Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I nod, and smile at her expression. I can tell she’s desperate to know more, but doesn’t want to appear too pushy. I consider toying with her and staying tight-lipped and mysterious, but there doesn’t seem to be much point – Cherie always knows everything, eventually. She’s like a benign Big Brother.

  “Yep. All correct. Martha’s never actually met him before, so it’s all quite … um, I don’t know, exciting?”

  “You say the word ‘exciting’ as though you actually mean ‘terrifying’, Zoe – didn’t it go well last night, when he came over for dinner?”

  See. She knows that already and it was only a few hours ago. Maybe she has secret cameras installed in all her cottages…

  “It went fine,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “As well as it possibly could under the very weird circumstances. I just … I got a bit Scrumpy Joe-d, I suppose … and now he’s on his way here, and I’m wearing odd socks, and everything just feels a bit … wonky.”

  Edie breaks off from her reading to glance at my feet, shakes her head, and goes back to Cathy and Heathcliff. I bet Cathy never wore odd socks.

  Cherie nods, and folds her arms over her plentiful bosom, and looks thoughtful.

  “I can imagine. It’s possibly good for Martha, but it feels risky – like you’ve only just got her settled and suddenly it’s all change again?”

  “Exactly! But she seems happy about it, and that’s great. It’s been a long time since she’s seemed happy about anything. I don’t know how long he’s staying for, so we just have to make the most of it, I suppose. Get in as much dad time as we can before he jets off into the sunset.”

  “And be ready to mop up if it all goes wrong? Clean up on aisle Martha?”

  I just smile. She gets it. Of course she gets it.

  “Mopping up,” she adds, her head angled on one side as she chooses her words, “can be very tiring work. Especially when you feel like you might need a bit of mopping up yourself. Look … this is just an idea, and I’d never offer if you didn’t agree, but Saffron is free. If Cal wanted to stay there, he could … he’d be nearer to Martha, so they could properly get to know each other, spend more time together? Or would that be too much for you?”

  I ponder that while I shove half a scone in my mouth. I feel bad that I’m not giving the scone my full attention, but I need to think while I eat.

  The thought of having Cal on the doorstep is jarring. It makes me feel jittery and nervous and oddly threatened. But I need to put on my big girl pants, and think about what might work best for Martha. If Cal is only going to be here for a few weeks, then maybe this could work – it would definitely maximise the amount of time they had together.

  “Thank you Cherie,” I say, when I’ve finished with the scone. “That could be … really good. Maybe we could talk to him about it when he arrives.”

  “He’s here,” chips in Edie, gesturing to the door with her silver head. She gazes at him for a few minutes, then goes back to her book.

  Cal pauses in the doorway, shaking the rain off his cowboy hat, and stamping some mud from his boots. He spots me, and waves his hat like he’s at a rodeo, before hanging his waxed jacket up on the coat hooks and making his way across to our corner.

  “G’day, ladies,” he says, laying the accent on a lot thicker than it usually is. Tart. I note all the hen party women staring at him as he crosses the room, taking in the hair and the tan and the snug-fitting Levis and the just-as-snug-fitting T-shirt and the big-buckled belt between the two. He looks like an exotic creature who’s wandered into the room, unaware of how much of a stir he’s causing. Or maybe entirely aware, I don’t know him well enough to call it.

  Cherie stands up and looks him up and down, hands on her hips.

  “So this is the hero of the hour, is it?” she says, when she’s finished inspecting him.

  Before he can reply, she has him in a bear hug. Cherie’s hugs can take you off guard, but he handles it well, and is one of the few people who isn’t dwarfed by her Amazonian figure. He emerges from her embrace looking mellow and calm.

  I stand up too, and feel like I’m a midget in a land of giants.

  “Cal, you didn’t get to meet everyone properly yesterday, in all the chaos. This is Edie. Big Edie, I mean.”

  Edie cackles in delight at that one. She’s about four foot ten, so it must be the first time she’s ever been known as Big Edie – she clearly likes it, clapping her hands together in glee.

  “Edie is the hoola-hooping champion of all Budbury,” I add, for some reason.

