Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I see Josh grinning at the hi-jinks, and nudging Martha, who is amazingly letting him. She even gives them all a small, tight wave as she walks towards the car, and shouts her goodbyes as they head off to the cafe.

  Her face changes from amusement at the seagull/crisp coup, to a carefully schooled blankness when she sees me and opens the car door.

  She dumps her backpack on the rear seats, and immediately starts to fiddle with her earbuds.

  “What are you listening to?” I say, pathetically. We’ve both always liked music – it’s been one of the few ways we’ve stayed connected. Martha herself has a lovely voice, and could easily be a singer in a teenaged garage band. Although she’s probably more of a tortured solo artist these days.

  “Neil Diamond,” she replies, shooting me a look that dares me to criticise. As if. The man is a God of easy listening.

  “Cool. Sweet Caroline – best singalong chorus ever. So … how was your day?”

  I prepare myself for a snub, or a tirade, or even for her to pretend to fall asleep. These are all possibilities. Instead, she half smiles, and replies: “You know what … it was okay. We started reading Lord of the Flies. I think Budbury’s probably a bit like that over the summer, from what Lizzie’s said. And, erm, how was yours?”

  I am so shocked I grip the steering wheel, fearing that I might topple sideways and fall through the door. It sounded stiff and awkward coming from her mouth, as though the words were being spat out against their will, but she did actually ask how my day had gone. Miraculous.

  “Well,” I reply, not wanting to make too big a deal of it, “Becca’s baby arrived. At the cafe. I’m surprised Lizzie didn’t tell you.”

  “She did. Sounded pretty full-on. Kind of like Call the Midwife crossed with the Darling Buds of May.”

  Cherie has always reminded me a little of Ma Larkin, with her sumptuous bosom and plentiful hugs and the fact that she’s constantly trying to feed everyone to cheer them up. I nod, and wonder how to broach the subject of the other new arrival – the one that’s a lot bigger, hopefully doesn’t need a nappy, and will make our own lives a lot more complicated.

  “It was … amazing. Did Lizzie mention the guy who turned up and actually delivered the baby?”

  Martha frowns, as though trying to remember conversations she had whole minutes ago.

  “Um … I don’t think so … that sounds weird. Was he a doctor?”

  “No,” I reply, charging straight in, “he was your dad.”

  She twists her body around so she can look me in the eyes, her eyebrows up somewhere under her black fringe and a look of perfect shock on her face.

  “My what?” she says, her voice so loud it echoes around the car.

  “Erm … your dad. Cal. He flew over from Australia to see you. He’s staying at a guest house in West Bay, and he wants to meet up. If, you know, that’s all right with you.”

  She is silent for a few moments after that, frowning and chewing the skin inside her cheek and fiddling with the wires of her earphones. Classic displacement activities, I think, wondering if I should get her some worry beads for Christmas.

  “So, he turns up unannounced, from Australia, and just … what, delivers a baby? In the cafe?”

  She says this as though it’s ridiculous – which of course, it is.

  “Yeah. I know. It’s all very strange – but that’s what happened. I’m not making it up, honest – if I was making it up, I’d have had Poldark delivering the baby. How … how do you feel about that, Martha? About your dad being here?”

  More silence. More frowning. More chewing and fiddling and displacing. I can practically hear the cogs turning in her brain, processing it all, passing from shock to curiosity to something else.

  “Hmmm,” she says eventually, staring straight ahead, winding and unwinding the wires around her fingers, pulling them so tight I know they’ll leave narrow red marks on her skin. “I’m not actually sure how I feel about that at all, which is a bit of a novelty. I can’t believe he didn’t tell us he was coming. I can’t believe he’s here … what’s he like? In the flesh?”

  Lord, I think – how do I answer that one? It wouldn’t be entirely appropriate to tell her he’s super-hot, that Laura practically swooned into his lap, and that he looks like Pirate Cowboy Thor.

  “He’s … nice,” I say, lamely. “Good at delivering babies. Wears a cowboy hat. Really excited about meeting you properly. If you want to, that is. If you don’t, then I’ll deal with him.”

