Sunshine at the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I glance at the clock on the nightstand, and let out a self-mocking snort. Willow Longville. Party animal. Completely exhausted and already tucked up in bed – at 8.38 p.m.

  Bella waits until I’m settled, then leaps nimbly up onto the bed. She circles several times, then curls up in a ball right next to my head, as though she’s a human claiming the other pillow.

  I let my hand rest on the warm fur of her back, and feel the comforting rise and fall of her breath. I wonder if she’ll dream about Rick Grimes. And I wonder if I’ll dream about Tom Mulligan, the famous inventor of the even-more famous flange bracket.

  I may fall asleep pathetically early, but I do at least fall asleep with a smile on my lips.

  Chapter 6

  I finish polishing the banister and stand back to admire it. I’ve used a beeswax mixture, and the wood feels soft and smooth and silky beneath my fingers. I lean forward and take a quick sniff – divine. It smells like honey, and would be Winnie the Pooh’s most favourite banister in the whole world.

  I walk up to the next floor, and stroke the big, oval wooden ball, which I note with satisfaction I can now see my face in. A weird, stretched bit of my face, but all the same it feels good to have helped Briarwood heal a little.

  There’s one of these oval wooden balls at the end of each curving level, and although they may well have a proper name, I always think of them as the Pineapple-Shaped Bottom-Stoppers.

  With hindsight, sliding down these banisters was probably dangerous. But a big house full of kids is always going to present a health and safety challenge, and I know I spent many happy hours whizzing up and down them. As soon as I finished the full set of slides, I’d gallop back up all the stairs with that endless fizzing energy that very young people have.

  By that stage, only Angel was still keeping me company on the slide-a-thon, and even then only when the older two weren’t looking. Auburn was way too cool for such nonsense at fourteen, and Van had given up that particular vice after a close encounter with one of the Pineapple-Shaped Bottom-Stoppers left him near-crippled in the goolies department. I fear I may have screeched with laughter on that occasion, as he rolled around the floor cupping his precious man-parts.

  It’s odd, remembering all of this. Some of it – the practicalities of day-to-day life, school, bedtime, boring stuff – is hazy. But other scenes are crisp and clear, frozen in time like little tableaux, as though they’ve been captured for posterity in my brain: carved into it like those little frescos of Roman Gods you see in museums. Except we’d be Roman street urchins, with smudged faces and tattered togas.

  I’m still stroking the wood when I hear the familiar ‘woof’ that announces the presence of Rick Grimes, and the sound of footsteps on the floorboards as Tom follows him into the building. He looks up, and I pop my head over the rail, waving.

  ‘Hellooooo down there!’ I shout, as Rick gallops up the stairs three at a time to be reunited with Bella. ‘I’m just upstairs, fondling wood!’

  He raises his eyebrows and smirks, and I realise a nanosecond too late how that one sounded. Ah well. C’est la vie.

  Tom makes his way up towards me, and I note with satisfaction that he also can’t help himself – his fingers are caressing the mahogany as he goes.

  ‘Your fingers will smell of honey now,’ I say, as he makes it to the top.

  ‘Could be worse,’ he says, shrugging, and looking on in amusement as Rick runs from room to room, sniffing the ground until he finds the one she’s snoozing in. I don’t know if dogs are capable of subterfuge, but if they are, she’s definitely pretending to be asleep right now.

  Tom looks down at the staircase, and sniffs the air appreciatively.

  ‘Thanks for this, Willow,’ he says, sincerely. ‘It’s already feeling much better in here. I know it’ll probably all get covered in dust and sawdust during the work, but I’m glad to see at least a bit of it coming back to life. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Well, it makes sense to me,’ I reply, screwing the lid back on the beeswax as I talk. ‘But I have famously low standards when it comes to making sense. I’ve finished all the windows, cleaned all the sinks in the boys’ bedrooms, and given all the hallways a sweep. Before I waste my time buffing floorboards or anything, why don’t you tell me a bit more about what you’re planning to do? I’d be really interested in hearing it anyway.’

