Auburn is, as her name suggests, a red-head. All of Lynnie’s children were named after characteristics they had when they were born – Van had a wonky ear (it looks fine now); Willow was long and lean, and their other brother, who lives in Aberdeen, is called Angel because he was so cherubic. He’s the black sheep of the family – he changed his name to Andrew.
Today, Auburn’s hair is pulled back into a glossy ponytail, cascading down the side of her white-coated shoulder. She looks professional and competent, and every inch the pharmacist, until you notice the bulge in her chest pocket. That’d be her Zippo and pack of cigarettes, which she regularly sneaks out into the courtyard at the back to puff away on. She’s always saying she’s going to give up, and even put one of the especially graphic anti-smoking posters in a back window so she can look at it as she wheezes. The photos of black lungs don’t seem to have deterred her.
Next to Auburn is Edie, the village’s 92-year-old elder stateswoman. She’s tiny, with a face made entirely of wrinkles and creases, and twinkling blue eyes that belie her true age. Her white hair is recently permed, and forms a pouffy helmet around her head.
The other quirk about Edie is the fact she apparently believes her long-dead fiancé is still alive. He was killed during the Second World War, but there was never any body. Over the years, I’m told, she settled into a delusion that he was still around – and always takes home extra food for him from the café.
It’s the way Budbury works that everybody simply accepts this, and doesn’t allow it to get in the way of the fact that Edie, despite her age, is still one of the most active and popular people in the village. Nobody asks too many questions, nobody thinks she’s any weirder than anybody else, and nobody even blinks when she mentions him.
The two of them – Edie and Auburn, not Edie and her ghost fiancé – are currently sharing a catalogue of some kind, pointing at pictures and giggling.
They look up as I walk towards them, and Edie pipes up: ‘Katie! Just the girl! We were just considering a new range of novelty condoms and over-the-counter sex aids … what do you think? Is Budbury ready for that?’
I find myself blushing, and try to shake it away.
‘I don’t know … do you think there’d be much demand?’ I ask, trying and failing to not look at the glossy photos of soft-focus boudoirs.
‘Who knows?’ replies Auburn, closing the catalogue, standing up and stretching. ‘I think there are hidden depths of perversion in this town. It’s all sweet and sugar-coated on the surface, but there’s got to be some heavy-duty swinging and dominatrix action going on behind the lace curtains …’
My mind flickers back to Frank’s comment about spanking, and I blush even more.
Auburn, being Auburn, carries on regardless: ‘And you know what? That catalogue came in the same post for a brochure about Harry Potter merchandise we might want for Christmas! Imagine if they’d mixed up the two, and we’d got a Harry Potter-themed sex selection? That would be fun … Voldemort’s Length, for your Chamber of Secrets!’
I shudder, and try not to show it.
‘Well,’ I say, hiding my discomfort as well as I can, ‘you could always open an X-rated store in the back room, couldn’t you? Adults only. Ann Summers kind of vibe. Laura would probably make you some cakes in the shape of penises.’
Edie bursts out laughing and claps her tiny hands together in delight.
‘Oh yes! Buttercream willy cake! How funny – they’d flock here from as far away as Devon! We’d all become famous for our willy cake! Can you imagine?’
Sadly, I can – and it prompts me to offer a round of hot beverages instead of working further on our masterplan of filth. One minute it’s a joke; the next I’ll be selling fluffy handcuffs to the postman’s wife.
‘Been busy?’ I ask, as Auburn follows me behind the dispensing area. This is pristine and clean, with a big fridge and well-organised shelves and various containers and pieces of equipment; reference books with exciting names like Stockley’s Drug Interactions, a computer and printer for the labels, and a big locked cupboard that contains the heavy-duty controlled pharmaceuticals. The ‘Party Cupboard’, as Auburn very irreverently calls it.
It leads into a tiny kitchen area, which is slightly less pristine, and beyond that a stock room. We stop in the kitchen, and Auburn leans back against the counter-tops, pulling her cigarettes from her pocket in preparation for a trip outside.