  “That’s right,” she responds. “The hips don’t lie …”

  I shake my head – pondering Edie and her hips feels wrong – and continue my introductions.

  “And this is Cherie, who owns the cafe, and the holiday cottages, and … well, most of Budbury, it seems …”

  “Yep. Just call me Mummy Warbucks,” she says, grinning. “And you saw my hubbie Frank yesterday – you two will have a lot in common; he has his own farm, and his son and grand-children live in Australia.”

  “Ah. Well I probably know them, then,” replies Cal, nodding in recognition as Frank holds up his hand in greeting. He’s been immersed in the newspaper since we arrived, probably wisely deciding to let the women-folk get on with their gabbing, but now he makes his way over to shake Cal’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” says Frank, also laying his Dorset accent on a lot thicker. What is it with these blokes?

  “Well done yesterday, Cal – quite the welcome party, eh?”

  “I’ve had worse,” answers Cal, grinning. “Mum and baby doing all right, are they?”

  “I hear so, yes. Not been round myself yet – give them the chance to get used to it all, I reckon. Bit of an adjustment, having a baby in the house.”

  A fleeting moment of sadness whisps across Cal’s face as he replies: “I wouldn’t know much about that; never been around babies much, unless they’re covered in wool and destined for the dinner plate. I’m jumping in at the deep end with a teenager.”

  “You’ll be grand, Cal,” says Frank, thumping him on the back with a strength that belies his 80-plus years. “Nothing to it, and Martha’s a great girl. Plus you’ll have Zoe around to tell you how to do everything right.”

  I laugh out loud at that one – I just can’t help myself. They all pause and look at me; even the hen party girls seem to be wondering what the noise is.

  “Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “It just … well, that amused me. As if I know what I’m doing – I’m making it up as I go along.”

  Cal gives me a lop-sided grin. Maybe he’s wondering what he’s got himself into.

  “You’re doing just fine,” Cherie assures me, reaching out and squeezing my shoulder. “And we’re all making it up as we go along, my love – some people just hide it better than others. Now, Cal, sit down, make yourself at home, and I’ll go and whip up some breakfast for you … we had a bit of a brainwave about your digs this morning. I’ll leave Zoe to tell you all about it …”

  PART THREE

  Modern Love

  Chapter 22

  “My legs are so fat, they’d make harem pants look like jeggings,” says Laura, poking at her own thighs in disgust.

  I glance at her legs, and see a perfectly normal, ever-so-slightly chunky set of limbs, encased in blue denim. Blue denim that is covered in floury handprints, from the damson and blackberry pudding she’s been making. Laura and Matt have started a cottage garden at the Rockery, producing seasonal fruit and veg for the cafe, and this is one of her experiments.

  The smell of the pudding is wafting around the cafe making us all sniff like starving urchins as we wait for it to bake, and I’m fairly sure that eating it won’t help Laura’s self-pronounced chubby leg problem.

  She’s not fat, Laura. But she’s not thin either. I suppose she’s just … ‘comfy’ would probably be the best word. She looks like a mum should look, with enough extra on her to give good cuddles, but not so much she could be
mistaken for Jabba the Hut on a night out.

  “Don’t be daft,” I say, looking up from my mammoth pencil sharpening mission. “You look lovely. Matt certainly seems to think so. And it’s better than being called a ginger boy.”

  “You don’t look like a boy!” she utters in shock. “You’re just … petite!”

  I grunt in thanks, and carry on sharpening. It really is the most chilled out of things to do on a rainy autumn day, and I’m getting through the colours at a speedy rate. I tell myself to slow down before I run out. I am one crazy cat when it comes to blunt pencils.

  “I always wished I’d had more in the boob department,” adds Edie, who is also sharpening. In fact, it was all her idea, and she brought along the sharpener – one of those old-fashioned metal ones they used to have in schools on teachers’ desks. “Back in the days when I had any boobs at all!”

  I find myself staring at Edie’s frail looking chest, mainly because she’s pointing at it with one bony finger, as though inviting me to check her bad boys out. I shudder and look away, quickly.

