“I know … but he’s just there all the time. I’m used to living on my own, and had just about got used to living with Martha, and now there’s someone else around. I feel a bit … invaded! Like I don’t have anywhere that’s just mine any more … I know it sounds pathetic and childish, but it’s the way I feel. And no amount of muscle really makes up for that.”
Becca stares at me while she processes all of this, and I see her thrash my words around in her mind. Until she met Sam, Becca also lived alone, in a small flat in Manchester, content with her own company and her own routines. I’m guessing she understands my outburst better than most – definitely better than Laura, who married her childhood sweetheart David when she was only 20.
Becca looks at Cherie, and some kind of unspoken conversation goes on between them, all wide eyes and smiles and nods.
“She needs an escape hatch,” says Becca, grinning.
“You’re right,” replies Cherie, standing up and stretching tall. Her toes look gorgeous. “And it just so happens that we have one, doesn’t it? Come on, Zoe – follow me, my lovely.”
I shrug, and lay down my pencil – a bright shade of red.
“Don’t do them all while I’m gone,” I say to Edie, pointing my finger in warning. She lets out a horror-movie cackle in response, and mutters: “Mine, all mine …” as she scoops a pile of stubby pencils towards her.
I follow Cherie through the kitchen, where we both pause to inhale the tempting aroma of almost-baked pudding, and towards a door at the back of the room. She unlatches it, and we climb a flight of steep stairs that have bright yellow safety stripes on them.
“Fell down them a while back,” she says over her shoulder. “Broke my poor hip. Frank’s never let me live it down – he’s still convinced I was high as a kite at the time.”
Cherie, I have learned since I arrived in Budbury, is still at least partly the old hippie rock chick she used to be. She might not be following The Who around the festival circuit any more, but she still likes the occasional herbal cigarette – ‘for medicinal reasons, obviously.’
We emerge at the top of the stairs into what I can only describe as a Cherie-inspired wonderland. It’s a large studio flat that sprawls along the eaves of the building, flooded with what light there is today through large skylights in the roof. The walls are draped with Middle Eastern looking sheets and fabrics, vintage rock posters, and more of the framed pictures of the coast that she has on display in the cafe.
The furniture is an odd mix of new and old, light and dark, eccentric and functional, and the whole place is crammed with knick-knacks. Not the usual senior citizen parade of Royal Doulton figurines and scary porcelain dolls in lacy frocks – knick knacks that are similar to the strange objects downstairs. Shells and colourful glassware and ornamental gourds and mahogany carvings and a small gathering of antiquated snuff tins.
There are packed bookshelves, bearing photos of Cherie and the man I presume to be her late husband, Wally, in her younger days: she’s gorgeous, hair still wild, feet still bare; he’s smaller, with 70s sideburns and a grin that says he can’t quite believe how lucky he is to have bagged this particular Goddess. There’s a king-sized bed, draped in tie-dye sheets, and a huge collection of vinyl next to an old-fashioned record player.
“Welcome to my escape hatch!” she says proudly, gesturing around. “I moved in here after my Wally died. I floated around in misery for a few years, then decided to do something useful with the money he’d left me – I moved here, bought the cafe, and the rest is history. Been here almost 20 years now – funny how time passes. This was my haven – and I never thought I’d leave it, honest I didn’t. I was happy here … but then me and Frank came to our senses, and I started over again at his place.
“Then, it kind of passed on to Becca for a while – when she first came down here, it was her escape hatch, until she got together with Sam. It mainly sits empty now, which is a crying shame – so now it can be yours, too. Use it whenever you like. In the day, at night … it’s yours. I’ll give you the spare keys to the cafe, and then you can come here and hide any time you want. You know, when the sight of Cal in his skivvies gets too much for you …”
I roll my eyes at that one – it’s already too much for me – and look around at the flat. As escape hatches go, it’s just about perfect, and I can imagine myself burrowing away under those bed sheets, good book on the go, bit of Led Zep on the record player, completely and totally alone…
“It’s perfect,” I say, wondering if it would be rude to do all of that right now. “Thank you so much. I know it’s stupid, needing a break from it all – but … well. I am stupid, I suppose.”
