“You’re really bad at taking compliments, aren’t you?” I say, grinning at him. I don’t get the chance to mock Cal anywhere near often enough.
“Well I learned from the master, love! The other day when I told you your hair looked nice, you punched me in the gut!”
“Yes, well … that’s different. My hair’s a touchy subject. I was just waiting for the follow-up comment about Duracells, or being dragged through a bush backwards. Anyway. You’ve done good. And I like your hair too.”
He idly reaches a hand up to touch his own locks, and ponders it.
“If we had kids,” he says, slowly, “they’d be strawberry blondes. I’m never sure how I feel about them. I always find it confusing, not knowing if they’re blondes or gingers, you know?”
“If we had kids,” I reply, feeling myself blush as I speak, “it would be an immaculate conception, and perfect for this time of year …”
“I know,” he says, giving me the lazy half-smile that does nothing for my red cheeks. “You’ve so far managed to find me highly resistible, which is miraculous in its own right – but maybe I’ll trap you under the mistletoe at some point. Then you’ll be in trouble.”
I probably would be, and I make a silent vow to myself to sneak into the cafe at night, and burn all the sprigs that are hanging at various weird locations all around the room. There’s even a branch hanging by the door to the loos, which is potentially disastrous – what if you were desperate for a wee and someone collared you for a snog as you went past?
“Well, I don’t have long to go,” I say, making light of it. I can’t engage in a flirt battle with Cal – he’d definitely win. “I only need to protect my virtue for a little while longer, and you’ll be jetting off back to the land of Oz on January 3.”
He nods, and looks serious.
“Yep. I suppose I will. How do you feel about that? About me leaving?”
That, of course, is a question I’ve avoided thinking about for a long time. The truth is that I will be devastated. He’s become my walking companion, my TV buddy, my drinking partner, my glamorous assistant in all Martha-related issues.
He’s boosted my confidence and made me feel good about myself; he’s tolerated my eccentricities and shared his own. He makes me laugh, gives the best hugs, and isn’t exactly hard on the eyes. Basically, I realise, he’s become my best friend – filling at least some of the void left by Kate’s passing. Without him, I’ve no idea how I will fill my days. And as Martha and I are due to return to Bristol in February ourselves, there is simply too much change on the horizon for me to be able to deal with it in a mature fashion.
“Oh, you know,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’ll miss you, but I suppose I’ll cope. Battle bravely on …”
He’s nodding, looking vaguely deflated, and I suddenly feel bad. I’m not being fair, here – glossing over things that have actual emotional weight, just because I’m a coward. I reach out, and slip my hand into his, squeezing his fingers.
“Truth? It’s going to be really hard, Cal. I’ve got used to having you around, and there’ll be a big, Cal-shaped hole in my life, and in Martha’s. But in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a bit of a screw-up when it comes to this relationship stuff, and I never seem to know how to express myself properly, or deal with heavy emotions.
“So I have this imaginary file, in my head – it’s not got a name, but if it did, it would be something like Stuff I Don’t Want to Think About Right Now. And every time something flitters across my mind that upsets me, I add it in, just so I can get through the day. You leaving? It’s one of the main contents of that imaginary file – it’ll be bad enough when you actually go, without torturing myself with it before it happens. One day at a time, and all that. Anyway … what about you? How do you feel about it? Surely part of you will be looking forward to getting home?”
I try to remove my hand from his, but he’s having none of it, keeping a tight enough grip to hold me in place. He’s stroking the skin of my palm with his thumb, and it’s not doing much for my powers of concentration.
“Looking forward to the sunshine,” he says, glancing out of the window at the snow, “but not much else. Home is where the heart is, they say – and I’m starting to think that’s true. I’ll be sad to leave this place, and all the people here. Sad to leave Martha. Sad to leave you, Zoe …”
I’m feeling hot, and bothered, and as though I’m wearing too many layers of clothing. The Christmas music has moved onto Band Aid, but I can practically feel Laura and Willow watching us, sitting here holding hands, waiting to see what will happen next. I’m quite keen to know that myself, as this feels like a strangely important moment – one where what I say will matter. Where what I do will count.