‘A bit, this morning. Some repeat prescriptions for that lady who has a lot of problems with her arthritis, lives a few miles off? Plus some blue pill action for a bloke who actually lives much further towards Dorchester, but is obviously too embarrassed to get his fix locally. Few people came in for cough and cold stuff. Sold some of those hand-warmers you put in the microwave. But not exactly a tsunami of custom, no. How are things with you? Did you drop Saul off today?’
I nod and bustle around getting the cups ready. She sounds slightly edgy as she asks, and I know that’s not because of Saul – it’s because she’s worried about her mum.
‘Yep, everything is fine,’ I reply, smiling at her. Okay, that’s stretching the truth a bit – but it won’t do her any good to know Lynnie was having one of her wandering star moments. Auburn in particular gets stressed out about those, as the first time she looked after her mum overnight, she made a run for it and ended up in hospital with a broken ankle. Not her fault – but like most women, she lives to blame herself for everything that ever goes wrong in the entire universe.
‘Good … well, while it’s quiet, I’m going to nip out for a breath of unfresh air. Oh! By the way – I completely forgot. You got a phone call earlier – from your mum. Said there was no answer on your landline, and she’d been trying you on your mobile, and could you please call her back? If you’re not too busy. But don’t worry, nobody’s died.’
Chapter 9
Before I make the tea, I get out my phone and check it. Missed calls from Mum, yes, but annoyingly no messages that might shed some light on what’s going on. And as for the landline, that’ll be because I unplugged it and forgot – Saul called 999 a few days ago to tell the police that two seagulls were having a fight outside the house. They saw the funny side, but in that stern warnings about wasting emergency services’ time kind of voice.
I quickly look into the shop, to make sure there’s not a giant queue of customers waiting to buy hand sanitiser and Strepsils, and call my mum’s number. It goes straight to voicemail, and I leave a quick message saying I’m sorry I haven’t called back, I’m glad nobody’s dead, and she can get me on my mobile later.
I give it a few moments’ thought, then try my dad as well. Also voicemail. The landline just rings out and out, and I can picture it, chiming away in the hall at home, on the little table that has a seat attached to it – an antique relic of a bygone era when people had to sit at home and talk to each other.
It’s weird that neither of them is answering. It’s Saturday, so Dad might be out at the pub with his mates. Mum’s usually at home, though, watching the clock and getting annoyed with him.
I chew my lip a bit, and decide there’s nothing else I can do for the time being. And, as I’ve been told, nobody’s dead.
I distract myself by making the tea, and walk back through to give Edie a mug. She’s chortling away at the sex aid catalogue, and peers at me over her glasses.
‘Oh my! The things these people come up with!’ she says, wrapping her papery-skinned fingers around the mug. ‘Where do they get their ideas from?’
‘I really don’t know,’ I reply, smiling at her infectious amusement. ‘It’s probably best not to think about it too deeply.’
She nods sagely, and stands up to her spectacular height of five foot nothing. She’s dressed in her usual beige cardigan and matching tights, with sensible shoes and a fluorescent orange Vans backpack draped from her slender shoulders. It’s like Edie’s uniform. She downs her tea in one – decades of experience.
‘You’re probably right, d
ear … say goodbye to Smokey McChuff Face for me, will you? Thanks for this lovely tea, but I must make a move. Busy day today – I’m judging in a sausage-making contest in the big city! I wonder what the sex catalogue people would make of that, eh?’
I grimace, and wave her off. The ‘big city’ actually means the next village over, Applechurch, which is a regular metropolis compared to Budbury. They have three pubs, and a school, and their very own GP surgery. Dizzying stuff.
I try my mum again and get no reply. To try and stop myself from worrying, I do some stocktaking, and by the time Auburn comes back in with her own mug of coffee and a plate of café-made cookies, I’ve discovered that we need more cold sore cream. Heaven forbid the lips of Budbury should go untreated. I make a note on my little pad, and take one of the chocolate chip sin-balls that Auburn offers. I have no idea why everyone in Budbury isn’t obese – must be all the walking we do to offset the sugar.
