Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  “Matt’s in Charmouth delivering a litter of pug puppies. And even if he was here, he’s a vet, not a doctor, you daft cow!”

  “Ha! I wish I was a cow, this would be so much easier … Frank! Where’s Frank?

  “I’m here, darling,” he says, shuffling forward, looking slightly embarrassed by the whole affair. “What do you need?”

  “Frank,” says Becca, panting in gusts of air while she’s between contractions, “you’re a farmer. You have cows and sheep and stuff. You must have delivered babies before now. You can help me, right?”

  He scratches his silver hair, and frowns, and gives it some thought.

  “Weeeellll … it’s a fair bit different at the working end of a ewe, Becca. And I don’t reckon you’d like it much if I tied a rope round it’s hooves and pulled it out of you …”

  “Hooves! It won’t have hooves for fuck’s sake! It’s a baby … and … oh, God … this hurts so much!”

  “Right,” he says, paling slightly beneath his outdoorsman tan. “I’ll go and look for Sam, then …”

  He turns and legs it, preferring the storm outside to the storm inside.

  We’re all frozen and useless, standing around waiting for someone to take charge. Laura, who has had two babies herself, seems to be veering between calm and supportive and completely freaking out. Edie is back on the phone to the ambulance people, who have offered to ‘talk us through it’, and I’m mentally preparing myself to be an impromptu midwife.

  Leadership, when it finally comes, arrives in an unlikely form.

  Chapter 14

  Grey-haired, dressing-gown clad Lynnie moves forward, and pushes her way past us. She crouches straight down onto the floor, and without hesitation gets a full eyeful of what’s going on. The rest of us have been cringing, reluctant to get too close. I for one had visions of a slippery space alien shooting out like a bullet, and me failing to catch it. I’d forever be the Woman Who Dropped The Baby.

  “Okay, dear,” Lynnie says, when she emerges again. “Not too long to go now. You’ve clearly been labouring well all day, so you’re a natural at this. I can see the crown of the baby’s head, and I’m going to need you to stay calm. I need you to focus on your breathing, for me – can you do that? Take a nice, long, deep breath in through your nose – count for four – and a nice long deep breath out of your mouth.”

  Becca clutches onto her, and nods. She starts breathing in, while Lynnie does a slow count, and I notice that we are all doing it along with them. All of us – Frank, Edie, Laura, Willow – are joining in. It probably does us all some good. The calm is offset slightly by the fact that as we finish our count, another ominous roll of thunder crashes the room. Childbirth during the Apocalypse.

  “When the waves of pain come, dear,” says Lynnie, encouraging Becca up into a more comfortable position, “I want you to welcome them. Welcome them, because with each contraction, the miracle of your new baby is getting closer … breathe, now. That’s it. One, two, three, four …”

  As we all inhale, I see the door to the cafe slung open, and Sam comes running towards us, Frank on his heels. He’s dressed in his usual ranger gear of khaki fleece and multi-pocketed trousers, and his blonde hair is dripping from the rain. He pauses, takes in the scene, and allows himself a moment of pure panic before he dashes into the fray.

  They’re followed straight into the cafe by another man – tall, blonde, wearing jeans and bizarrely some kind of cowboy hat. If he’s a random passing customer looking for some carrot cake and tea, he’s in for quite a surprise. His face is largely in shadow, but I look on as he assesses the situation, listens to Becca’s groans, and calmly takes off his sodden hat. He lays it on a table, and strides towards us.

  “Get some boiling water and some towels,” he says, firmly. I’m so relieved to hear someone finally say it, I barely register the fact that he has a foreign accent. Instead, I join Willow in a mad dash to the kitchen.

  He is crouching down between Becca’s legs, without a shadow of embarrassment. Lynnie stays by her side, holding her hand and counting her breath in and out, keeping not just Becca but everyone else steady. Sam is on the other side, stroking her forehead and whispering encouraging words. I can’t help but smile as I hear Becca unleash a striking tirade of foul language on him just after he says he loves her.