  “Why is it,” chips in Becca, Little Edie blissfully asleep on her lap, “that whenever a group of women get together, it is decreed that they will start moaning about their bodies? Comparing tits and whinging about arses and wishing for something different? We’re all bloody perfect as far as I’m concerned!”

  Cherie nods in agreement, pausing in her toenail painting. She has two chairs pulled together, her feet propped up on one, a bottle of something bright pink in her hand. She waves the little brush around as she speaks.

  “That’s true, Becca. We all are. Bloody perfect. And anyway, your size doesn’t matter, it’s the proportions that count – who came up with that quote? The one that says ‘I have an hour glass figure, it’s just a very large hour glass’?”

  “I don’t know,” replies Becca, gazing at the baby’s face. “Was it Confucious? I hear he liked a girl with a bit of meat on her bones …”

  We all laugh at that one, then stop abruptly as Little Edie starts to stir at the noise, waving a pink hand around like she’s flagging a cab. It’s always amazed me how something so tiny as a new-born baby can still completely dominate a room full of adults. It took Becca ages to get her to doze off, and none of us want to risk her wrath by waking her up again. Becca looks exhausted, in the way of all new mums – but also incredibly happy.

  Little Edie is now three weeks old. Her tufty hair has lightened a few shades, and she is a chubby, round bundle of humanity. She’s wearing a sleepsuit that says ‘Surf Baby’ on it, and one of her dimpled feet is bare. She looks even more scrumptious than a damson and blackberry pudding. Midgebo agrees, and is licking her exposed toes with affection until Becca gently pushes his furry snout away.

  Technically, the cafe is open – but as there are no customers at all on this blustery October day, we’re simply treating it as a place to hang out and chat. Cherie, I’ve been assured by Laura, really doesn’t need the money – which is a good thing, as the quiet season in Budbury now seems to have truly kicked in. There are some bookings at the cottages for the school half term, and apparently it picks up a bit near Christmas, but at the moment it’s deadly quiet.

  In fact, the only people knocking around the place are Laura and her kids, Matt, me, Martha, and of course Cal.

  Cal, it seems, is staying a little longer than he originally intended. In fact, he’s staying until New Year – a fact that fills me with both relief and fear.

  Relief, because things with him and Martha are going brilliantly. They’ve developed their own routines and rhythms, and they’re a damn sight better than her old ones. They’re going for walks, swapping stories, teaching each other their native slang, listening to music, borrowing Midgebo for adventures, talking about their lives, about Kate, about work and college. About Martha’s plans for the future – I’m delighted to hear her even admit to having one – and about which university she might go to. Cal has acquired a guitar from Matt, and I often hear him playing it as I pass Saffron, sometimes even accompanied by Martha’s note-perfect voice.

  She spends a lot of time with him, even staying over sometimes, and I try not to be too much of a misery guts about it. It’s not like sharing the house with Martha has ever been a wheelbarrow full of laughs – but when she’s not there, I miss her. I even miss the door slamming and the sarcasm and the plates that suddenly find their way to the kitchen covered in dried-on pasta sauce that I have to blow-torch off.

  Cal, in all fairness, is sensitive enough to realise that all of this is a big adjustment for me. He tries to include me – dragging me along on missions to collect fossils from Charmouth beach, tempting me out to the village pub for lunch, arranging video nights at Lilac Wine when we both get the chance to indulge in a few ciders. In fact, I see a lot of him – especially on those couple of occasions when we’ve both ended up in the swimming pool at the same time.

  Those occasions have been kind of cringe-worthy, to be honest. I don’t know why – I’m usually wearing an ancient costume I’ve had since I was 16 that is so modest a Victorian school ma’am could get away with it. It’s not like I’m traipsing around in a thong bikini or anything – but it still leaves me blushing and mortified every time. I suspect it has less to do with what I’m wearing, and more to do with what he’s wearing – or not wearing. I’m not used to seeing mostly-naked men in the flesh, and it makes my nostrils flare.

  He has one of those bodies that’s fit from work, from living on the land, rather than from the gym – solid and strong and long. I try not to stare, but it ain’t easy, especially as he cuts through the water with such grace and ease, like a sexy dolphin. Luckily he doesn’t make the weird clicky noises as well.