I tell her goodbye from Edie, and carry on stalking the shelves, counting up boxes of Kleenex and wondering why chemist shops always seem to sell those lollipops that are made in the shape of whistles.
Auburn follows behind me like a shadow. She’s hovering so close at one point that when I back up to get a wider look at our frankly stunning range of scented candles, I crash right into her.
‘Sorry!’ she yelps, jumping out of the way, the word muffled by her mouthful of cookie crumbs.
‘Can I help you with something, Auburn?’ I ask, smiling at her to take any potential sting out of my words. Full of confidence and brazen flash on the surface, she’s actually pretty easily offended – like she’s waiting for the world to notice she’s not all that.
‘No … I’m just bored, I suppose. I’ve got all the prescription requests done for Monday; I’ve checked my stocks in the dispensary, and I’ve eaten seven thousand chocolate chip cookies. So now I have a massive sugar rush and nowhere to go. I talked to Van while I was outside, by the way, just to see how things were going.’
‘Right – everything okay?’ I ask, perching myself on the stool behind the counter. Just in case we get a mad flood of customers – and also to stop Auburn from invading my personal space. I’m very protective of my personal space.
‘Yep. Mum’s teaching Saul how to knit. He says he’s going to make you a scarf for Christmas. And Van says he asked you out for a drink and you said no.’
‘I didn’t say no. I said maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t. Was he upset? I didn’t mean to upset him. I just … didn’t want to agree to something I wasn’t sure about.’
She grins, full wattage, and seems delighted with it all. Van is her big brother, but not by much, and there’s a definite sibling rivalry that age and maturity hasn’t managed to erase.
I’m an only child, and being involved with big families is always a magical mystery tour for me – no matter how old they get, there always seems to be part of them that stays feral, and wants to hold the other one down on the floor while they dribble spit on their faces.
‘No, he’s not upset. In fact I think you’ve accidentally mastered the art of treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen without even trying. Most people would just lie to get out of something.’
‘I don’t think I have the imagination to lie,’ I reply, quietly. ‘And I spent too much of my life tiptoeing around other people’s feelings to feel comfortable with it. Not so long ago, I’d have just said yes to please him.’
‘But not now?’ she asks, one eyebrow arched up in question.
‘No. Not now. Anyway, what lie would you have told?’
She narrows her eyes slightly, as though she’s letting me know that she knows that I’m changing the conversation, steering it away from any personal revelations. I nod, to show that I know that she knows, and that I’m not about to start spilling my guts like I’m on The Jeremy Kyle Show. Budbury, for all its many charms, is not a great respecter of privacy. So, we both know what we know – and leave it at that.
‘Well,’ she replies, staring off into space as she thinks about it, ‘there are a variety of lies that would suit that scenario. If you’d met him in a club, you could give him a fake phone number. And a fake name. I used to pretend I was a nurse called Lorraine when I met men for the first time. This is different, though … you’d have to go for either something halfway believable, or a complete whopper.’
‘Examples, please. I live to learn at the knees of Lorraine.’
‘Okay – well, halfway believable. Tell him you’re a lesbian.’
‘What?? Do I look like I might be a lesbian?’
She bursts out laughing, and I have to join in.
‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that,’ I add. ‘And it has its appeal – I could be the only gay in the village.’
‘That we know of,’ replies Auburn, nodding like she’s stumbled across the world’s greatest conspiracy theory. ‘Statistically, there must be some. I should probably organise an official survey. And lesbians, I believe, can look like absolutely anybody – so that’s a daft comment. Admittedly, you have a child – but you could say that was a one-off, and you’ve since had a personal epiphany of a Sapphic persuasion.’
‘I could, if I knew what that meant. All right. That’s one – how about the complete whopper?’
