Instead, I walk over to Frank’s table. He looks up from his reading, and gives me a welcoming nod. He peels off a section of his paper – travel and leisure, very nice – and hands it to me. Then he chops the cherry scone Cherie’s delivered to him in half, and pushes it towards me.
He straightens the crease out of the sports pages, and gives me a wink over the paper, blue eyes twinkling.
‘Just leave ’em to it, love,’ he says, before going back to his reading.
That, I think as I start an article about eco-friendly northern lights tours, sounds like great advice.
Chapter 32
A very strange thing happens with my parents after that initial showdown at the Comfort Food Café.
They actually talk. And talk. And talk some more. It strikes me as an odd and serendipitous thing that via different routes, and for very different reasons, they’ve both ended up at a place in their lives where they seem open to change.
Dad stays at mine, and Mum stays at the café, but they meet often and apparently without bloodshed.
I’m wary about crossing the line I’ve drawn for myself and getting further involved, but today, as Dad helps me to wrap Christmas presents, I finally feel able to ask.
‘So,’ I say, biting off Sellotape while holding together edges of paper around Saul’s new gardening set, ‘what’s going on, then, with you and Mum?’
He smiles at me, and carries on encasing a set of plastic zoo animals in paper decorated with bright red Santa heads.
‘I thought you didn’t want to know,’ he replies. ‘I thought you were leaving it to the grown-ups to sort out.’
‘I am. And it looks like you have been. And now I’m … surprised?’
He nods, and finishes his wrapping, adding it to the ever-growing pile on the floor between us. Saul is over at the cottage with Willow and Lynnie, at Willow’s request. They’ve had their scan results, which were as positive as they could be, and she’s due to go in for her op in the New Year. Now they’ve pinpointed what the problem is and got her on pain meds, her mood has improved, and she asked if ‘that little boy who looks like Angel’ could come around and help them bake mince pies.
We’re making the most of it to get ready for the Big Day, filling up the two red Santa Sacks that Saul will find under the tree in a few mornings’ time.
‘That’s a shame, isn’t it?’ he says, sounding genuinely sad. ‘That we’ve surprised you by acting like civilised human beings?’
‘Well, yes … but better late than never, I suppose?’ I reply, patting him on the hand. ‘Do you think you’ll … you know … get back together?’
He ponders this, leaning back against the chair, staring at the purple curtains.
‘I don’t know, love. Long way to go. We need to be apart for a bit, I think, see what happens. See if any of this is just skin deep. What do you think anyway? Should we get back together?’
I have to confess that my first instinct is to scream ‘No!’ in his face. But that instinct comes from the cowardly part of me that struggles to trust them and their newfound behaviour. The part of me that thinks the same as I did when I was a teenager and old enough to understand what was going on: you two should never even be in the same room as each other, never mind married – please get a divorce, for all our sakes!
I manage not to say it out loud, but my lack of an immediate response doesn’t go unnoticed.
‘You don’t think we should,’ he says, resigned. ‘And I don’t suppose I blame you. You’ve seen too much, heard too much. Can’t expect to undo years’ worth of damage with a few days, can we?’
He’s right, but I feel mean about it. Like I’m somehow dismissing them and their futures, either together or apart.
‘Well, whatever happens, I’m glad something did,’ I reply, moving on to wrapping a set of picture books about astronauts. ‘And don’t listen to me – I’m just a worry wart.’
I expect him to laugh, or tell me I’m not, or make a joke. Instead, he looks serious, and says: ‘Yes, you are. And that’s what upsets me most about all of this. About the way we’ve affected you. Your mum says you were close to Willow’s brother, Van. She thought maybe you’d even get together. But you’ve not mentioned him since I’ve been here, and I hope that’s not because you think all relationships are doomed to take the same turn as mine and your mother’s did.’
I bite off some Sellotape with way too much enthusiasm, and hammer it over the astronaut books. I don’t want to talk to my dad about Van. I don’t want to talk to anyone about Van. I don’t even really want to think about Van. It still confuses me, and hurts me, and stings like a patch of skin when you’ve burned it on a hot pan.
