I feel quite weepy and emotional as I say all of this, and she reaches out to pat my hand, smiling gently as I half wail my woes.
“It’s okay. We all feel like that. It’s one of the secrets of motherhood – none of us know what we’re doing, no matter how much practice we’ve had. Every kid is different, and they’re always changing – just when you think you’ve got the hang of it, they evolve into something completely different, and you have to start all over again. It’s normal. But if you’re sure there’s more to this than meets the eye, you need to trust your instincts.”
“That’s what Cal said,” I mutter, glancing over at Nate, wondering if he’s listening in.
“Cal’s clearly a wise man. And don’t worry about Nate – he’s liberating some slave planet in a fictional solar system or something. He has no interest at all in what two boring old women are blabbering on about.”
I can tell from the way he’s leaning forward on the sofa, eyes focussed, limbs jerking around as she shoots, that she is right.
“Now, what can we do about all of this?” she asks, gazing off into the distance and twisting a strand of green hair around her fingers as she thinks.
“Have you tried talking to her? It seems obvious, but sometimes we skip that step.”
“I have. This morning. She called me a Nazi and gave me a Hitler salute as she left the house.”
“Ah. Nice. And you have no clue where it is that she’s disappearing off to after college?”
“Not at all. It’s not an after-school club, I’ve checked. And she’s not on the college bus any more. I know I should leave it alone, let her have her privacy, but …”
“But that’s impossible sometimes, isn’t it?” asks Laura, her eyes looking upwards, as though she can see Lizzie through the ceiling. “Because you love them, and you want to protect them. Look, I’ve got an idea … are you on Snapchat?”
I blink, and try and remember what that is. I fail miserably.
“No. I barely manage normal chat, never mind anything snappy.”
“It’s just one of the countless ways kids today communicate with each other. And it has this feature, where they can all see where they are – like a virtual map, with their little icons spread around it. Lizzie’s too savvy for such things, and knows that I know about it, so she’s gone into this thing called ghost mode, so she’s hidden. For when she’s round at Josh’s and told me she’s at school, or whatever. No big deal – as you say, sometimes you have to let them have their privacy.
“But if Martha’s on it, and she knows you’re a bit of a retard when it comes to social media, she might not have turned it off. That might be a way we can track her. That or tracing her phone, if she’s on android … but then you’d need her google account details, and …”
I am staring at Laura in astonishment by this point. Not only is she speaking a foreign language, she seems fluent in it.
She notes my confusion, and laughs.
“You’ve got to stay up with the times, kiddo! You don’t want to be one of those grannies who can’t even figure out how to work TiVo, do you?”
I stay quiet at this point. I am way ahead of her. I’ve never been able to figure out how to use TiVo.
“Okay,” I say, after mulling it all over. “So that might work. But I’m definitely not on Snapchat, whatever it is, so how does that help us?”
She makes a ‘top secret’ tapping gesture on her the side of her nose, like a superspy giving me a signal, and walks quietly into the hallway. I hear a few rooting sounds, and Laura shouting up the stairs: “Lizzie! Are you still in the shower? When do you want your dinner?”
There’s a pause, no response, and Laura dashes back into the room grinning from ear to ear. She’s brandishing an iPhone, and holds one finger to her mouth, pointing at Nate with the other. Ah. This is a stealth mission. Message received and understood.
She sits down, and swipes a pattern on the front of the screen, watching as the phone comes to life.
“She didn’t answer, which means she’s still in the shower,” she whispers, her head bowed as her fingers fly over the phone screen.
“She has Snapchat on permanently, just in case something amazing happens … they’re all suffering from bad cases of FOMO, these teenagers …”
I don’t ask, but she says anyway: “Fear of Missing Out. Right, here we go … user name MarthaMoo. That’s got to be her, I think. Okay, let’s check … yeah. She’s here. I’ve found her.”
She stares at the screen, frowning, and I feel a quick sting of panic. What is the map showing her? Has she run away? Is she back in Bristol? Is she living in a cardboard box under an archway in London?