  “This is all your penis’ fault! I’m going to chop it off when this is all over!” she shrieks. Frank creases up at that one, and comes over to help us bring over the supplies. I’ve also found a packet of ibuprofen in the knife drawer, and wave them vaguely in front of Becca’s face, asking if she wants any. It’s not gas and air – or a lovely epidural – but maybe it’s better than nothing.

  She scrunches up her eyes, as though pretending the tablets aren’t there, and shakes her head to say no. Crikey. She really is hardcore.

  The blonde man dips his hands in the hot water, flinching as he realises that it really is boiling, but manfully resisting the urge to cry. He leans down to take another look, and then gives Becca a big, crooked grin. There’s a scar down one side of his face that makes him look a bit like a pirate, especially when the lightning strikes.

  “All right, beautiful – here he comes. Or she, who knows? Either way, this baby wants out … and we’re going to get the job done, okay? Next contraction, I want you to push, yeah? Hard as you can. Real hard … and keep pushing, with each contraction, ’til I tell you to stop!”

  Becca nods, and does as she’s told. I’ve no idea who this man is, maybe the local doctor who I’ve not had a chance to meet, but he’s definitely a godsend. The rest of us would probably still have been googling ‘how to deliver a baby in a cafe’ by now.

  “Come on now …” he says, patting her leg reassuringly, “You can do better than that – give it a bit of welly!”

  Becca screws up her face, her cheeks puffing out and going bright red, making her head look like a giant balloon that could pop at any minute. She pushes, and I think we all push a little with her. I know Laura does, I can practically see her doing it, sitting off to the side, her nostrils white and her Supercook apron all askew.

  “Head’s out. That’s the hardest bit, love. One more time, my beauty, and we’ll have ourselves a baby …” says the man, lying flat on the floor, and getting stuck in.

  Becca gives a huge yell, and we all hear a weird squelching noise as the baby plops out. The bloke on the floor takes it into big hands, announces that it’s a girl, then quickly wraps her up in a towel, rubbing her a little until she cries.

  It’s a loud cry, making itself heard over the thunder. Something about it – that angry, desperate yowl – breaks the tension, and the relief in the room is something you can almost touch. There’s a baby. And it’s alive. And it’s crying.

  So am I, I realise, as I watch Becca take her baby into her arms. There’s still stuff going on down there – I remember this part from Kate and Martha, just when you think it’s time for cigars all round, it’s actually time for after-birth and stitches – but for the next few moments, we’re all just thrilled.

  I’m not the only one feeling tearful, I notice, as I look around the room. Laura is in pieces, openly sobbing as she scoots across the floor to get a closer look, and Frank is wiping his eyes and trying to look masculine while he does it. Sam is repeatedly kissing the baby and Becca and even Lynnie, who is looking at it all so calmly you can’t imagine that just minutes ago she didn’t even know her own daughter.

  Edie does a little trot over to us, holding the phone in her hand, and triumphantly shouting: “They’ll be here in ten minutes! I told them she was having triplets and they started getting a bit more concerned!”

  We all laugh at that, and I edge forward to get my first proper look at the baby. Still wrapped in a towel and attached to the cord, I can see dark brown tufts of moist hair sticking up from her scalp. Her eyes are open, and are a dazzling shade of blue, just like her dad’s. Her skin is soft and looks as though it would be furry to the touch,
and one tiny hand is out in the air, clutching at nothing, perfect little fingernails on the end of perfect little fingers.

  Becca is in floods of tears, with joy or the relief of the pain being over or maybe both. She’s never struck me as a crier before – she’s a tough old city girl like myself, except her and Laura grew up in Manchester – and it’s strangely moving to see her give in to it all.

  I feel privileged to be here, with these people, in this one miraculous moment. The happiness I feel all around me completely eclipses my own worries, my anxiety about Martha, the pain of missing Kate – instead, I feel wrapped up in the communal celebration, like I’m coated in a fleecy blanket made entirely of hope. The storm can just bugger off. Nothing can ruin this.

  Lynnie leans over to stroke the baby’s delicate face with a gentle hand, and smiles.

  “She’s so soft and furry. You should call her Peach,” she announces to Becca and Sam.