  She gives me an amused sideways glance, and finally puts the phone and earbuds in the glove box, maybe to stop herself messing with them.

  “That sounded serious,” she replies, a half-smile still on her face. “The way you said ‘I’ll deal with him’ – like you might deal with him by beating him to death with a shovel after you’ve made him dig his own grave. You can be a bit scary sometimes, you know.”

  “Why, thank you,” I respond, smiling back. “I have been told that before. And I think, given our location, it would make more sense to weigh him down with conch shells and float him out into the bay, don’t you? So he can swim with the fishes?”

  “You’d have to find the right spot. You wouldn’t want him washing back up on the beach and scaring the fossil hunters.”

  “I know. I’m sure Sam could help us with tide times and currents and shit like that. Don’t worry, I’ll do it properly.”

  She’s smirking now, trying not to actually laugh out loud. I know she’s stalling for time while she lets this new scenario whirl through her brain, and I’m happy to assist her by talking as much nonsense as she needs, for as long as she needs.

  She’s quiet for a moment, then smacks her hand down on the dashboard so hard it makes me jump. Looks like she’s come to a decision.

  “Nah,” she says, staring out of the windscreen, “not just yet. Maybe we should give him a chance.”

  I nod, and pat her hand, and start the car. The oracle has spoken.

  “Besides,” she adds, as I pull the car out into the main road, “we can always kill him later.”

  Chapter 19

  In the end, it all goes much more smoothly than I could possibly have imagined. We arrange that Cal will come to dinner at Lilac Wine, meet Martha, and we’ll see how it goes from there. Everybody is making a conscious effort to keep it casual, and not turn it into a huge drama.

  I’m playing along with that, but the word ‘dinner’ sends me straight into a tailspin, as it seems unlikely that I can fit in a quick cookery course before nightfall. I grew up half-feral, and my domestic goddess has always remained on the shy side. I probably shanked her for looking at me funny. Cooking, cleaning, gardening … it all seems foreign to my nature, and such a waste of time when there are books to be read and songs to be listened to and box sets to be watched.

  I do, however, manage a quick tidy-up, scooting around the cottage clearing up the detritus that two women living together tend to amass. Stray bobbles and hair grips; odd socks down the side of the sofa; Martha’s school files; piles and piles of paperbacks; music magazines; stray shells and bits of driftwood I’ve collected on my walks; discarded earrings and gummy bottles of nail varnish.

  Predictably enough, Laura comes to the rescue on the dinner front, an angel on my doorstep encased in a fuzzy blue sweater. She turns up, with Matt, about an hour before Cal is due to arrive – just as I am staring helplessly into the fridge, willing it to have created a gourmet feast without any assistance from me.

  Midgebo is with them, and does a quick minesweep of the house, his big black nose snuffling around looking for treasures, his fat black tail wagging so fast it’s almost a blur.

  Matt gives me a little nod – he’s a very self-contained man – and carries a load of foil-wrapped bowls into the kitchen. Laura stares after him, a peculiar mix of fondness and lust on her face as he takes his jean-clad self away. She’s obviously over the Cal-swoon phase, and only has eyes for her man. And who can blame her? He looks like a
young Harrison Ford, plays the guitar, and delivers pug puppies. Perfection.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she says, turning her attention back to me. “I just thought … well, you had enough on your plate, without worrying about the catering as well. It’s just a lasagne, which you can heat up, and some salad. And some red velvet cake. And some garlic bread. Oh, and some stuffed olives … and some cider, donated by Scrumpy Joe …”

  She holds a bag up to demonstrate. It’s made of brown paper, and bears the Scrumpy Joe logo. I barely know Joe, but one thing I’ve already learned about this place is that whenever there’s a crisis – or anything vaguely resembling one – everyone soon pulls together, in whatever way they can. I know Laura’s been over at Sam and Becca’s, checking on them and Little Edie, but has still somehow made time to do all of this as well.

  I give Laura a hug, overwhelmed by gratitude. For her kindness. Her friendship. And mainly, for the lasagne. I catch a glimpse of us both in the mirror in the hallway, and marvel at the sheer size of our hair. If we combined it and straightened it all out, it would probably reach the moon.

