Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  The whole visit was a masterwork of distraction and deflection – spotting flashpoints in advance and nipping them in the bud. After two days of this, I finally started to relax – realising that perhaps I was, potentially, just as childish as Barbara sometimes. The two of us had such a long and unpleasant history that we were both struggling to see around it – but with a little help from our friends, we were at least able to try.

  On their last night in Budbury, after hot chocolates at the cafe and a strangely peaceful communal walk on the beach with Cal and Martha, they were taking Martha out for dinner in Dorchester, the nearest metropolis. Cal and I had both been invited, but I could practically hear Barbara’s teeth grinding as she uttered the words – we may be experiencing something of a detente, but she’d still rather have her granddaughter to herself.

  So we did the decent thing, and cried off. In fact, I cried off the whole evening – Cal had already offered me his spare room for the night, and it just felt like the right gesture to make. We’d kept Barbara busy, and she had had literally no time at all with Martha without someone else being around. Part of me felt nervous – like she might kidnap her, shove her in the trunk of their Skoda Octavia and driver her back to Bristol.

  But part of me knew I had to respect their relationship. Give them time together. Let Barbara decide for herself that Martha was actually well and truly happy. Or as happy as a recently bereaved teenager can be.

  I wave them off at the gates, and wander around to Saffron, Cal’s holiday cottage across the green from ours. It’s slightly smaller, in a three-strong row of mellow-stone terraced homes, the front of the building draped in climbing vines and hanging baskets that are now in hibernation for the coming winter.

  The nights are drawing in, I think, which immediately makes me feel about 700 years old – that’s such an old person concept. The weather has been cold but glorious for the last few days, those chilly, light-drenched days that make you feel glad to be alive. Now, at just after 6pm, it’s already almost complete dark – the sky a deep indigo, studded by stars and the flitting outline of bats performing their evening acrobatics. As ever, it’s perfectly quiet out here – not even the sounds of distant traffic once Ron navigates the Skoda down the gravel driveway, beeping his horn in farewell as they leave.

  I knock on the cottage door, and hear Cal shout: “Come on in, it’s not locked!” This is a countryside thing, the non-locking of doors, I’ve noticed. And I suppose it would take a pretty determined burglar to trek all the way out here and break in. Still, I’ve lived in a city too long, and read too much crime fiction, to be that trusting – Lilac Wine is well and truly secured, just in case anyone takes a fancy to my priceless collection of crappy paperbacks and the DVDs I’ve swiped from the Rockery’s games room.

  I make my way through to the lounge, hearing the sounds of the shower from upstairs. I mooch around the room for a few minutes, looking at his reading material, plinking tunelessly at his guitar strings, inspecting the general tidiness with a sense of wonder. I always thought bachelor dudes were supposed to be messy, but Cal puts me to shame. Again, I know it’s because of his communal lifestyle back in Oz – sharing a farmstead with a group of other human beings has taught him these ways. It still freaks me out though.

  When he finally emerges, head bent to avoid the beams, he is fresh and damp and smelling of something masculine and woodsy that makes me feel a bit giddy. His T-shirt is clinging to him in all the right places, and his hair is a shaggy mass of multi-shaded blonde. Yikes.

  “You all right?” he says, giving that hair a quick rub with the towel he’s carrying and looking at me in concern. “You’re looking a bit off, there.”

  “No! I’m not off. I’m fine. I’m just a bit tired I suppose. It’s gone better than I expected, but it’s still bloody exhausting.”

  “Yeah,” he drawls, padding barefoot into the small kitchen and pulling two cans of lager out of the fridge. “She’s pretty full on, old Barb, isn’t she?”

  “Don’t ever call her that to her face. Old or Barb. Either is likely to get you kneecapped. But yes, she is … always has been. In fact, much as she’s never accepted this, it was partly her fault Martha even exists.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me, looking confused, as I gratefully crack open the beer – is there any better sound in the world than the gentle fizz of freshly popped lager? – and collapse onto the squishy floral sofa.