“No you’re not. You’re just human, sweetie. And you’re welcome. But I must warn you, this place does seem to come with a curse …”
I raise my eyebrows, and she grins and punches me in the arm.
“Everyone seems to start off here as a single lady,” she says, giving it a little Beyoncé grind as she sings the last two words, badly. “But then they end up paired off …”
Chapter 23
It’s Parents’ Evening.
Words that strike fear and sadness into my heart for a variety of reasons. Mainly, because I shouldn’t be doing this – Kate should. Kate should be here to see her daughter growing up, and it is still insane that she’s not. Nights like this always remind me of how completely screwed up this whole situation is; and I miss her even more than usual. In years past, I’ve simply heard second-hand from Kate how things went – the academic progress, the praise, the warnings, all wrapped up in Kate’s amusing story-telling style. This time, it’s all down to me.
As far as I know, her new college life has been going smoothly. I know Lizzie would usually adhere to the teen code of not snitching, but I also know she would have told Laura if anything serious had gone wrong. Like Martha actually getting off the bus after it left the village, and spending her days Breaking Bad in rural Dorset.
There have been no nasty letters or terse voicemails on my phone from Martha’s teachers, so I have been assuming that she hasn’t burned down the drama studio, stolen anything, or punched the head master in the face. But what do I know? Maybe they’ve been saving it all up for tonight.
My interactions with Martha’s educators haven’t exactly been cordial thus far, so it’s understandable that I’m feeling nervous. I’m also nervous because Cal is coming with me. Cal, who is her father, I remind myself – and thus has every right to come to Parents’ Evening. Being, you know, an actual parent and all.
He’d asked my permission first, but I could hardly say no, could I? Especially when he paired it with a comment along the lines of, ‘I’ve never had the chance before.’ Laura thought it was a brilliant idea, but then again she would – despite the sadness of losing her husband a few years ago, I’ve never met anyone with such a belief in happy endings.
“It’ll be lovely,” she says, beaming. “Having him there to support you. The ones I did without David were awful – it was all I could do not to burst into tears while I was sitting on the naughty chair. It just felt so wrong to be there alone – and anyway, Martha will secretly be pleased.”
I knew she was right, but I still didn’t feel one hundred per cent good about it. Having Cal there for support was something I couldn’t afford to get used to. Cal might currently be super-dad and the apple of everyone’s eye – but Cal would be leaving. I can’t let myself rely on him.
I try and hide my reservations, as Martha sees us off from the cottages. She’s arranged a sleepover with Lizzie at Hyacinth House tonight, which really does cheer me up. Her and Lizzie have a lot in common – they’re both girls from big cities who were dragged away to live in the back of beyond; both have lost a parent, and both use way too much eyeliner. Despite her early resistance to anything positive in her life, Martha is finally allowing their friendship to bloom. That, at least, is excellent news.
Cal is dressed in his usual outfit of jeans, waxed j
acket and cowboy hat, which I expect to cause quite a stir at a school in rural Dorset. I have attempted to look conservative and responsible, in leggings, a clean top, and my shiniest calf-high boots. The fact that Martha is sniggering at us detracts from my confidence levels, but I’m used to that by now.
“You two look so funny,” she says, giggling in the doorway of Hyacinth. “Like you’re one of those weird couples who auditions for the X Factor in fancy dress. You’d call yourselves the Texas Twosome and do awful country and western music while Simon Cowell rolls his eyes at you.”
Cal promptly takes his cowboy hat off, and wedges it onto my head, where it floats on a sea of ginger curls.
“How’s about that, then?” he asks, standing back to look at me. “Even better, yeah? I reckon we could do a mean Islands in the Stream …”
Martha is now laughing out loud, and Lizzie is peering over her shoulder to see what all the fuss is about. She immediately takes out her phone and snaps a picture of us, the cow. I suspect my face looks like I’ve just encountered a huge pile of horse manure.
