Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I’ve had my fair share of boyfriends, but none of them have ever been serious. Maybe it’s because I never met the right person – or, more likely, it’s because I was never willing to meet the right person. One guy I dated on and off for a few months eventually ended things because I was too closed off; too emotionally crippled. Because our booty calls left him feeling used, and he wanted more.

  He left, and the main thing I felt was relief – relief that I didn’t even have to try any more. Pathetic but true.

  With Cal, it’s different. We’re already close. We already have a link that can’t ever be broken – our past with Kate, and our future with Martha. He will always be in my life in some way or another, so I can’t afford to jeopardise that. We’ve already come much further than I thought we would, and I’m happy about that – because it’s good for Martha. The three of us are good together. She mocks us mercilessly, and I enjoy that – nothing like a good mocking to lift the spirits. I can tell she’s starting to feel stronger – more confident, more grounded. More happy.

  A lot of that is down to Lizzie and their friendship, to her new college and new relationships – but some of it is also because of Cal being here, and me and Cal creating our own slightly malformed version of a family unit to support her. Hopefully, by the time he does eventually leave, some of that newfound strength will have become permanent, and will help her through the next stage of her life.

  Things are improving, but I know she desperately misses her mum. Occasionally, when I’m brave enough to venture into her room to dig for fossil-like dishes under her bed, I can tell that she has spritzed her pillow with the Burberry perfume Kate used. Her way of keeping her close, I suppose.

  November is hard for us both – containing as it does the anniversary of Kate’s cancer diagnosis. The first of a series of unpleasant anniversaries that are looming ahead of us – our first Christmas without her; the day she died, the day we said goodbye at her funeral. None of it is good, and I know there may be some bumpy times ahead. Cal and I do what we can – but we’re not Kate. We never will be.

  Martha herself has started to talk about her mum more, which I take as a good sign. Before, no matter how much I tried to get her to open up, she toughed it out – slammed the door in my face both literally and figuratively. Always resisted any attempts on my part to talk about Kate, and what she was going through.

  I probably wasn’t the best person to be doing it, really – I was still in pieces about Kate myself, and maybe a tiny part of me was relieved not to have to constantly talk about her. Now, though, things seem to be changing for both us. I’ve talked to Cal, and I know Martha has talked to Lizzie, and maybe that’s exactly what we both needed – someone to talk to about Kate who didn’t live through the loss, share the same pain at the same time.

  Recently, I’ve noticed that she’s able to laugh about silly things she remembers her mum doing; mention her name without crying, pick up the Terry Pratchett book her mum always told her she should read. Small steps, but significant. I even found her flicking through photo albums one night, curled up in her Glastonbury hoodie on the sofa as she turned the pages.

  I’d sat down next to her, and we’d looked together – telling each other stories and sharing memories and shedding a few tears; her asking me more about Kate as a child, filling in the gaps that all teenagers have about their own parents’ youth. Of course most teenagers get to ask their parents those questions themselves – but for Martha, I was as good as it got.

  Apart from Barbara and Ron, of course – who were scheduled to visit the weekend after next. I tried hard not to look as though I was going to vomit at the prospect because, again, it might be good for Martha. They could tell her about their version of Kate, and it would be a chance for them all to help each other heal. Much as Barbara and I loathe each other, I never, ever doubt how much she loved her daughter, and how much she loves Martha. She might show it through obsessive amounts of toilet cleaning and Marks and Spencer gift cards, but the love is there – and it matters.

  In fact, as I make my way back to the cafe after a particularly nice walk all on my lonesome, their visit becomes the subject of all conversation.

  I walk through the garden and into the cafe, enjoying that wonderful sense of wellbeing you get when warm air first strokes ice-cold skin, and shrug my coat and scarf and gloves off. There are a couple of actual customers there, both scooping cream off the top of their hot chocolates with long-handled spoons, newspapers spread out on the table in front of them.

  Cherie is manning the kitchen, as Willow is at a hospital appointment with her mum, and Laura’s having a day off with Matt, doing some early Christmas shopping in Bath. Martha’s college is closed for a staff training day, and she is here with Cal, foraging for food.