  “I don’t mean literally. I am assuming she wasn’t there that night in Bangkok. I mean … she was always so controlling. Crazy strict. Kate had curfews on her curfews, wasn’t allowed to talk to her friends on the phone, got taken to and collected from school even when she was 16. Boyfriends were definitely not allowed, and going to gigs or festivals or clubbing was cause for a public stoning. As a result, of course …”

  “Kate got even wilder,” he completes for me, sitting next to me on the couch. It’s a small couch – a two-seater to fit into the tiny lounge – and his long thighs are squashed up against mine, his legs stretched out in front of him.

  “Yep,” I reply, nodding. “Exactly. She probably would have dumped me as a friend within weeks if not for the fact that Barbara tried to ban her from seeing me.”

  “You’re probably doing both yourself and Kate a disservice with that one, Zo,” he answers. I chew my lip for a few seconds and decide he’s right – there was much more to our relationship than rebellion, but it definitely was a factor.

  “That’s true. But in a way, it’s part of why we were drawn to each other – she had too much structure, too many rules, and I didn’t have enough of either.”

  “And between you you made an almost normal human being?”

  “Exactly! Anyway … enough of this. I don’t feel in the mood for deep and meaningful tonight. I’m worn out by being nice to Barbara.”

  “I think everyone is,” he answers, downing half his lager in one big gulp. “I’ve never seen this lot on their good behaviour before. The look on Cherie’s face the other day, when Barbara suggested the cafe could use a good sort out … God, I thought she’d swing for her!”

  I giggle, and drink, and reply: “I know. That would be a clash of the Titans wouldn’t it? My money’s on Cherie, but Barb wouldn’t go down without a fight. So … it’s good to have a night off from it all, anyhow. I have beer. I have fine company. And I have Netflix. All the perfect ingredients for a very pleasant night. What do you fancy?”

  He gives me a comedically leery grin, worthy of a Carry On film, and I nudge him hard in the ribs

  “Ouch!” he squeals. “That hurt! But you’re cute when you’re angry …”

  “Don’t call me cute, it’s patronising.”

  “Okay … you’re a scrappy little thing. Is that better?”

  “Absolutely not. It makes me sound like one of the cast of Scooby Doo.”

  “That’s not a bad thing. I have a lot of time for those meddling kids. Anyway … I’m going to grab us a couple more beers, and turn the lights down low. You’re blushing again, and I don’t want to embarrass you by commenting on it all night.”

  Before I can respond, he’s up and gone, leaving me holding my own cheeks, wishing the red away. He’s right, of course – and I do welcome it when he flicks on a small lamp and turns off the overheads.

  He passes me another lager as he sprawls next to me, in the newly-dimmed cinema lighting.

  “What do you want to watch? Something mushy and sad?” he says, pulling a face.

  “God no. I want to watch something with lots of guns and explosions and sexy men.”

  He nods in approval, and I silently wish I’d actually asked to watch Terms of Endearment or Me Before You instead, just to see the look on his face.

  Eventually, after doing the usual TV-remote shuffle through an endless supply of rubbish shows and second-rate movies, we decide on Casino Royale. Plenty of guns, and one of the world’s sexiest men – James Bond.

  We sit next to each other in the dark, faces
patterned with the flickering action of the screen, getting quietly but steadily drunk. It doesn’t sound very exciting, but I realise how much I’ve missed this – companionship. Having someone to watch telly with. Having someone to banter with. Just … having someone around, I suppose.

  Since Kate died, I’ve been pretty much alone. Coming to Budbury has helped, but it’s not the same.

  Martha’s better now – she does condescend to engage in small talk with me, and recently suggested we should watch Better Call Saul, which was a huge victory – but she’s usually in her room, or out. I like my own company – I always have – but it was so much easier to enjoy it when I didn’t have it forced upon me. There’s a huge difference between spending a quiet night in on your own, knowing that your best friend is there across the road, and spending a quiet night in on your own because it feels like nobody else exists in the entire universe.

