upset you …’

  Mum stares at him, and I’m actually relieved to see some anger flash across her face. Anger is good. Anger I’m used to. Pale and weak and betrayed? Not so much.

  ‘Well, how did you expect me to react, Colin?’ she snaps, pointing one shaking finger at him. ‘I’ve not seen you for an age, and then you turn up out of the blue like this? Were you expecting a red carpet?’

  Cherie, Frank and Laura are watching this exchange with curious expressions, sensing the momentous shifts in mood, the emotions that are swirling across the surface of the words. Laura meets my eyes, and gives me a small, sympathetic smile.

  ‘Saul – do you want to come and help me make sponge cake?’ she says, holding out her hand to him.

  ‘Can I crack the eggs?’ he asks in delight.

  ‘Course you can …’ she replies, pulling a face at me over her shoulder. Laura knows as well as I do that letting a 3-year-old crack eggs is going to end in one almighty mess of yolk. Still, it gets him away, and keeps him amused, and distracts him from whatever might happen next.

  It also, I realise immediately, takes away my excuse to make a sharp exit as well. There are a couple of tables’ worth of customers in the café, all of whom are pretending not to be fascinated by the unfolding drama, and Cherie starts towards them, undoubtedly to offer them free top- ups on their drinks. Frank looks at me, raising his eyebrows in a question, and I nod.

  ‘You know where I am if you need me,’ he says quietly, heading off to his table and his hastily abandoned tea.

  Eventually, the mood settles, and it’s just the three of us. Standing there surrounded by damp towels and wads of kitchen roll and stray rivulets of spilled milk.

  ‘Can we just sit down, and talk?’ my dad says, holding his hands out in a gesture of surrender. ‘I need to explain some things to you. And apologise.’

  Mum is holding on to her glare, but I can tell it�
�s waning. It’s probably his timely use of the word ‘apologise’ that does the trick. That or she’s planning on pushing him off the cliff.

  She nods abruptly, and stomps off to the furthest table away from everyone else. Normally, new visitors to the café get swamped with cake and creamy beverages and a hearty welcome. Not today – everyone’s far too sensible to get involved in this powder keg.

  And, as my dad gestures to me to follow him, I decide that includes me as well.

  ‘No, Dad,’ I say firmly. ‘You got yourself into this mess. You need to get yourself out of it. I’m going to do like you suggested, and leave it to the grown-ups to sort out.’

  The look on his face as I stay still, arms folded across my chest in determination, is an absolute picture. I almost feel sorry for him.

  I glance around, and notice the way everyone is very deliberately not looking at us. Very deliberately trying not to make an already embarrassing situation any worse.

  I don’t actually feel embarrassed, although I know I should. I feel annoyed, and exasperated, and trapped. Trapped in a situation I don’t like, surrounded by drama I don’t enjoy, in a cauldron of emotion that feels all too familiar.

  I need to draw a line between their lives and mine, but I’m not entirely sure how to do that, as they seem to have followed me here. Part of me would like to scoop up Saul, and leave immediately. I could change the locks, or move house, or use my savings to buy us false identities and begin a new life in rural Canada. A fresh start, away from my mum and dad and Jason and Jo and even Van. Away from all the complications.

  As my savings would probably only stretch to starting a new life in Wales, and I have no clue how to get us false identities, I stay put.

  Besides, running right now wouldn’t be fair on several different levels. Especially not to Saul, who I can hear chuckling away as he bangs eggs against the side of Laura’s mixing bowl.

  I turn my back on my parents – I don’t want to be staring at them, analysing their body language, listening for the raised voices and changes in posture I recognise as familiar warning signs. I don’t want to be a teenager again, sitting at the kitchen table, trying to gauge if it was safe to stay or if I needed to bunker down in my room with my headphones on.