I’ve seen him, a few times. At the cottage, when I’ve called around to see Lynnie. In the pharmacy, when he’s dropped Auburn off and called in for a cuppa. At the café, obviously, where everyone sees everyone.
We’ve chatted, and laughed, and shared news. He’s been around, being useful as always. He fixed Edie’s window, in advance of her coming home in the New Year. He fitted me a cat-flap in the back door, with Saul’s invaluable help, so Tinkerbell can come and go as he pleases. Obviously, with usual cat-like contrariness, he’s not been out since.
We’ve talked about his mum and what happens next. We’ve talked about my mum and what happens next. We’ve talked about Christmas, and the weather, and Saul, and about the new Star Lord Tom’s taken on for Briarwood.
We’ve met. We’ve talked. But we’ve never gone back to the way we were. I don’t just mean the kissing and cuddling and the excitement of anticipating what might happen next. I mean the casual intimacy I suppose I’d only just started to accept, only just started to appreciate, before we lost it.
We’re both making a big effort to appear normal – but we’re not. I know we’re not, and it’s painful.
‘Earth to Katie … Earth calling Katie!’ my dad says, prodding me back into the here and now. I look up at him, and smile.
‘Sorry! Got lost in space … I think we’re done here, don’t you? I can’t face another single gift-wrapping challenge.’
He smiles back, and replies: ‘Sore subject?’
‘No,’ I say, getting to my feet in a way that I hope looks decisive. ‘Just nothing to discuss.’
Nothing to discuss, I tell myself again. Nothing to cry about. Nothing to mourn. Nothing to regret. Just life, going on as normal.
I’m not at all unhappy. I’m not at all lonely. I’m not at all missing him.
I’m not at all telling the truth, even to myself.
Chapter 33
By Christmas Eve, Saul’s excitement levels have reached a fever pitch. He engages me in numerous conversations about the logistics of Santa’s action-packed schedule, and I need all my wits about me to at least try and answer them. It’s not long, though, before I am forced to revert to replies that involve frequent use of the words ‘because he’s magic’.
We’ve got a programme on the iPad that shows us Santa’s route that night, tracking his whereabouts in ‘real time’, and that’s got him even more hyper. He tells me he thinks maybe Father Christmas is an astronaut, and spends a good few minutes wondering how Rudolph gets his antlers into a space helmet, and is generally obsessing in the way that all little people do at this time of year.
I’ve taken him on a massive walk along the beach, where we used big sticks to write our names in the snow-covered sand. I’ve taken him to see Edie, who is out of hospital and recuperating at her niece’s farmhouse. I’ve taken him to the café, where he was delighted to find both Tom’s dog, Rick Grimes, and Willow’s border terrier, Bella Swan, in residence.
I’ve taken him to the pharmacy, where Auburn had him helping to wrap her gifts. When I say helping, I do of course mean hindering, but in such an adorable fashion that all is forgiven.
I’ve taken him on an adventure through the village, snapping photos on my phone of everybody’s Christmas decorations so we can print them out and make a collage.
I’ve taken him to Matt’s surgery, where Lizzie has Midegbo dressed up in a Santa hat and a tinsel collar for a festive photoshoot.
I’ve taken him, basically, everywhere I can possibly think of – and he’s still on some kind of insane Christmas high. It’s way worse than sugar.
I’m now insisting he sits still for at least two minutes, while he eats a bowl of grapes and crackers and drinks some juice and watches Elf in the living room.
By the time he’s accepted this, and is happily giggling away with Buddy and his friends, I am in a state of near catatonia in the kitchen. I make myself a coffee and slump down into the chair, resting my head on the table top and wondering what time it’s going to be feasible to get him to bed.
Personally, I’m ready for sleep right now – but it’s actually only just after six. I need to get him to decompress, and feed and water him, before even considering calling an end to the day.