‘Those are more fun,’ she says, unwrapping a whistle-shaped lollipop and pausing to blow through it. ‘You could say you’re a nun on sabbatical. Or that you have a terrible sexually transmitted disease that’s made your lady parts fall off. Or that your dog ate your foot. Or wait until the night you were supposed to go out, and say a giant pterodactyl shat on your head.’
‘Or,’ I reply, taking the lollipop out of her hand and throwing it into the bin – the last thing she needs is more sugar – ‘I could just be honest. I’m really not at a point in my life where I want to be dating. Not that it was a date. Not that he implied that. Not that I’m being up myself, and assuming he’s interested in me that way. Because I’m sure he’s not – he’s a very attractive man, and there’s no way he’d fancy me. And even if he did, I’m not saying that I fancy him. Even though he is very attractive. And …’
I run out of steam at that point, which is a good thing, as Auburn is already practically wetting herself laughing at me.
‘Aye aye, Captain Careful,’ she says, giving me a mock salute. ‘Message received, over and out – you’re not interested. Even if he was interested. Which is all very interesting. And as he’s my big bro, and I still think of him in terms of sweaty socks and acne, I can understand you saying no. But if not him, then what about someone else? I mean, you’ve been here for ages, and presumably single for ages, and … well, don’t you need a shag by now?’
She looks genuinely bewildered by the concept of someone being celibate for this long. Auburn, for all her bluster, is actually almost as guarded as me when it comes to her emotions – she covers them up under layers of sarcasm and nonsense.
She’s the same with her personal history – I know she lived away from home for over a decade, travelling and working, in South America and Asia and Europe. There must have been significant others, but she’s never talked about them. Now, she seems to have a selection of blokes she refers to as her ‘he-man harem’, who she occasionally pays visits to. Presumably not to discuss the meaning of life.
I shrug and try to look nonchalant.
‘I’m the mother of a very active small child. That changes everything. For a start, I’m too tired to even think about sex, never mind actually do it. And … well, maybe I’m just not built like you, Auburn. You can separate sex and feelings. That’s never been my strong point, and life is already complicated enough without throwing that into the mix. For now, I’m content with things the way they are.’
She ponders that, and nods.
‘You’re right. Separating emotions from pretty much everything else is one of my strong suits. And I get what you’re saying – but Saul won’t be around as a human shield forever, will he?’
I’m not keen on that phrase, but let it pass. She doesn’t mean any harm by it, I know.
‘Nope. And maybe when he’s left home, I’ll turn into a nymphomaniac to make up for lost time. At the moment … well, I’m too busy washing pterodactyl poo from my hair, aren’t I?’
‘That’s the spirit!’ she says, patting my hand. ‘By George, I think she’s got it!’
She gazes outside, at the quiet main street that flows through Budbury, which is sleepy even on a Saturday. I know she’s thinking about her mum, and what’s going on at home. She usually stays until just after lunchtime, to be available for pharmacist duties, and it’s now almost twelve. Crikey, I think – I’ve managed to go to the in-bed Beauty Parlour, show off my new image at the café, say no to a not-really-a-date with a hot man, drop off Saul, and look at sex aids with a nonagenarian already this morning.
‘Why don’t you go home?’ I suggest, following her gaze. ‘I think we’ve had our rush. If anyone comes in with a prescription, I can tell them to collect it on Monday. Or if it’s urgent, I’ll call you and you can come back. I can lock up at three and meet you back at the cottage.’
She bites her lip, and I can see her weighing it up in her mind.
‘If that’s okay with you, I think I might,’ she replies. ‘Van said Willow had headed off to the café to help out – Laura wasn’t feeling too good, apparently – so that might not be a bad idea.’
She sees the concerned look sprout on my face – I can’t help it – and quickly adds: ‘They’re fine, honest! Mum and Saul are knitting, and Van’s watching football on the telly. Everything’s good. But … if it’s all right with you, I might head off, yeah. Need to walk off those cookies, apart from anything else!’
‘Yep. Walk away from the whistle pops, and make a move. I’ll see you later.’
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 5