“What?” I say, still whispering, but loudly. “What is it? Where is she? It’s bad, isn’t it? Is she with Eminem in a sex dungeon?”
Laura is taken aback by that one, which is fair enough. Crazy even by Budbury standards.
“Erm, no … not unless Eminem has chosen to locate his sex dungeon in Dorset. She’s down on the beach. Along a bit, by that old boat shed. Here, look.”
She passes me the phone, and I look at the screen. It’s a brightly coloured map, dotted with various illustrated figures. I see Josh – a giant brown beanie hat – at the Cider Cave, and Nate, a blonde lollipop head, located exactly where he is, and I see MarthaMoo. MarthaMoo has a solid helmet of jet black hair and looks a bit like Lego Batman. I take in the spot where she’s pinned, and know exactly where it is.
I pass Laura the phone back, and stand up.
“Right. Thanks for that. I hope you don’t get it in the ear from Lizzie – I feel bad for making you sneak round behind her back.”
“Don’t worry about it,” replies Laura, accompanying me to the door. “Sometimes, as a mum, you just have to do what you have to do – they can’t always like you, can they? That’s why we’re mums and not friends. Besides, hopefully, she’ll never know … good luck! Let me know how it all works out. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
I see her slipping the phone quietly back into Lizzie’s bag, and wave goodbye.
I’m heading straight home for some socks, proper footwear, and a bloody big coat. Then I’m going to find Cal. And then we’re off on a Mission Impossible.
Chapter 31
“So,” he says, as we stomp along the beach, “how do you want to play this? We should have a plan.”
He’s right, of course – we should. The sad thing is that I can’t think of one. We drove straight down to the bay, as soon as I explained what I’d found out, and now we’re almost there. It’s nearly five pm, and already the sky is an ominously dark shade of grey. The beach is completely deserted, and there’s a brutal blast of wind cutting its way up from the sea. I’ve forgotten my gloves, and my fingers are so numb they could get chopped off by a passing guillotine and I wouldn’t even notice.
“I know. But at the moment, my plan is to march up to the boat shed, and burst through the doors like something from The Matrix.”
He ponders this, and it seems to be amusing him.
“What?” I say, annoyed, “what are you smirking at?”
“I’m imagining you in a long leather coat, doing body swerves to avoid bullets and running up walls.”
Well, yes. Fair enough. That is quite a funny image. Hopefully there won’t be any bullets, but who knows?
“We could pretend we were just passing …” I reply, narrowing me eyes as I try and picture how that one would work out.
“Just passing and accidentally went into the old boat shed? Why would we do that?”
“I don’t know – because we’re keen boating enthusiasts? Because we’re cold? Because we need a secret place to talk?”
He pulls a face, and I know I’m talking nonsense. But that’s never stopped me before, so I plough ahead.
“We could say we saw a light on, and came to investigate, or … damn, we should have brought Midgebo! We could have blamed him …”
I’m saved further speculation by the fact that
we are almost at the shed itself – and as we draw close, I see Martha slipping out of the door. There are two big, wide doors that open enough to presumably let boats out – back in the days when it was in use – and a smaller one cut into one of them, to let humans in and out more easily.
Martha is, as usual, all dressed in black, and she looks like a ghostly shadow in the darkening light. It’s definitely her, though, blowing on her fingers as she walks towards the bike, which is perched against the wooden sides of the shed.
According to Laura, the building hasn’t been used for years, which you can see in the peeling paint and generally slightly haunted vibe it gives off. It would be a great place for a Halloween party, and I’m amazed that Cherie hasn’t thought of that already.
I speed up as I see Martha start pushing the bike away in the wet, compact sand – she wouldn’t be able to do that in the summer, when it’s loose and powdery. She’s heading back towards the village – and, although she hasn’t realised it just yet, towards us.