  ‘Really? You would? Haven’t you got anything better to be doing?’

  ‘Well, I was supposed to be adjudicating a naked mud bath wrestling contest between Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling this lunch time …’

  ‘Ah. To see which one wins the Ultimate Battle of the Ryans?’

  ‘That’s the one. But I can put them off until another time. Besides, they’ll never beat the Ultimate Battle of the Bruces – Willis vs Lee. That was a real humdinger. Karate chops, sub-machine guns, vest tops, the lot.’

  ‘Wow. Yippe-kay-ay, motherfucker,’ he replies, doing a more-than-passable John McClane impression. He leans down, and helps me gather all the cloths and dusters together. I pack them back into the bag I wear tied stylishly around my waist, and pause to admire his Goonies T-shirt as I do so. He has his Converse tied today, and his dark hair looks damp. I wonder if he’s been in the pond again, but don’t ask.

  ‘Well,’ he says, walking along the corridor and gesturing for me to follow. ‘I’m not entirely sure yet. I don’t even really know what I’m going to do with the place. It’s too big for me on my own, but I’m hardly in a position to fill it with friends and family, being a poor little orphan boy with a limited social circle. I suppose I’m still playing with ideas – mainly, using it as a retreat for young geniuses in need of free board and lodging, away from the temptations of the bright lights and wi-fi?’

  ‘Okay. Like, some kind of charity for brainiacs?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so … I mean. I have the money. It’s not like I’ve blown it all on Aston Martins and private jets. I have four patents that have paid off, and a couple more pending. I’ve already come up with a few more ideas since I’ve been here – basically because there’s nothing much else to do. So if it’s had that effect on me, it might work for others.’

  I nod, and follow him along the hallway. He peeks into the rooms, smiling wryly as we look into the one that used to be his, and I practically see the cogs of his super-tuned brain turning. He’s almost purring with intellect, which is strangely sexy.

  ‘I think I’ll have to get some of the floorboards replaced,’ he says, as we make our way down the stairs again. ‘Some will be okay if they’re sanded down and polished. Once the damp-proofing’s sorted, and I’ve had the roof looked at, I can start properly.’

  ‘And this …’ he says, as we reach the big main hallway and lobby area. ‘This just needs a really good redesign. There’s loads of space, but it still feels a bit dark and oppressive. I think I might knock through those little rooms there – the ones that used to be the cloakrooms – and open it all out a bit. Then there’s the big hall, which we used as a dining room – it’s huge, but gloomy. I need to fix that.’

  He carries on talking me through his ideas, sometimes adjusting them as he goes, and I actually start to see it: a complete facelift that manages to keep the building’s sense of history and character, but fills it with light and fresh purpose. He comes to life as he speaks, and so do his hands – he’s waving them around, gesturing at the ceiling, pointing into rooms, opening doors and gesticulating. He’s lost in his own imagination, and it seems to be a good place.

  ‘What about the office and the living quarters?’ I ask, as we approach the end of the hallway. I can still half imagine Mr and Mrs F in here, whiling away their nights singing Gilbert and Sullivan operettas to each other by the light of the silvery moon.

  ‘Not sure …’ he replies, frowning as he looks into the abandoned room. Its ‘life, interrupted’ vibe is still quite heavy, and I decide to tackle this part of the house next. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be staying, or just settin
g it all up and heading back to London.’

  ‘Ah. The irresistible allure of the kebab shops and tube stations?’

  ‘More the irresistible allure of what I’m used to, I suppose. It’s amazing how much solitude you can find in a place like London – literally millions of people, but not a single one interested in you at all. That’s what I’m used to.’

  ‘Well if you stay here for any length of time, you’ll need to get used to the opposite – literally dozens of people, and every single one of them fascinated by you. Talking of which, you should come to the café. I’m thinking tomorrow, after the lunch rush – by which I mean eight people eating ham toasties. Come along and meet everyone. It’ll happen sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.’