  This – the simple pleasure of sitting and drinking and watching a movie with another human being – feels so good. I’ve missed it so much, and I know I’ll miss it when he’s gone. But hey, I remind myself as Daniel Craig shoots his way through Venice, that’s a worry for another day.

  By the time the film finishes, we’ve worked our way through several cans of lager and munched our way through bags of crisps, popcorn and nuts. If that had happened at my place, of course, the empty tins would be lying at our feet, spilling out their last dregs and tripping us up every time we went for a wee. They’d still be there the next morning, stinking the place out, shaming me in their metallic glory – because I am completely rubbish with things like that. Cal, of course, isn’t – he picks them up and puts them in the recycling as we go.

  By the end of the film, I am a bit tipsy, and a bit teary. That bit where Vesper Lynd meets her watery grave gets me every time. I sigh out loud as the credits draw to a close, and find myself leaning my head on Cal’s shoulder.

  “Are you crying, you big baby?” he asks, sounding amused.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s just so … sad, isn’t it? Poor James. Poor Vesper. He’s never the same again …”

  “I know. First time I watched it, I felt a bit of a blubber coming on myself. But I was in a big cattleshed in a field in the Australian bush, surrounded by twenty-five macho blokes, so none of us dared let on. It’d be social death to cry at a movie, especially a James Bond movie. You all right down there? You want another drink?”

  “Nah … I’ve had enough already. I just want to be still and quiet for a minute. You’re really quite comfy, you know.”

  “I have been told that, yes. It’s one of my many godlike skills.”

  He slips his arm around my shoulders, and I snuggle right in, burrowing into him until I find just the right spot for both me and my hair. Don’t want to make him sneeze with a stray tangle up the nostrils or anything.

  “So, tell me about your other godlike skills,” I say, realising as I do that I sound a bit flirtatious. Four cans of lager, and I forget all my own rules.

  “Well,” he replies, seeming to give it some thought. “There’s surfing. I’m, like, super ninja level at that. Sheep-shearing is also a speciality. I’m a dab hand at horse riding, and lager-drinking, though I try not to mix the two. I can make a mean spaghetti carbonara. I can walk on my hands for at least three steps. I’m a bit of a dog whisperer on the side. I’m … hang on, give me a minute …”

  “You’re very tidy,” I butt in. I say it like an accusation, which makes him laugh.

  “I am, yeah. Comes from the farm, and also from living out of a backpack for years on end. I think that’s it, though – can’t think what else I’m good at. That you’d be interested in hearing about, anyway, being a lady and all.”

  I snort a little at that – I am possibly the least lady-like person I’ve ever known – but know what he means.

  “You forgot one thing,” I reply. “You’re a good dad.”

  He’s quiet for a few moments after that, his fingers gently stroking my upper arm, chin resting on my head.

  “Thank you for saying that, but I don’t think it’s true,” he eventually responds, sounding uncharacte‌ristically serious. “I left it so long. I can say it was because Kate didn’t want me to come, that she didn’t need me, that you guys were doing fine without a bruiser like me waltzing in – but it wasn’t just that. It was me. I wasn’t ready. Kate gave me an easy out, and I took it. Can’t tell you how much I regret that now, letting Martha grow up without me.”

  I reach up and take his hand in mine, squeezing his rough fingers in reassurance.

  “We’ve all done things we regret,” I say. “Or regretted things we haven’t done. Nothing can change that – and as you’re actually only a man, not a god, you’re going to have to accept that. You were a kid yourself. Martha didn’t grow up feeling rejected or unloved, and Kate never felt like you’d let them down. And now you’re here – and you’re doing your best to make up for lost time.”

  I feel him nod, and feel his grip on me tighten slightly in thanks, and then hear what I think sounds suspiciously like a sniffle.

  “Are you crying, you big baby?” I ask, trying to lighten the tone by repeating his earlier question to me.

  “No,” he says quickly. “I just got some of your hair stuck up my nose. But, well … yeah. Thanks for that. Good pep talk. This is nice, isn’t it? Just the two of us, all on our own?”