She’s heading our way, ear buds in, listening to music, living in that completely shut-off world that teenagers can transport themselves to so easily. You see it all the time in Bristol – teens crossing busy roads without engaging at all in any sense of reality, barely escaping death by car, not even noticing when horns are blaring at them. It’s a miracle the human race has survived.
I’m half walking, half jogging, towards her. Cal is right by my side, though he just looks like he’s taking a casual stroll. By the time our paths finally cross, she still hasn’t spotted us. We’re both wrapped up like mummies, and she’s not paying attention, so she doesn’t actually notice we’re there until I physically stand in front of her bike, blocking her path.
I stand there, with my hands on my hips, trying to come up with some kind of snappy comment and failing. There is one very brief, very hilarious moment, where her shock registers. She stares at me, stares at Cal, and glances back at the boat shed. It only lasts a few seconds, that look – but it’s there. It’s the look that says ‘shit, I’ve been rumbled!’
“What are you two doing here?” she eventually asks, pulling her ear-phones out and raising her voice to be heard over the wind that’s whirling around us. It’s a fine recovery, and I’m almost proud of her.
“Looking for you,” I reply. So much for the ‘pretend we’re just passing’ plan.
“Well, you’ve found me … look, I’m freezing my tits off, I’m going to head home, all right?” she says, gripping the bike handlebars and trying to set off again. I move in front of her each time she tries to wheel it away, like some kind of insane dance partner, blocking her escape route. After the third block, she’s getting completely exasperated, and I fully anticipate her ramming me with a full body charge any second. I will be left winded and tearful on the wet sand, bike wheel patterns over my face, like a cartoon character who has just been flattened.
She mutters a few choice words that start with ‘f’, and then yells at me: “What are you doing?”
“I’m stopping you from leaving, until we’ve looked in that boat shed,” I reply, simply. Cal, I see, has already made his way there. She turns round, notices him, and even in the dull evening shade I see her face go pale. Like I said, she’s been rumbled – and nobody likes being rumbled.
“It’s not what you think …” she mutters, dropping the bike to the sand and running after him. “Don’t go nuts, okay? Please don’t go all psycho on me!”
Cal has the door open, the wind blasting it back so it thuds and rattles against the frame, and I jog after Martha.
We all stand in the doorway to the shed, gazing inside. I have no idea what I expect to see – but it’s not a scared-looking teenager, huddled in a sleeping bag, a tattered paperback in one hand and a torch in the other.
For some reason, the first words out of my mouth are: “Why are you reading Fifty Shades of Grey?”
He looks embarrassed, drops the book, and replies: “It’s really funny. I needed cheering up. I’m sorry!”
I don’t know whether he’s sorry for being there, for getting Martha into trouble, or for his dubious taste in reading materials – but he looks terrified. Martha is casting desperate sideways glances at me, and Cal is looking to me to take the lead. Suddenly, I seem to have become the nominated Grown-Up in this situation.
“We can talk about sorry later. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 32
Less than an hour later, we are all back at Lilac Wine. Never has a place felt more warm and cosy and welcoming – the weather outside is now elemental, and I fear for Cherie’s roof tiles and chimney pots as the wind whirls and twists outside. I’ve switched the lamps on and drawn all the curtains, both for privacy and to make us all feel more safe.
The Boy in the Shed is sitting in the flowery-patterned armchair, looking madly out of place with his spider-web tattoo and nose ring, but also looking pathetically grateful. He’s clasping a hot mug of cocoa in his hands, and his teeth are still chattering slightly. Jesus. It was bad enough being out there for half an hour – he’s been living in that shed for almost a week. I’ve given him a fleecy blanket, and he’s tucked up inside it, big black biker boots popping out at the bottom.
I recognise him now, of course – from that night in The Dump. The night when Martha and I had Rebel Rebelled, and I’d taken her home in tears. He’d given me a bottle of Peroni, I remind myself, and didn’t try and stop me when I made Martha leave.
He looks a lot more vulnerable now. His previously spiked black hair is floppy and lank, and he looks less like a tough kid who could cause trouble and more like a 10-year-old who needs a cuddle.