Luckily, I’m saved from the monumental disaster that I usually make of such moments by the arrival of Martha and Peter. They burst into the cafe in a whirl of noise and young people energy, completely disrupting the old people Magic Moment – which is fine by me.
I snatch my hand away from Cal’s, but know that Martha has noticed by the way she raises her eyebrows at me. I feel naughty, caught out, as though she’s the mum and I’m the misbehaving teenager. My blush levels reach critical mass, and I should probably start warning people to run and hide in their nuclear fallout shelters round about now.
“What have you two been up to in our absence?” Martha says, throwing herself into her chair, Peter next to her. “You look fabulously guilty.”
“Nothing!” I snap back, sounding so fabulously guilty that everybody laughs, even Laura and Willow in the background. It breaks the tension, and I decide to focus attention on someone else – anyone else will do.
“Peter,” I say, “how are you? Are you feeling all right?”
It’s a distraction – but it’s also something that needs to be asked. This is a big deal for him, making this move. Reaching out to his brother. Looking for change – putting himself in a position where he is vulnerable. God knows none of us like that.
He gulps, and nods, and hesitantly replies: “I’m okay … bit nervous, you know? I haven’t seen Mark for ages. And Lucy isn’t too keen. And … well, who knows?”
“It’ll be fine,” Martha says, firmly. “He’s your brother. He loves you. There’s nothing to worry about.”
She’s trying to be kind – but as my eyes meet Peter’s, I see his frustration.
“That’s easy for you to say, Martha,” he replies, not sounding angry, but definitely rattled. “It’s different for you. I know you’ve gone through your own crap, but you’ve always had so many people who love you. So many people who would welcome you into their lives, instead of seeing you as a burden. People who want to look after you, not cross the street to avoid you. Zoe’s here for you. Your grandparents would love you to live with them, even though I know you’d probably top yourself after two days. You could even move to Australia and live with Cal, couldn’t you?”
Her face changes with that last sentence. Her eyes flicker from me to Cal, and it’s her turn to look guilty. I know, in that one moment, that it is something she’s considered – maybe even discussed with him. It makes me feel hollow and anxious, so I refuse to engage with it. I whisk it away to that file of avoidance I was telling Cal about, and hide it.
“Well,” I say, not meeting anybody’s eyes and trying not to let it show that I even heard that last comment, “try not to worry, Peter. Give it your best shot. Don’t expect them to be perfect, none of us are. But if it really doesn’t work out, then for God’s sake, call us – don’t just move into the boat shed! We’ll always be here if you need us.”
Peter nods, and puffs out his cheeks in relief, and I hope that saying that has at least made him feel less desperate – less trapped. The more secure he feels going into the next stage of his life, the more likely it is to work out.
“Okay,” says Cal, decisively, sensing the change in mood at the table. “We better get a move on. All aboard the Dorchester express, guys!”
It’s Christmas Day, and we’re having a barbecue. In the snow.
Cal insisted, saying he wanted to give us a taste of his homeland, and who was I to argue? It saved me having a showdown with a turkey, at the very least.
We’ve already exchanged gifts, which was a much more pleasant experience than I anticipated. For me, waking up at Christmas without Kate was really hard – and I’d been worried about how Martha was going to deal with it as well.
With a hefty dollop of relief, I soon realised that she had clearly decided to at least try and enjoy herself. Neither of us was crying – and avoiding our own version of Oh Come All Ye Tearful was a real plus point as we began our festive celebrations. That might come later, I knew, but to start with at least, we were holding it together. Maybe for each other’s sake – but if it works, it works.
Cal called over early, bearing parcels in a sack and wearing a hat with reindeer antlers sticking out of the sides, and we sat in the living room in front of the fire, opening our presents. Martha had compiled a play-list of alternative Christmas songs, and in the background we had the likes of The Pogues doing their Fairytale of New York, Chrissie Hynde belting out The Pretenders’ version of Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, and Sonic Youth singing Santa Doesn’t Cop Out on Dope. Festive but weird – just like us.