I glance through at him, and see him curled up in a ball, wearing his T-shirt that has a picture of a Christmas-hat-wearing T-Rex on it. Tinkerbell’s next to him, and he looks so cosy and happy.
It makes me smile, despite my fatigue levels. Isn’t this what I wanted for him? This kind of Christmas – crammed with magic and friendship and excitement and ginger cat hair? He lives in a little world that is full of laughter and fun and anticipation, and I created that world for him. I kept away the nasties, and I cocooned him in comfort, and I made his life jolly and safe. I did good.
Now, though, I just have to navigate my way through the tricky next level – maintaining it. That, over the last few days, has been getting even trickier.
First, there’s the stuff I can talk myself out of. The stuff I know is bound up with my own issues, and which I work hard to overrule. Stuff like wanting to dodge tomorrow’s big Christmas bash at the café, because I feel a bit overwhelmed by it. Stuff like me booking driving lessons for the new year, purely so I can always have a quick escape route if I need it. Stuff like me feeling as though someone is punching me in the chest every time they mention Van.
I never had anything with Van, not really. Not in reality – nothing actually happened. But things don’t have to be real to hurt, do they? And maybe the thing I now realise I did have with Van was hope. Hope that I could change, hope that I could reach out to someone, and take a different path.
Having that hope taken away – in fact, being such a coward that I’ve agreed to let it go, been complicit in it all – is dragging me down. I’ve toyed with the idea of calling him, arranging to meet. Telling him how I feel. Telling him I’ve done like he asked, and figured stuff out – that I’m ready to plunge right in and see what happens.
I don’t, though. Because I’m not. I’m stuck somewhere in between – suffering without him, not convinced I should be with him. And seeing Van, if I’m honest with myself, is a big part of what’s stressing me out about tomorrow. Christmas. At the Café.
That, and my mum and dad. After a frankly befuddling period of calm, the cracks are starting to show again with my parents. I don’t think they ever went away – they just both managed to paper over them for a while. A kind of honeymoon period.
They’ve been going for walks, nights out in the pub, talking. She’s cooked him dinner in Cherie’s flat, and he was smiling when he came back to mine afterwards. I even saw them holding hands once, as they strolled down from the café to the bay. I didn’t know quite what to make of it, so chose to pretend it hadn’t happened.
Most children would probably be delighted at the prospect of their estranged parents getting back together. But then again, most children probably hadn’t put ‘Mum and Dad getting a divorce’ on the top of their secret Christmas wish list ever since they’d been old enough to know what a divorce was.
Today, though, when Saul and I arrived at the café, things seemed different. As we walked through the door, I saw Mum leaning back in her chair, arms crushed across her chest, nostrils flared and eyes narrowed. Dad was banging the salt and pepper pots together so hard I could hear them clanging, and he was staring out of the window, deliberately avoiding making eye contact with her.
The moment Saul ran towards them, they both seemed to snap out of it, making an effort to shake away whatever was causing the tension. I know them too well, though; I know the signs too well – I can sense the simmering resentment, the slow build-up of anger. I know where that usually leads, and it’s nowhere good.
I suspect it’s because my dad has told her he’s heading back to Bristol on Christmas Day. He’s agreed to pop in to the do at the café, but then go for a late lunch with Fiona and her girlfriend. He probably assumed that once he’d explained the situation to Mum – that there was no romance, and that he definitely hadn’t dumped her for Jeff Goldblum – that she’d be chilled about it.
What can I say? He’s clearly developed a blind spot about how evolved Mum’s newfound sense of self actually is. I knew she wouldn’t be happy about it, but I guess he didn’t.
At least they do put whatever it is they’re fighting about on hold while we’re there – and hopefully they’ll continue to do that tonight, when they’re both due to come here for dinner. It’ll be the first time I’m alone with them since their not-quite-reunion, and frankly I’m not looking forward to it. There are far too many ways for this to go sideways.