  “That’s a lovely name,” replies Becca, gazing into her daughter’s face. “But Sam and I have already decided what she’ll be called, haven’t we?”

  Sam nods, unable to take his eyes away from his new daughter’s face.

  “Yes,” he replies, looking up briefly, seeking out the person he wants to tell most. “Everyone – meet our daughter. Edie Theresa.”

  Chapter 15

  Edie is thoroughly delighted, and takes off her specs to wipe her eyes. As far as I can tell she has no children of her own, although she does have a small tribe of nieces and nephews and grand nieces and nephews. This obviously means the world to her, and she is spluttering with happiness by the time the ambulance people finally arrive, the door crashing open in the wind.

  They scurry into the room, carrying bags and equipment and looking reassuringly competent while they examine both Becca and the baby.

  “What’s her Apgar score?” Becca asks, while one of them gently takes Little Edie from her arms to check her over. That Parenting for Becca book has clearly been doing the trick.

  “It’ll be great,” says the paramedic, a small, round blonde woman, “I can already tell she’s perfect. There only seems to be one baby, though, not triplets, unless there’s something you’re not telling us …”

  She looks around the room, as though searching for hidden babies, and Edie waves her wrinkled little hand apologetically.

  “Sorry! That’s my fault … I’m 91, you know, my dear … and I do get confused!”

  We all bite back a snort at that one – Edie’s one of the least confused people I’ve ever met. The paramedic shrugs, and goes back to her work.

  “Well, you’ve all done a great job here,” she says, “but we should get mum and baby back to the hospital for a once over from the maternity team.”

  “I don’t want to go to hospital!” wails Becca, and we all pull a communal face. I’m beginning to suspect that even if Becca lost an arm in a tragic combine harvester accident, she’d want to stay at home and superglue it back on.

  “I reckon you probably need to, love,” says the blonde pirate hero baby deliverer. “I’m not a craftsman when it comes to these things, and I think you need a bit of attention down below, if you get my drift.”

  Becca makes a long ‘uggh’ noise, and grits her teeth.

  “Oh shit,” she says, trying to crane her head so she can get a look at ‘down below’ – something I’ve been studiously avoiding doing. “Do I need stitches? Am I going to end up with a Frankenstein fanny? Sam, will you still love me if I do?”

  Sam is laughing openly, and the rest of us are trying not to. He kisses her, properly, on the lips, and replies: “Course I will. Even if you end up with bolts through it.”

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” chips in the paramedic, preparing a stretcher to pile our new mum onto. “It’ll be a work of art. Better than new.”

  Laura emerges from the kitchen with a set of scales. Those old-fashioned ones, with a big, enamel basin in a pretty shade of pastel green. She lays a tea towel over it so it’s not cold, and raises her eyebrows at the paramedic.

  She nods, smiling, and places Little Edie into the cradle, where she kicks her chubby legs and pokes her arms around. We all look on as the needle hovers and jerks and finally settles.

  “9lb 2 oz!” shrieks Laura in astonishment. “She’s an absolute whopper! I’m so proud of you, sis!”

  We all chirp in with words of amazement and congratulations, while Becca, the baby and Sam are finally made ready to make the move to a slightly more clinical environment.

  It’s wild outside, but none of us care. We crowd around them, waving them off as they make their way down the hill via the longer path that is paved for wheelchairs and prams. Becca waves back, one solitary hand gesture, like she’s the Queen bidding a fond farewell to her subjects. Little Edie lets out a long, powerful howl, and the sound echoes back up to the top of the cliff.

  We gaze after them for a few moments, hair blowing, teeth chattering, watching as they are loaded up into the ambulance. Wow, I think, as the van doors slam shut. I’d heard that phrase about it taking a village to raise a child. Little Edie had a head start – it took a village to deliver her. The ambulance engine starts, and they finally drive away. We carry on staring, long after its exhaust trail has disappeared, snatched up by the gale.

  Edie finally breaks the spell, dashing back into the cafe, collecting all her pens and colouring books, stashing them in the fluorescent orange Vans backpack she takes everywhere with her. Not your typical old lady gear, but then again nothing about Edie is typical.