  I join them, looking on in wonder at Martha’s lunch – fish finger sandwiches on white bread, squished up exactly the way she always liked them when she was little. Exactly the way her mum always made them.

  I glance up at Cherie, who is waving me over, a mug of the creamy hot chocolate on the counter alongside a slice of chocolate cake. I will turn into a woman made entirely of cocoa beans if I stay in this place much longer.

  “How did you know?” I ask, looking at Cherie half admiringly, half suspiciously. Her long, fat plait is lying draped over her shoulder, and her cheeks are rosy from cooking.

  “How did I know that you’d want chocolate?”

  “No – that’s not a challenge. I always want chocolate. I mean, about Martha and the fish finger butties … it’s what Kate always used to make for her.”

  I’d heard stories about Cherie’s legendary ability to match people to their particular comfort food before – hence the name of the cafe – but this was the first time I’d really seen it in action.

  “Oh, well, my love … it doesn’t take a genius. You just have to keep your eyes peeled and listen to what your instincts tell you. Ivy Wellkettle was in earlier, and that’s what she always has – reminds her of when young Sophie was still living at home, it does. And I saw the way Martha looked at those sandwiches – like she might actually sneak over and steal them – and put two and two together. Everyone has a comfort food, don’t they? Something that takes them back to happier times, or simpler times. Though beyond the chocolate, I’ve not yet quite figured out yours …”

  “That’s because I’m an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a drunk person. And I’m perfectly happy with the chocolate, thank you … what is this? It smells amazing!”

  I scoop up a chunk of sponge with my fork, and can immediately confirm that it also tastes amazing.

  “Laura’s latest for the winter menu. Chocolate fudge cake, but made with some peppermint as well. Mint in the hot choc too – all very co ordinated, our Laura. Go on – go and sit down. I’ll pop over in a minute for a chinwag before the rush arrives. And by that I mean Edie.”

  I nod – my mouth is stuffed full of cake – and take my goodies over to the table.

  “Your face is blue,” says Martha, looking at me like I’m an exhibit in a travelling freak show. “It’s freezing out there. Are you trying to walk yourself to death?”

  Cal smirks a little, and I shoot him half a dagger to shut him up.

  “It’s beautiful out there,” I answer. “You should try seeing life beyond your phone every now and then. It’s gorgeous.com.”

  She pulls a face that suggests I have just climbed onto the table and farted in her face, and replies: “Why is it that old people always think adding ‘dot com’ after something lame makes it hip and cool? It doesn’t. It just makes it evenmorepathetic.com.”

  “And you’re a rudecow.com,” I say, sipping my hot chocolate and pulling my own face – one that possibly resembles an orgasm. It’s that good.

  “I think you’re both totallyawe‌somechicks.com,” chips in Cal, which earns him a dirty look from both of us. United at last.

  “So,” says Martha, leaning back and narrowing her eyes at me. “
Guess what?”

  “I can’t possibly guess what – just tell me.”

  “You’ll like it.”

  I can tell from the look on her face that I won’t like it. I make a ‘wind it on’ gesture with my hands, and note that Cal has carefully schooled his expression into something unnaturally neutral.

  “Gran and grandad are coming down this weekend instead of the one after. Isn’t that completely‌marvellous.com?”

  I try and emulate Cal, and keep my face neutral, but I suspect from the fact that Martha bursts out into witch-like cackles of laughter that I’m not entirely managing it.

  Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. Even Laura’s most divine creations would probably taste like ashes in my mouth right now.

  I’d got used to the idea that they were coming. In fact, had even persuaded myself to welcome it, for all the right reasons – it would be nice for Martha, it would give Cal the chance to meet them, and it would hopefully also reassure Barbara that all was well. Seeing Martha in the flesh might actually convince her that we hadn’t actually run away to join some kind of hippy commune to smoke dope out of specially crafted wellington boots.