  Matt emerges from the kitchen, and casts a glance around the cottage.

  “This place looks nice,” he says, after a quick visual inspection. “Like a real home, not a holiday let. I like the shell collection.”

  For Matt, that’s quite a speech, and I reach out to pat his arm in thanks. He half-smiles, seemingly embarrassed at his own enthusiasm, and gestures to the door, raising his eyebrows at Laura. She nods, and gives me another quick hug.

  “Good luck,” she says, as Matt retrieves Midgebo from the kitchen, where he is attempting to stand on his back legs and sniff the food. “It’ll all be fine. You know where we are if you need us.”

  “I do,” I reply, gratefully. “And thank you, so much. At the very least you’ve just rescued Cal from a night of burned cheese on toast and stale chocolate Hob Nobs.”

  After they leave, I mooch my way up the stairs, and knock on Martha’s door.

  “Enter!” she shouts, in a mock-imperious tone, as though she’s Darth Vader inviting a minion in to get his throat choked.

  I push open the door, and see that she is sitting in front of her dressing table mirror, applying make-up. She’s wearing a red tartan mini-skirt over black leggings, her Doc Marten boots laced up with red ribbon, and her hair is long and dark over the shoulders of her Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. She’s carefully painting on winged eyeliner, and has all of her various piercings in. She looks beautiful, in a scary goth chick way.

  “You all right?” I ask, hovering in the doorway, arms folded in front of me to protect my vital organs from stray throwing knives. “Not nervous?”

  “Yep, I’m nervous. I’m meeting my dad for the first time, and I’m screwing up my eye liner, and I’m wishing my mum was here. You?”

  She lays down the eyeliner and turns to stare at me. I’m struck dumb by the fact that she’s being so unguarded and honest, and find my eyes filling with sudden stinging tears. I screw them away, and let out a sigh.

  “Yeah. I wish she was as well. Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. And your eye liner looks great …”

  Martha lets out a ‘hmph’ noise and turns back to the mirror. She makes little shoo-ing gestures with her fingers, and I assume that I have been dismissed. Business as usual. I smile, and turn to leave.

  “You might want to think about brushing your hair, or changing your top!” she yells at me as I enter my own room.

  I bite down a sweary retort, and look in the mirror. Yeah. She’s probably right.

  By the time Cal turns up, bearing wine and flowers and gifts, I feel oddly calm. Maybe I’ve finally mastered my emotions, turned a corner into zen alley. Or maybe it’s because I accidentally downed one of the Scrumpy Joe specials ten minutes earlier.

  Cal and Martha stare at each other for a while, and I stand awkwardly to one side, not at all sure of my role in this and ultimately deciding that I don’t have one – other than picking up the Martha-shaped pieces if it all goes horribly wrong.

  He’s dressed in jeans and a pale blue shirt, which sets off his bronzed skin and contrasts with his deep brown eyes. Brown and blonde – an unusual combination, and one that Martha would also have, if she didn’t dye her hair. She has fair, pale skin, though, like her mum, whereas Cal looks like a burst of sunshine on legs. Long legs – so long that he’s cautiously dipping his head to avoid the beams.

  After a few moments of silence, while they size each other up, he breaks the tension by pulling a teddy bear out of his bag. It’s fluffy and looks vaguely like a koala and is wearing a tiny red T-shirt that says ‘I Heart Sydney’. He waves it in front of Martha’s face with a flourish, and makes her laugh. I’ve not heard Martha’s laughter for a while, and it’s a wondrous thing, making her seem younger and simpler and … well, happier. Laughter will do that for a girl.

  “You do know I’m not 10, don’t you?” she asks, taking the bear from his hands and squeezing it.

  “No,” he replies, handing me the flowers. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be 10. And I have no idea what 16 year old women like to get as gifts, so I was stuffed. Kinda like that bear.”

  “Cash is always good,” she answers cheekily, her head angled on one side. “It’s just so … personal.”

  We all laugh, again. Mine may or may not sound slightly hysterical.

  Cal sniffs the air appreciatively. “Wow. Something smells good. You must be a dab hand in the kitchen, Zoe.”