  She hooks it onto her deceptively frail shoulders, and gives us all a dazzling grin.

  “I must make a move!” she announces, heading for the doors.

  “Edie, it’s awful out there – wait a while!” I say, frowning in concern. She’s only tiny. We may never see her again.

  “Pah! I’ve weathered worse storms than this!” she snaps back. “And I can’t wait to tell my fiancé all about this …”

  As she exits, I feel the familiar confused frown forming on my forehead. I’ve heard Edie refer to her ‘fiancé’ several times now, and she always seems to take home an extra portion of cafe treats when she leaves. Laura often has it ready packed in small foil boxes, waiting to be carted home to her tiny terrace in the village.

  “What’s the score with Edie’s fiancé?” I finally say, looking at Laura and Frank for answers. “She’s always talking about him, and takes food home for him, but I’ve never met him. And isn’t she a bit on the senior side to have a fiancé – why don’t they just bite the bullet and get married?”

  Laura exchanges glances with Frank, who makes a ‘you tell her gesture’ with his hands.

  “Right,” says Laura, as she bustles about clearing up towels and the kitchen scales, “well. The score with Edie’s fiancé is that he died during the Second World War. He’s called Bert, and he’s actually dead. To everyone apart from Edie, that is.”

  Okay. I turn that over in my mind, while Laura waits slightly nervously for my reaction. I just nod, and try not to look at all freaked out.

  Truth be told, I’m not. Edie’s delusion – apparently enabled by everyone in the entire village – does no harm to anybody, and obviously keeps a wonderful old lady very happy. I’m down with that, as the kids say.

  I suddenly realise, as I go to help Laura with the clean-up job, why I like it so much here. Why I seem to fit in, in a way I’ve never felt before.

  It’s because they’re all as mad as I am.

  Chapter 16

  I’m fully expecting that to be the end of the drama for the day, as nothing could possibly top the impromptu delivery of a baby during an extinction-level storm.

  Laura has produced a bottle of Bucks Fizz, and is pouring us all glasses. She’s paired it with freshly baked apple and cinnamon muffins, and it’s a tremendous way to celebrate.

  Frank and Laura spend a few minutes informing various people – Matt, Cherie, Laura’s parents – about the arrival of Little
Edie, and Willow is sitting with her mum in a window seat. The storm is clearing as quickly as it started now, and streaks of pale yellow sunlight are breaking through the clouds in the baby’s honour, casting glittering stripes over the waves that are rolling into the bay.

  I take a muffin and a glass, and sit down with them. Lynnie is breaking small lumps of muffin away, eating with delicate precision. I don’t know how she manages it – they’re so delicious that I have to fight the urge to stuff the whole thing in my mouth at once.

  “Of course,” she says, as though she’s continuing a conversation that none of us have been having, “after my children were born, I fried up their placentas, and ate them. Jam-packed with nutrients, you know, and a little like liver when you cook them with onions …”

  The muffin suddenly tastes a lot less delicious, and I take a gulp of the Buck Fizz instead. Willow grimaces, and does the same. Lynnie continues to munch away, completely unaware of the fact that she’s made us both feel slightly nauseous.

  “Where’s the hero of the day gone?” asks Frank, standing behind us and looking out of the window.

  “Well he’s not out there,” I reply. “Unless he can fly as well.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” shouts Laura from the counter. “He definitely seemed to have superpowers. Looked a bit like Thor as well …”

  She gazes off into the distance as she says this, her hands pausing mid swipe with the tea towel, and I suspect she’s gone to her happy place.

  I look around the cafe, trying to locate our mystery midwife, and now also feeling very curious, as none of the locals seem to know who he is either. I’d been working on the assumption that he was from Budbury, but it appears that I was wrong.

  Just as I’m starting to think we all hallucinated him, he emerges from the gents – where, understandably enough, he seems to have gone to clean up. Childbirth. It may be a miracle of nature – but it ain’t pretty. That bean bag will definitely be taking a one-way trip to the rubbish dump, that’s for sure.