“Go on, get off with you!” shouts Laura from the hallway. “Ignore them. And have fun – don’t worry about Martha, she’s in safe hands…”
Just as she says this, there is a huge bang from the kitchen, and the smell of smoke. She darts off, yelling as she goes: “It’s fine, it’s fine … Nate, what have I said about trying to dry your football boots in the oven? Did you even take them out of the carrier bag?”
The girls dash back inside – not wanting to miss a moment of the poor lad getting told off – leaving the Texas Twosome to make their way to Cal’s jeep and head to the college. He used to have a rental car – a tiny Fiat 500 that he barely fit into – but once he decided to extend his stay, Frank loaned him one of the more weather appropriate farm trucks.
The rain has been coming down steadily for several days now, and the narrow country roads are mired in mud and mulched up leaves that the once green trees have shed. Some days are gorgeous and crisp and clear – others are foul. At the very least, Cal coming with me to Parents’ Evening means that I don’t have to drive, something I’m always thankful for.
We chat about the weather, about Martha, about incidents past, and about nothing at all important as we drive. As ever, I know I’m being friendly but distant with him – which seems to have developed into my default setting. I’m also tense about the night ahead, and finding out what Martha has been up to – literally nothing would surprise me.
In the end, I am a little surprised. But in a good way. All four of her teachers say she is bright, capable, and ‘quite a character.’ I’ve heard this description of Martha before, and it is usually a diplomatic way of saying ‘she’s an absolute horror’ – but in this case, it seems to be meant as a compliment. Maybe she’s working harder. Maybe she’s changed. Maybe it’s just different in sixth form, when they’re given a bit more freedom and are actually studying subjects they’re interested in.
Maybe, I think, as we get back into the car, still slightly shell-shocked by all the praise, I am a very bad person – I feel guilty that I expected the worst.
“Well,” says Cal, as he heads back into the village, windscreen wipers doing an insane dance to try and cope with the downpour, headlights cutting a yellow path through the darkness, “that went well, yeah? I mean, I have no experience at all – but it sounded good to me. Settling in well, meeting her grades, homework in on time … nothing to worry about?”
I glance at him as we drive. Wisely, he’s concentrating on the twisting roads ahead, his face shadowed, eyes focused. Strong hands on the steering wheel, cowboy hat on the back seat, sounding relaxed.
“I suppose so,” I reply, wondering why I can’t feel as relaxed as he seems to.
“You don’t sound too convinced, Zo … what’s bothering you? I can tell there’s something wrong. You always chew your lips when there’s something wrong.”
I immediately stop chomping, which I hadn’t even noticed I was doing.
“No, there’s nothing wrong – I’m just … well, I feel bad. I was kind of expecting trouble, and now there isn’t any, I’m a bit like a balloon that’s been popped. And I feel crappy for assuming she’d have messed up. Kate would never have assumed that, and I’m sure you didn’t.”
He is silent for a few moments, thinking about what I’ve said, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the wheel the only sign that he’s reflecting on it at all.
“I think,” he says eventually, “that you need to give yourself a break. Kate was her mum for her whole life. You’ve only been doing it for a few months – and you definitely got the worst few months ever. And as for me, well … Jesus, I’ve only just shown up! Easy for me to look like I’ve got it all right – but I’m not the one who’s been keeping her safe. Looking after her when she’s had a few too many. Worrying about her every time she’s out of the house. That’s been you, Zoe – you’ve given up your job and your home and your whole way of life to move here with her. For her. You’ve had to handle a lot of shit, and you’ve handled it well – so stop poking at yourself, and enjoy the moment.”
I’m a little gobsmacked by this speech. Partly because he says it so definitely – in a tone of voice that clearly shows he wants no arguments. Partly because … well, maybe he’s right. I’ve known Martha since she was born, and I can say wholeheartedly that our months together in Bristol were definitely the hardest. For both of us.
Now, maybe – if I work on the assumption that her college teachers are telling the truth, and not just scared because she’s threatened to kidnap their children – we’ve turned a corner. Being here has helped. Lizzie has helped. Cherie has helped. Cal has helped. Perhaps even I’ve helped – if by ‘helped’ I mean ‘not killed her or run away screaming into the hills.’