Cal is back at Saffron, rooting out some spare clothes for the boy, and Martha is sitting on the floor by his side, like a mini-Goth guard dog. She’s glaring at me like I’m the enemy, which is a look I’m not unfamiliar with, so it doesn’t bother me at all. I can almost see the thoughts tumbling through her worried brain: How much trouble am I in? What will she do next? How can we get out of this? What’s the best way to play it?
“Right,” I say, sinking into the comfort of the sofa and realising how tired I am. Not just by today – but by the days running up to it; the days when I was worried that Martha was descending back into a pit of angst and grief and self-destruction, and even more worried that I wouldn’t be able to drag her back out again. I’m so tired, and I need sleep – but first, I need to at least start sorting this mess out.
“It’s time to tell me what’s been going on …”
I have my own mug of cocoa, but have taken the liberty of splashing some brandy in it. One of the few perks of being the nominated grown-up.
Martha starts to speak immediately, and I hold up one hand to silence her.
“No, Martha, not you. I can already figure out your part in all of this, and we’ll talk about that later – but now I want to hear from … what’s your name, anyway?”
“Uh … Peter,” he mutters, looking terrified. I don’t blame him – last time he saw me I was on the warpath and threatened to pull his nose ring out, and this time I probably don’t look much more friendly. I make an effort to smile, to get him to relax – he’s just a kid, after all, just a poor lost kid whose life is clearly not going well. I can spare some kindness, no matter how tired I am.
“Your surname’s not Parker, is it?” I ask, immediately. What can I say? It’s just the way my brain is wired.
He looks momentarily confused, and then his fingers go to the skin of his neck, and the spider web tattoo that criss-crosses it. Boy, he’s going to regret that one when he’s 60.
“Oh! I get it! Peter Parker! No, it’s not … look, I’m really sorry,” he says, sounding genuine. “For coming here. For dragging Martha into this. I just … I had nowhere else to go. I was desperate.”
I hear the sound of the front door opening as Cal returns, the brief howl of the storm outside before he closes it again, and nod at him as he walks into the room bearing a small
pile of clothes. Spider Man is tall, like Cal, but super-skinny, in the way of these young men today – the gear will swamp him, but it’s the best we can do at short notice.
Cal assesses the mood, and simply sits next to me so we can present a united front. That’s good – I’m sure Martha’s Machiavellian mind has already been hoping she can divide and conquer.
“Go on,” I say, after a sip of my cocoa. “Tell me about it. Why were you desperate? And be honest. I am completely unshockable, I guarantee it.”
Peter still looks shaky, and pauses for a moment, looking from Martha to me to Cal.
“It’s all right, son,” says Cal, firmly. “You’re safe now. We might look scary, but we won’t bite. We’ve all been young, and we’ve all made mistakes – and maybe we can help you.”
The boy gazes at Cal with something approaching adoration, nods, and finally begins to speak. He has a thick Bristol accent, and was clearly born and raised there.
“Yeah. Well. I suppose it started with my step-dad. My real dad … well, he went away when I was a kid. Don’t know where. It was all right – my mum was all right. But then when he moved in, the step-dad … well, it wasn’t all right anymore, so I left.”
I ponder asking him why it wasn’t all right, but decide that that would be too much. He looks as though he might clam up on that particular subject, so I let it lie. There’ll be time for the whole story to come out eventually, and it’s not exactly an uncommon one, is it? Might be that the step-dad was a wife-beating arsehole who deserved a slow and painful death. Might be that Peter was just a stroppy teen who couldn’t accept his mum had a new man in his life. Either way, the end result was the same.
“So, where did you go?” I ask, already suspecting I know the answer to this one.
“I bummed around for a bit, you know? Sofa-surfing. Spent a bit of time crashing in the park when the weather was good. Eventually, I met some people. They had a place … well, they’d kind of taken over a place, an old shop that had closed down. It was all shuttered up, and nobody was using it anyway, and we weren’t really doing any harm …”
Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café Page 21