Martha’s gift to me was my own David Bowie T-shirt – but a quick sniff test told me she had at least washed it first, and there was also a pair of cute peacock feather ear-rings hiding inside the folds of the fabric, as well as the latest Jilly Cooper book. She knows my guilty pleasures too well. Cal gave me a totally orgasmic antique copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, which I sat and stroked for a while, and a couple of paperback crime thrillers set in the Australian outback. I’ve always suspected that a pack of hungry crocodiles would be the perfect way to dispose of a dead body.
My present-buying has been a bit hit and miss this year. Martha is at that age where there isn’t much to get her that she doesn’t want to choose herself. I gave her some cash, which always goes down well, plus some books. Because it wouldn’t be Christmas without books. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I’ve managed to find a teenager-sized Postman Pat onesie, complete with feet, which she adored and immediately put on, posing for photos while she did the traditional heavy-metal rock sign with her fingers and stuck her tongue out like Ozzy Osbourne.
Cal also donated some folding money to the Martha Fund, plus a pair of new Doc Marten’s with tartan ribbons that she flipped over. They look great with the Postman Pat onesie. And between us, me and Cal have bought her some fine additions to her vinyl album collection – some Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, and a selection of Motown and Stax classics like Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding and Booker T and the MGs just to make sure she doesn’t get too miserable.
She’s bought him socks with Simpsons characters on the sides, and a selection of Australian snack foods that pretty much had him salivating immediately – chocolate biscuits called Tim Tams, some kind of coconut bar called Cherry Ripes, and crisps called Cheezels, which are like a cross between Hula Hoops and Wotsits. Nothing quite says home like a delicious spread of junk food, I suppose – I’d probably miss Jacob’s Clubs if I was deprived of them for long enough.
I’d struggled with what to get Cal, eventually deciding on a leather belt I found in a vintage clothes place in Bournemouth. It’s thick, tan, and has a huge metal buckle on it in the shape of a mightily-horned bull. For all I know, it was made in Taiwan, but it looks old and genuine, and like the kind of thing John Wayne would have used to hold his jeans up on a cattle drive. I matched it with a new cowboy hat – a plastic one, with Kiss Me Quick written on the front.
We are all wearing our new finery – onesies, ear-rings, boots, belts, plastic hats – as we pile outside for the food, as well as extra gloves and scarves and padded jackets. The snow has well and truly settled now, making the green in the middle of the Rockery look like someone snuck out in the middle of the night and coated it with thick layers of icing sugar. The trees and bushes are frosted and white, and the water in the little fountain is frozen solid. The sun is bright and the sky is a vivid blue, but the temperatures are low enough to leave our breathe clumping out in steamy clouds as we talk.
Cal has set up his barbecue in the middle of the grass, and is struggling to handle the tongs with his skiing gloves on. He remains determined, though, adding steaks and chicken breasts and burgers to the top of the grill, teeth chattering as he turns them, the smoke spluttering in the breeze. Totally bonkers.
“This,” he says, muttering under his breath, “is a lot easier in the sunshine, on the bloody beach …”
Within a few minutes, the smell of the cooking meat wafting around the gardens, doors start to open. Black Rose, Matt’s cottage, is the biggest of all the buildings here, and this Christmas has been playing host to pretty much everyone. He and Laura cleared out most of the furniture to create a big space for tables and chairs, and she’s been in her element cooking for her parents, Becca and Sam, Edie, Katie and Saul, and Cherie and Frank.
Predictably enough, the teenagers emerge first, all kitted out in what looks like new Christmas clobber, eager to let off steam after being cooped up with a bunch of adults all day. Lizzie has on the exact same Doc Martens and tartan ribbons as Martha, but hasn’t been lucky enough to win the Postman Pat onesie jackpot.