  It’s now reached the stage where I do a surreptitious check before I risk it, and if he’s there, I tiptoe back to Lilac Wine, wrapped in my towel, hoping he didn’t notice me peaking in through the steamy windows.

  I have days where he always seems to be around. He’ll turn up early to give Martha a lift to the village, and find me half-asleep in my coffee mug. Or he’ll pop round to see if I fancy coming with them on a horse ride at the local stable, and laugh at my horrified expression. I’ll be reading a good book, and he’ll tap on the window. It’s all very … unsettling. He’s not the kind of man you can ignore – he’s too big for one thing – and I’m finding his presence in my life more of an irritant than I would have expected.

  Some of that is because of my own screwed up need for solitude – but some of it is also to do with the fear I mentioned earlier. He’s found a place here, Cal. He fixes things around the cottages for Cherie, and spends time with Frank over at his farm, looking at cows’ bums or whatever, and goes for pints with Matt and Sam and Scrumpy Joe.

  Laura still goes a bit moon-eyed when he walks into the room, and Cherie clearly loves getting him to change lightbulbs for her so we can all pretend we don’t notice when his T-shirt rides up from his jeans. I suspect if I sneak into the cafe early one day, I’ll catch her breaking lightbulbs on purpose.

  He’s kind, and funny, and likeable, and everyone seems to be half in love with him – especially Martha. This is the bit that worries me. It’s highly likely that I’m over-thinking it all, but I can’t help wondering about what will happen when he finally leaves.

  Specifically, what will happen to Martha. Will she be cool with it? Will she have a complete breakdown at losing yet another parent, just as she’s found him? Will she want to go with him? It’s one of the reasons I’ve been resisting joining the Budbury branch of the Cal Evans appreciation society – I’m going to need to be fully prepared, and fully functioning, to deal with whatever life throws at us next.

  I’m pondering all of this as I sharpen, lost in thought, the chatter of the women humming quietly away in the background like a gossipy Greek chorus.

  “Earth calling Zoe, earth calling Zoe – are you receiving?” says Laura, prodding me in the side until I look up.

  “Yes? What?
Is the cake ready?” I say, looking around at their amused faces. “What did I miss?”

  “Another ten minutes for the cake,” replies Laura after a quick glance at her watch. “And we were just wondering what it’s been like, having Cal around …”

  They’re all staring at me expectantly. Even Little Edie, now awake again, is lolling in her mother’s arms, fixing me with an eery blue gaze, like she’s hanging on my every word. Midgebo is licking his own testicles now, so at least he’s not interested.

  “Um … it’s all right,” I respond, weakly.

  “Have you seen him in the swimming pool?” asks Laura, nudging me and grinning. “Bet he’s quite the merman!”

  “Yeah … I suppose. I have seen him in the swimming pool. And in Lilac Wine. And in Saffron. And in the pub, and in here, and in my bloody dreams … the man seems to be everywhere. Can’t get away from him.”

  “God, why would you want to …” says Becca, rolling her eyes. “If I wasn’t a taken woman, I’d be all over him.”

  Edie nods, then looks slightly embarrassed about it, while Cherie tells a story about asking him to fix the dishwasher, and enjoying the view as he crawled around on the floor to get a better angle. They all guffaw in response, while I feel increasingly awkward.

  “What’s up?” says Cherie, frowning at me. “Is it too much? Is it making you feel icky?”

  “It is, for some reason. I mean, I know what he looks like – I’ve got eyes – but it just feels a bit wrong to be lusting after him like this. He’s Martha’s dad, for God’s sake!”

  “He’s not your dad, though, is he?” asks Becca, soothing the baby as she speaks. “So that’s okay.”

  I nod, because it’s hard to explain. It’s hard to put it all into words, the way he makes me feel – nervous and tense and happy all at the same time. Like if I let myself relax, I could enjoy his company a lot more than I should. That if I just allowed it to happen, Cal would make it onto the very short list of people who have made me feel safe and cared for in this life. The very short list that, until we moved here, only really featured Kate’s name.