  Martha snorts and guffaws and generally makes it known to Cal and the wider Dorset community that I am, in fact, far from being a dab hand in the kitchen. I slap her legs with the tea towel I had hanging over my shoulder, and leave them to it. I am at the very least a dab hand at getting ready-made food out of the oven, and taking the tops off cider bottles.

  Chapter 20

  The night passes over, as nights will do, helped along by Cal’s naturally outgoing persona and lashings of fine food and drink.

  We eat at the big pine dining table, Cal only sipping his wine as he has to drive, me guzzling the cider while Martha looks at it longingly. If she’d been a normal 16-year-old, maybe I’d have let her have one, or watered some wine down for her. But she’s not a normal 16-year-old – she’s a 16-year-old who has passed out in her own vomit several times, and who has a tendency to drink herself into oblivion. I don’t blame her for this – if I was Martha, I’d undoubtedly be even worse – but I also remain aware of it.

  I can tell Cal notices that subtle underplay; her gazing at the chilled beer, and looking at me, and me shaking my head slightly. He doesn’t mention it, which is wise, but I know there might be questions later. That’s okay. He’s her father, I tell myself, and he’s entitled to know what’s been going on – so far he’s only been on the edge of her world, seeing what she wanted him to see, limited to the small rectangular shape of her laptop screen. Now, he’s here, in real life, sitting at her dining room table – which makes it all very different.

  For the time being, though, most of the questions are coming from her. Martha quizzes him about his life, his family, Australia. He tells us about his early years, in Canada, before his dad, an engineer, moved them all to Sydney. He tells us about his sister, Ronnie, and his brother, Jay, and his work on the farm in New South Wales. He tells us about the seven squillion acres he manages, and the animals that live there, and describes its combination of isolation and beauty so well I feel like I’m almost there.

  He tells us about surfing, and his travelling, and his time doing jobs that seem to range from lifeguard to barman to sorting out scrap metal at a rubbish dump. He’s an interesting man, and Martha has an expression of near-wonder on her face.

  That tiny spark of jealousy I felt earlier is still there, but I stamp it down. There’s no way I can compete with this man, and more to the point I shouldn’t even try – he’s her biological relative, he’s handsome and funny and smart, and he’s crossed the known world rescuing
orphaned turtles and diving for pearls and living in fishing villages in Asia. He even delivers bloody babies, as I know first hand.

  He’s also, I realise, coming into her life at a time when she desperately needs someone new. Someone who will give her hope, and offer her potential. I’m sad that it isn’t me, but it was never going to be me, was it? I know her too well. I’m too much part of the past; I know her flaws, and love her anyway – but none of that seems very important when you’re a teenager. It’s only when you’re older and wiser that you realise how precious that particular combination is.

  So, I resign myself to being the frumpy old woman who washes Martha’s socks, and cooks her food (badly), and bosses her around. To being taken for granted, resented, and ignored. In short, I resign myself to the fate that mothers the world over have had to endure for millennia.

  On the other hand, Cal is fresh and new and exciting. He hasn’t ever had to scream at her to get out of bed, or been called in to see her head teacher, or caught her weeping in her sleep. As a result, she’s loving every minute of him being there – and I need to let her.

  She’s more animated than I’ve seen her since Kate died, chattering away and waving her hands as she talks. She’s enjoying herself, and not even noticing it. This might only last a few weeks – if he goes back to his real life – or it might last forever. Who knows? But for now, I have to just sit back, and let it unfold, and enjoy seeing the old Martha return, even if it is only for a limited run.

  Eventually, as time wends its way towards midnight, I raise my eyebrows and point at my watch. She rolls her eyes, and does a dramatic teenaged sigh, but does at least stand up. She yawns, and covers her mouth with embarrassment – shamefully caught out being human.

  “I know, I know …” she mutters, stretching her arms into the air. “It’s a college night, and I need to get to bed.”

  She gazes at the table, which is scattered with used plates, and empty glasses, and haphazardly angled cutlery, looking as though someone has emptied a dishwasher on top of it in an act of guerrilla warfare.