  But I’d got used to the fact that they were coming many days from now. It was the tomorrow that never comes – the disaster on the horizon that you still had time to prepare for. Time to stock up on tinned goods and fix the air filtration system in your underground survival bunker, that kind of thing.

  The news that I now only have one night to do all of this completely unhinges me.

  “Oh,” I say, quietly, laying my spoon down on the table and taking some deep breaths. “Oh … right. Gosh. I have so much to do. I have to clean the bloody toilets. And change the bedding. And dust, and hoover, and hide all the booze, and buy some food, and learn how to cook it, and … and …”

  I am hyperventilating slightly by this point, and Cherie has come over to see what’s going on. I sense her hovering above me, but my vision has started to cloud as I panic.

  I don’t know why I feel quite this bad. I knew they were coming. It’s not that big a deal. But suddenly, I feel completely overwhelmed – threatened, and pressurised, and exposed. I think it’s because I know that no matter how much I clean the toilets or scrub the cottage, it won’t be good enough. In Barbara’s eyes, I was never even good enough to be her daughter’s friend – never mind her granddaughter’s guardian.

  Since we’ve been here, in Budbury, with all these strangely delightful people, I’ve been so much more relaxed. When you’re hanging round with Amazonian geriatric rock chicks and surfer dudes and space princess waitresses and women in their 90s with life-long delusions about their fiancé, you start to feel less weird. Weird becomes the new normal, in fact.

  Now, Barbara and Ron are on their way, to show me that it’s not. To judge me, and find me wanting.

  I only calm down when Cherie and Cal launch a double attack. Cherie lays her arm around my shoulder and squeezes, and Cal reaches out across the table and takes both my trembling hands in his. Martha, to be fair, is now looking slightly guilty about winding me up so much, shuffling round on her chair, eyes wide as she watches me go into my meltdown.

  “It’s okay, Zoe,” says Cal, his voice deliberately low and gentle and monotone, like he’s trying to calm down an anxious animal. “It’ll be all right. You’re not doing it on your own, you know? We’re all here. We’ll all help.”

  Cherie nods, and squeezes me some more. I suspect I may be bruising like a peach by now, such is her insistence on reassuring me.

  “That’s right, my love,” she says. “You don’t worry about a thing. We’ll get everything shipshape, and we’ll have them over here for dinner, and we’ll show them the sights – it’ll be grand. There’s no need for you to worry so much. We’ll all look after you. You’re a member of the tribe now, and we’re good at protecting our own, you know.”

  I look up at her – almost six foot, built like a warrior, encased in an apron that says ‘Kiss the Chef’ – and I nod. I’d lay good money on Cherie being the best defender on the planet. And Laura, and Willow, and Edie, and even Cal. Becca could probably win a street fight even with a baby strapped to her chest, and Sam and Matt will be with me too. They’re like my very own Dorset Avengers, and I know they’ll assemble when I need them.

  Cal is stroking my fingers, and brushing wind-tangled strands of hair away from my face, and I start to breathe a little more easily. Even start to feel borderline embarrassed about my drama queen attack, because it’s really not like me at all – at least not in public.

  I feel my heart rate coming back within normal human levels, and try on a grateful smile for size.

  The smile becomes slightly more genuine when Martha finally decides to speak. She doesn’t meet my eyes, and is fiddling with her black hair as she says it, but it’s the thought that counts.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, quietly, gazing at a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “I’ll clean the toilets.”

  Chapter 27

  Watching Barbara endure her weekend in Budbury is a bit like watching a car get squashed up in a scrap yard. You know, when it starts off all big and strong and solid, and ends up as a small corroded block of crushed metal? It seems to defy the laws of physics, but it happens.

  Except Barbara’s not being crushed by some giant steel claw – she’s being crushed by the unfailing niceness of absolutely everyone she encounters during her three nights here. Even Barbara cannot withstand these superhuman levels of kindness.

  With every soft word; every compliment on her hair and clothes; every slice of home-made cake; every comment about how proud she must be of Martha; every inquiry about Ron’s golf handicap; every astonished gasp of surprise when listening to stories about their last cruise, her resistance is weakened a little bit more.