  “I’ve had worse evenings,” I reply. In fact, in the last year, I don’t think I’ve had one as nice, but I don’t tell him that – it might go to his head.

  There’s a pause. A beat. I can feel his heart thudding from my cosy-hole on his chest, and I can tell he’s grinning as he says: “So … about my godlike skills. There are a few I didn’t mention. You want to make out? I can put a white shirt on if you like, we can go and sit in the shower like James and Vesper?”

  I can’t help but laugh at that whole speech. I have no idea if he’s serious or not, but the man is bloody funny.

  “They ended up in that shower because James had just brutally killed a machete-wielding maniac in front of her. All you’ve brutally killed is a six pack of Fosters and some dry-roasted peanuts,” I reply.

  “God, woman, you’re demanding! I saw a spider in the bath earlier … want me to tear it limb from limb with my bare hands? Will that be enough to impress you?”

  “Not enough to get me into the shower, that’s for sure. I’m happy enough here, thank you …”

  I am a little bit drunk, so it seems perfectly natural to match that comment with wrapping my arm around his torso, and tucking my legs beneath myself so I’m well and truly comfortable. He scooches me up closer, and we settle into the shape of each other’s bodies. We sit like that for a few more moments. It’s peaceful, and quiet, and eventually, starts to feel alarmingly like it could turn into something more.

  Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the gentle flirting. Maybe it’s the aftermath of Casino Royale – but I’m definitely starting to wonder how much of a disaster it might be if I let my hand drift beneath his T-shirt to touch the taut skin of his belly; or what would happen if I turned my face up towards his, and our lips finally met. His fingers are twining themselves into my hair as I’m wondering this, and I know he’s wondering it too.

  I can feel the muscle of his chest beneath my cheek; the firm line of his thighs next to me; the persuasive touch of his hands in my hair. Neither of us seems to be breathing, and it’s as though we’re in suspended animation: poised on the precipice of change. Of transforming our relationship into something else entirely. Something my body definitely seems to want, but the rest of me isn’t ready for. Might never be ready for.

  I pat his chest with the palm of my hand, and lean myself upright again. He’s looking at me with interest – not wanting to push, not wanting to force the moment. I meet his gaze, and smile, and shake my head.

  “I know. I feel the same. But I just can’t … we just shouldn’t. You’re Martha’s dad, and Kate’s ex, and
it just isn’t right.”

  He looks a little confused by this statement, and also – understandably – slightly frustrated. I feel his pain. I’m frustrated too.

  “You do know I was only with Kate for one night, 17 years ago, don’t you? It’s not like we were engaged,” he says.

  “I know, I know … but it still feels a bit … icky, to use a technical term. Or maybe it’s just me, using that as an excuse.”

  “An excuse for what?”

  “An excuse to avoid all of this. To keep my hands off you when I really don’t want to. To say no to that shower when I really want to say yes. An excuse to make sure things between us don’t get complicated. Because you’ll be leaving, won’t you? You’ll be leaving, and I’ll still be here, and life will go on. I’m already going to miss you enough, you big lug – I can’t let you start giving me multiple orgasms as well.”

  “Ah,” he replies, grinning in a way that tells me that although he might not agree with me, he’s letting me off the hook – for now at least. “You have heard about my godlike skills, after all …”

  Chapter 28

  We share a final lunch at the cafe before Barbara and Ron head back to Bristol. Martha and the other young people are in college, so it’s grown-ups only, and the cafe is usually closed on a Monday – they’ve opened up specially to celebrate the grand departure.

  We sit, and eat the shepherd’s pie that Laura has cooked for us, and talk about nothing at all, until the time draws near. The blessed time. The time of much glory. The time when I will wave the two of them off, and breath a vast sigh of relief.

  “This is almost as delicious as your shepherd’s pie, Barbara,” I say, trying to end things on a good note. In reality, it’s actually better – but that wouldn’t be diplomatic. Barbara’s shepherd’s pie was often grudgingly served to me, but when it was, it was also often the only food I’d had that day – certainly when I was still living with my parents.