  He shuffles from foot to foot, rifling through the old paperbacks, nodding vaguely but not actually answering. It doesn’t take telepathic powers to realise he’s about as keen on that idea as having all his teeth removed without anaesthetic.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he says, when I prompt him by poking him on the back of the head with a feather duster. ‘I mean … I couldn’t leave Rick alone for long, could I?’

  ‘Bring him with you,’ I reply, and immediately hold my hand up to stop his flood of objections. ‘And yes, I know what you said about him – and I believe you. I fully accept that his love for Bella might not translate to all his other doggy interactions. But it’ll be quiet, and the only other dog who’s likely to be there is Midgebo, Laura’s black lab. If Rick shows signs of wanting to eat him, he can stay outside – there’s a whole field for dogs, set up with water bowls and rest spots, like a canine crèche.’

  Tom doesn’t look convinced, and I don’t know why I’m insisting – I hate it when people try and get me to do things I don’t want to. I usually start speaking fake Japanese at them and pretending I don’t understand. But there’s just something about Tom that makes me think that if he broke through his own reluctance, and at least tried, then spending some time at the café with the Budbury massive would be good for him.

  I realise even as I think this how annoying it is – everyone who tries to get you to do something ‘for your own good’ always thinks they’re right, don’t they? Including me, apparently.

  ‘Look, you don’t have to – I get it. You’re happy out here in the woods, going all Grizzly Adams, enjoying your back to nature trip. But honestly? They’re all lovely. I’m probably the most repulsive and disgusting of them all – everyone else is way nicer than me.’

  He turns around to face me, and he’s grinning. Maybe – just maybe – changing his mind might not be out of the question.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he says. ‘As long as they’re not as repulsive and disgusting as you. I presume there will be cake?’

  ‘The most majestic cake found in this galaxy or any other.’

  ‘And there won’t be too many people? If I try and overload my geek brain with too many real people – as opposed to imaginary ones in fantasy novels – my head might explode. I’m too pretty for that to happen.’

  He says that mockingly, but he is handsome – just not in a way I suspect he’s ever really thought about. He’s all about the mind, this guy – but the mind is housed in a not-too-shabby package.

  ‘There won’t be too many real people, no. But … hey, I have an idea! Would it help if I made you a fact file? If you can keep all the different houses in Game of Thrones straight, I’m sure you can manage this. I could do you a round-up in advance, and you could … I don’t know, make yourself a spreadsheet or whatever it is people like you do to process information?’

  ‘Usually I just insert the memory card directly into my biological data portal.’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask where that is …’

  He winks at me in an exaggerated ‘Carry On’ fashion, which makes me laugh out loud.

  ‘But yes,’ he continues, looking slightly more serious. ‘Something like that probably would help me, a bit. I’d feel less like I was walking into a booby trap, and it might stop me doing this brilliantly cool thing I do where I stare at my own feet and walk into walls.’

  ‘That’s all right. We won’t mind if you do … but if you think it’ll help, I’ll do it tonight. I’ll just cancel that Ultimate Battle of the Hughs – Jackman vs Grant – and write an epic account of life in Budbury. Give me your email address before I leave.’

  I glance at my watch and see that I should actually be leaving pretty soon. It’s almost a thirty-mile round trip to get my mum from the day centre, and I have to help Laura cover the lunch shift at the café as well. The rock and roll never stops.

  ‘I need to be going soon,’ I say to Tom, who immediately nods and looks business-like again. ‘But before I leave, promise me one thing …’

  ‘Maybe. What is it?’ he frowns, looking a tiny bit suspicious.

  ‘You know you said one of the reasons you came here was to try and loosen up a bit?’

  ‘Ye-es …’

  ‘Well, I’m a bit of an expert in loosening up, and I have a task for you. Perhaps see me as your chilling-out doctor, and this as your first lesson in your free-spirit quest.’

  He narrows his eyes, and waits for me to continue, obviously not willing to commit himself until he hears what my first prescription is.

  ‘This afternoon, Mr Mulligan, I want you to go to the top floor of this house – and slide all the way down on the banisters.’

  He puffs out a quick breath, and shakes his head.

  ‘No way. I was never the kind of kid who did things like that.’