  Cherie is the welcoming hostess and respectable small business-owner; Laura is the responsible mother helping to keep an eye on Martha’s progress; Frank is twinkling-eyed charm itself; Matt is a vet (appealing to snobs the world over); Edie is so old nobody can resist her; Becca has a baby and is therefore a star attraction, and Sam takes them on guided beach walks. Willow might look a little odd, but she constantly plies them with hot beverages and home-made food, so also becomes a force for good in their eyes. Even Scrumpy Joe, not one for difficult social situations, presents them with a gift-box of his very finest ‘artisan ciders.’

  It’s kind of astonishing to see. It’s like my friends here – my bonkers, eccentric, law-unto-themselves friends – have collectively decided to put their communal best foot forward on my behalf. They’re still them, but slightly more sanitised versions.

  Becca never swears, not even once, not even when the baby vomits all over her hair for the third time that morning. Lizzie and Nate are model teenagers. Cherie appears to forego all tobacco products for the weekend. Frank makes not a single comment that involves animals or their digestive systems, which is unusual for him. Even Edie fails to mention her fiancé – just giving me a sneaky wink as she packs the extra portions of food into her Vans backpack. As charm offensives go, they’re completely nailing it.

  As promised, the day before Barbara and Ron’s arrival, pretty much everyone helped out. Willow, who runs a little cleaning service for holiday lets in addition to her other roles, turned up in her dinky white van, and started transforming Lilac Wine into a palace, with some assistance from Martha. She had her own rubber gloves and everything, and got stuck right in, Bella Swan trailing around after her, one of Willow’s classic rock playlists echoing around the cottage. I helped too, scrubbing the shower while singing along to Jefferson Airplane’s Somebody to Love.

  Laura and Cherie stocked my fridge with enough food to feed a small African republic, and Matt made sure the gardens were in tip-top shape and the cottage was drenched with wildflowers.

  The whole place looked and smelled fantastic, and I was almost in tears of gratitude by the end of the day. Even Barbara, arriving in a cloud of ready-pr
epared disapproval, could find no sarcastic comments about our new home. She did her best – casting a beady eye over the bathrooms, surreptitiously running her fingers over the shelving looking for dust – but it was all beyond reproach. Willow had even used a special hand-held steam cleaner on the bloody curtains – who knew such things existed?

  Cal had turned up later, bearing a bottle of posh whiskey for Ron and a box of chocolates for Barbara, and endured it all with amazing grace while she carried out a similar series of tests on him.

  I was used to it, of course – the subtle and non-too-subtle questioning, the elegantly raised eyebrows, the slightly sneering tone in even the most innocuous sounding questions. He wasn’t, but he didn’t seem to let it get to him at all. He simply carried on smiling, carried on charming, and eventually, she seemed to relent. Barbara might sometimes give the impression of being a space alien with perfectly coiffed hair, but she was still female – and Cal has this perfect mix of charisma, good looks, and old-school manners that seems to affect all women like a dose of opium.

  The main factor in these small victories was, to be fair, Martha herself. She seemed genuinely pleased to see them; genuinely keen to tell them about our life here, and genuinely concerned that they got on with Cal as well as she did. And while I have not often had kind words to say about Kate’s mother, I’ve always known that she would do anything for Martha – even tolerate her strange choice in guardianship.

  Between the walks on the bay and trips to the cafe and ready-made meals I was able to miraculously whip out of the oven for them, there was barely any time for bitching at all. On either side. Every time I felt tense and imagined some kind of insult heading in my direction, something else would happen – Midgebo would come charging in and try to steal pudding, or Cal would suggest a game of Scrabble, or Martha would want to show them a piece of her college coursework.

  And every time Barbara narrowed her eyes at me, or seemed about to utter some cutting piece of criticism – if all else failed, she could always have a go at my hair – someone would intervene. Cherie would ask about the golf club, or Frank would offer to take them on a tour of the farm, or Becca would pass Little Edie over to Barbara to hold for a few minutes and everyone would descend into coos of adoration.