Possibly, I decide, looking back at the mothers I’ve known over the years – barring my own – that is the hardest part of all. The sticking around, even when you get no thanks, no appreciation, and no acknowledgement that you even exist.
I stuck around. I’m still sticking around – and even if Cal jetted home tomorrow, or Martha and Lizzie have a teenaged spat, or we have to move back to Bristol, I’ll always be around. I don’t have much to give Martha – but I can at least give her that.
It’s a rare moment of peace, and I’m thankful to Cal for pushing me in the right direction. And in an equally rare moment of generosity of spirit, I decide to spread the love. I get out my phone – a message has landed from Laura, saying all is well and the girls are upstairs in Lizzie’s room, plotting world domination. I compose a quick text of my own: ‘Just been to Martha’s parents’ evening at her new college. She’s doing really well, I’m very proud of her. Hope all is good with you two.’ I pause for a moment, decide that adding kisses would be a step too far, and hit send – pinging the good news all the way to Barbara and Ron in Bristol.
Seconds later, a reply arrives: ‘Thank you for letting us know. Ron has done the garden, and I’ve given the toilets a good cleaning. Will call soon to arrange a visit.’
I’m happy with some of that – I mean, who doesn’t like getting the toilets cleaned for free? – but grimace slightly at the mention of a visit.
“Bad news?” says Cal, giving me a quick sideways look.
“Maybe. Depends on your point of view. Kate’s parents are planning to come and see us. They’ll probably want to meet you as well …”
“Yikes. Do they view me as the dastardly cad who despoiled their daughter?”
“Probably, yes,” I reply, grinning at the thought. A truly evil part of me looks forward to that – maybe Cal will finally encounter someone he can’t charm. “Where are we going?”
I frown as he misses the turn that would take us back to the Rockery, and instead heads for the road straight into the village.
“I’m doing what all good Aussies do when they’ve had good news. Or bad news. Or been awake for a whole day – I’m taking us to the pub. No argument
s, now, all right? Martha’s safe with Laura and going to college with Lizzie in the morning, neither of us has to be anywhere, and I need a pint. You can’t avoid me forever.”
I stifle the urge to answer back, and claim that I haven’t been avoiding him – because of course, it’s true. And as he’s not a total idiot, he’s noticed. Somewhere between that first night, when I said we could do this together, and now, I’ve retreated. Backed off into my shell. Seen that Cal needs no help at all – he has a better relationship with Martha after a couple of weeks than I have after years. I’ve never once had to use our ‘danger, danger’ cowboy hat code – he just seems to know instinctively how to communicate with her. The pig.
So I just nod, and decide to go with the flow. And anyway – we do have reason to celebrate. Not so long ago, I was pulling Martha out of nightclubs. Now, it seems, she’s the model student.
When we park up by the Horse and Rider, the rain is torrential. Cal gallantly lends me his hat, and tugs his jacket up over his head as we make a dash for the door. I notice the light still on in Edie’s little terrace, and wonder what she’s doing – watching Strictly, maybe, or chatting to her dead fiancé. A couple of doors along is Sam and Becca’s place, where all the lights are off – presumably they’re trying to grab some sleep while Little Edie snoozes. It’s a street full of Edies, at completely different ends of the age spectrum. Bless them both.
I follow Cal into the pub, him holding the door open for me, and am immediately engulfed in warmth and chatter. It’s a proper pub, this – not a touristy, chocolate-box pretty pub, but a pub where real people come to celebrate and commiserate and talk about sport and flirt and wash away the cares of the day.
It’s a long, narrow room, occupied by a long, narrow bar. Most of the tall stools next to it are taken by men wearing a version of what I now recognise as the rural uniform: check shirts, cords or jeans, warm sweaters, boots. People nod at Cal as he makes his way to get served, and I look around for a table. I see Matt and Frank over by the log fire, several empties already in front of them. Frank waves me over, and I shake the rain off the cowboy hat as I go.
Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café Page 15