Nate, Lizzie and Martha immediately blow any pretence at being cool teens by starting a snowball fight, running round in the white stuff, clomping their footprints into the ground, shrieking and laughing as they chase each other. Little Saul toddles after them, and Midgebo starts to give pursuit, before standing perfectly still, big black nose quivering in the air. Correctly, he scents food, and instead gallops over to us in case something delicious accidentally falls off the barbecue. The smell of the steak means that he sits at Cal’s feet – in fact on Cal’s feet – and looks extra-pathetic for the next twenty minutes, literally giving him the puppy-dog eyes and pretending that he’s not been fed that day.
Laura has brought out a bottle of Champagne and some plastic glasses, and is merrily dispensing bubbles to us all, everyone milling around wishing each other a merry Christmas and enjoying hugs and kisses and sharing oohs and aahs over gifts. Her parents, who have travelled down in their motor-home to see their daughters and grandkids, are dressed in matching green gilets, which for some reason makes me laugh. They look like characters from an 80s sitcom.
Even a few of the actual holiday-makers edge bravely out from their cottages to see what’s going on, one family with young kids who immediately join in the snowball fight, one with a pair of Boxer dogs who do some balletic twisting leaps through the snow before adding themselves to Midgebo’s barbecue vigil, sitting on quivering hind quarters, stubby tails thumping away. Poor Cal is completely fenced in by hungry dogs now – one false move and it’ll all be over. Possibly even better than the crocodiles.
Cherie stomps through the snow in her bright red moon boots, and engulfs me in one of her super-hug specials. She’s wearing an ankle length padded coat that makes her almost entirely spherical.
“Happy Christmas, me lovely!” she says, when she finally lets me up for air. “I love your earrings. Christmas pressie? What else did you get?”
She fingers the peacock feathers as she talks, making them twist and turn until they tangle up in my hair.
“Mainly books,” I reply. “I’m easy to buy for. Can’t go wrong with a good book.”
“You do love your reading, don’t you?” she replies, eyes narrowing in thought. Laura passes by, gives me first a quick kiss on the cheek, then a plastic glass full of fizz.
“I do,” I answer, sipping the Champagne and grimacing slightly. I’m not sure chilled wine was what we needed on a day like today – it’s more of an Irish coffee day – but hey, it’s alcohol, so I’ll drink it.
“I think it’s from when I was a kid,” I continue, smiling as I w
atch the young people frolic. Nate has been pinned down outside Saffron, and is getting a thorough pummelling from the older girls. “It wasn’t exactly an Enid Blyton-style childhood, and books were always my escape. I just couldn’t get enough stories – and that’s never changed.”
She nods, and says: “I can understand that. And I’ve been thinking … I know you two are only supposed to be here until February, but if you wanted to extend that, I’d be happy to keep Lilac Wine for you. Or one of the bigger cottages, if you needed more space …”
She looks at Cal as she says this, and raises her eyebrows expectantly. Ah, I think – here it comes. The Budbury Happy Ending pitch. This place changed Laura’s life, and Becca’s, and now it seems like I’m next on the hit-list.
“That’s really kind of you, Cherie, but I’m not sure … I couldn’t just stay, without making some changes. Finding a job. Sorting out the house and flat back in Bristol. It’s a big decision, and I’m not especially good at those.”
“No pressure – just an offer,” she answers, patting me on the hand. “You and Martha seem so settled here is all. And as for a job, that’s another thing I’ve been thinking about … the book shop in the village closed down years ago, just wasn’t the demand I suppose, so I was considering setting up something at the cafe. I’d keep the bookshelves for people to read for free obviously – but I was thinking that a little concession wouldn’t go amiss. Like you say, you can’t go wrong with a good book – some mainstream fiction, local authors, poetry, photography collections for the tourists, maps and guides … even a cookery book or two!”
As she speaks, my mind automatically conjures up the images to go with it: the counter displays, the Budbury Book Chart for the most popular titles; a whole section on fossil-hunting and local history; nature guides; a Thomas Hardy shrine … they could even hold events, readings by local writers, poetry evenings. There’s not much to do around here, they’d be a highlight of the social calendar … and the cafe should produce its own cook book, crammed with Laura’s recipes and Lizzie’s photos…
Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café Page 23