  ‘Well maybe,’ I say over my shoulder as I walk out of the room, ‘it’s about time you were!’

  Chapter 7

  My mum senses that a new project is afoot, and joins me at the kitchen table. I have my laptop open, and am working on the Budbury Bible for Tom. I’m also quite excited, now I’ve started – this will be a lovely keepsake for the future: a snapshot of life in the village as it is right now. A lot of our residents are elderly, and despite the fact that they all seem in exceptionally good health, they won’t be around forever.

  I’m also maybe more aware than others of the value of these records. Now, at this stage in my life, I have no problems with memory or mental confusion beyond my normal accepted levels – I’ve always been on the fuzzy side, and that’s okay.

  But one day, this might matter – I might be able to look back at it and remember all the brilliance that went on. We all take so much for granted, and if my mum’s situation has taught me anything, it’s not to make that mistake.

  It also makes me realise what a weird and wonderful collection of people we have here. Everyone is different, and different is okay – some people throw themselves into a new social situation with ease and openness, like Laura did when she first moved here. Others, like Tom, are practically paralysed with fear at the prospect. We’re all different, we’re all flawed – and there’s a place for everyone. Or at least there should be.

  ‘What are we doing, Willow?’ Mum asks, sliding her chair in to get a better look. She’s used my name in every sentence tonight, which she does when she’s feeling okay, and wants to reassure me that she knows who I am. She needs to wear her specs for this, and I anticipate a full-on hunt for them first. Instead, I notice that they’re already on her head, perched in a nest of curls. Score one for Team Longville.

  ‘We’re making a kind of … history. A living history, of the people who live here. It’s for my friend, Tom. The one who I told you about, who invented the flange bracket.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replies, popping on her glasses and peering at me over their tortoise-shell patterned frames. ‘Tom. You like him, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I do,’ I answer, wondering if we’re about to wander into ‘inappropriate conversation’ territory. This happens occasionally, when she thinks I’m a female friend of the same age, or her younger sister. I’m an open-minded woman, but seriously, nobody wants to hear their mum’s sexual conquest stories, d
o they?

  ‘But do you like like him?’ she asks, clearly trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Have you been watching the Disney Channel again?’ I ask, staring at her through narrowed eyes as she grins at me.

  She’s developed a weird obsession with teen TV shows, like The Suite Life of Zack and Cody and Good Luck Charlie. She often sings the theme tunes, but always get them amusingly wrong – I will forever remember the time she changed the lyrics of a programme called Jessie, crooning along with her own words: ‘Hey Jessie! There’s a sausage sticking out of your face … Hey Jessie!’ It was priceless.

  ‘Might have been,’ she replies defensively. ‘Damn that Disney Channel. I know it’s wrong, but it feels so good … anyway, I get the feeling that the inventor of the flange bracket is definitely more than a friend. Is he hot?’

  I sigh, and lean back, my arms crossed over my chest.

  ‘Mum, I’m not a fifteen-year-old cheerleader. And I barely know Tom – he’s just a nice guy who gets nervous around new people, and I thought this might help him. He’s a man who functions better with all the information.’

  ‘Nobody ever has all the information,’ she replies, quite accurately. ‘He’ll only have our version of the information. And I think you do like him.’

  I chew my lips, and decide to ignore her. Partly because there’s a tiny bit of me that suspects she’s right, and that’s a scary prospect. Budbury is full of attractive men, but I’ve just never responded to any of them in that way.

  With Tom … well, I’ve noticed his attractiveness a little more than usual. I tell myself that it’s simple biology – I’ve not had a boyfriend for well over three years. I suppose I was bound to crack at some point and give in to a little harmless window-shopping. But I need to keep it at that; between my jobs, my mum, and trying to save a bit of head-space for myself, there just isn’t time for anything else.

  Everything hangs together in such a fragile way already, throwing an affair into the mix would bring it all crashing down around me. It’d be like the last plastic bucket you attach to Buckaroo’s back – just one item too many for a poor donkey (i.e. me) to bear.