My parents aren’t the only ones stressing me out right now. Jo sent me a friend request on Facebook, and I kind of had to accept it. So we’re now just one big, happy cyber family. I could have lived with that – but the message she sent this morning wasn’t so easy to dismiss. Partly it was just to wish us a happy Christmas, and ask if it would be okay to chat to Saul once he’d opened his presents. Which, you know, it will be – that’s not unreasonable.
Less joyful was the second suggestion – that Saul maybe spends a weekend with them at some point in the New Year. Perhaps somewhere in between our homes, she thinks – somewhere in the middle. I can either drop Saul off, or I can come too, if I want to.
Neither option is appealing. The idea of spending a weekend with my ex, his pregnant wife, and Saul isn’t enticing. But the whole concept of leaving him with them is even less so. It’s a bit of a conundrum, and it’s messing with my head. In the end, I just send a non-committal reply saying we’ll talk about it after Christmas. Maybe, I think, they’ll have decided to emigrate to Australia by then.
For Saul’s sake, I keep smiling. I keep on keeping on. It’s Christmas. He’s three. There should be no downside to this.
I drag myself to my feet, and open the fridge door. Laura called round with a scan photo yesterday – the generic blobs of black and white that still make you go ‘aaah’ even though they look like a Rorschach test – and as is her way, didn’t come empty handed. She also brought a chicken casserole, which has been waiting to get heated up ever since.
Today, I decide, knowing that my parents will be here soon, is that chicken casserole’s chance to shine.
I stick it in the oven, and spend the next hour finishing my wrapping. Saul is starting to crash, slowly but surely, fighting against it but losing the battle. He’s rubbing his eyes, and hugging his now-washed gorilla, and generally displaying the signs of a toddler who needs to go to sleep but really, really doesn’t want to.
I parcel up a few bits and bobs for my parents, glad that Cherie and the rest have instigated a no-gift rule. Money isn’t exactly free flowing, and neither is time – not having to search for the perfect present for the café bunch has simplified everything.
I do, however, have a gift for Van. I had to get it hand-made, so I’d ordered it weeks ago. I give it a shake, then set it on the kitchen table. It’s a snow globe – of Tanzania. The snowflakes that I assume would never actually fall there in the real world are sparkly and glittering, landing on the backs of tiny zebra and lions.
It seemed quirky and fun at the time I ordered it – but now it makes me feel sad. I pick it up, and put it in a gift bag. I don’t want to look at i
t, and I don’t want to think about Van, and I don’t want to feel sad.
I put the presents and all the gift-wrapping paraphernalia away and walk through to the living room. The casserole is smelling divine, and Saul is barely awake, and Tinkerbell has given up his latest fight with the Christmas tree. All is relatively calm.
I slump down into the armchair, and watch Saul for a few minutes. He looks so sleepy and content, and I try and focus on that – at how excited he’s going to be in the morning.
I’m just about managing to escalate my mood from ‘somewhere in the region of doldrums’ to ‘passable’ when I hear the front door opening, and the sound of my parents arriving. There’s a couple of minutes where they are obviously taking off coats and boots and dusting snow from their heads before they join us in the lounge.
I can tell, immediately, that things are going badly. I am like a fine-tuned receptor for their vibes, and the one they’re giving off now puts me straight onto high alert.
Dad nods at me, and stomps straight off into the kitchen. He starts slamming cupboard doors and is somehow managing to even transform making tea into an act of aggression.
Mum says hello, and glances at Saul. He sleepily waves at her, and she stands with hands on hips, looking down at him. I can feel her tension, but she does at least dredge up a smile for his sake.
‘I like your gorilla,’ she says, reaching down to pat the furry toy clutched under Saul’s arm.
‘My dad got him for me,’ replies Saul quietly, not even taking his eyes away from the TV screen. He’s almost zonked.
‘Yes,’ she replies, turning to look at me. ‘I heard about that. From your granddad.’
Her hands are lodged on her hips, and her eyes are narrowed, and she’s looking at me as though I’m a small mouse and she’s a hungry boa constrictor. Anyone else might think she’s mad at me, for not filling her in on the Jason situation.
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 26