She nods, and bustles about getting her white coat off and her leather jacket on, and eventually leaves – giving me a wink as she grabs one more whistle pop ‘for the road’.
I sigh a little as she goes, unfairly looking forward to an hour or so on my own. Barring customers, of course.
I never get time on my own, and when I do, it’s precious. Not that I don’t love Saul, or enjoy the pleasant, predictable bustle of my life, but every now and then, being in a room alone, without anybody needing me to do anything for them, is balm for an aching soul. I spent a lot of time alone growing up, and sometimes I miss it.
I won’t be lazy – I’ll do some cleaning, or unpack a new delivery of supplies, or order some cold sore cream online – but I’ll be alone while I do it. Blissful.
Unfortunately, the universe has other ideas, and literally two minutes after the bell dinged to mark Auburn’s exit, it dings again. I look up from my perch, and see Laura walk in. Her eyes have a slightly deranged look to them, and her pretty face is drawn and pale and … scared?
Chapter 10
Laura glances around furtively, checking for interlopers, before heading in my direction. She’s bundled up in a thick, hot pink puffa jacket, hands wrapped in black gloves that have skeleton bones painted on the fingers. I suspect she stole those from Lizzie, and I also suspect that they might glow in the dark. It’s started raining outside, and her hair is bursting out from her hood in frizzy strands. She tugs the hood down, revealing a severe case of hat head.
‘Hi!’ she says, her voice shrill and way too perky. ‘Is there anyone else here?’
‘No,’ I reply, coming out to her side of the counter. ‘Auburn just left.’
‘I know … I was hiding around the corner and saw her go.’
‘Okay,’ I say, calmly. Of course, I’m wondering why she was hiding, and why she sounds so weird, but I don’t push. I’ve worked in healthcare the whole of my adult life, and sometimes people just need a little space. If they want to talk, they’ll expand to fill the silence.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask instead, in that ultra-British way that actually means ‘I’m worried about you and don’t know what else to do.’
She stares at me for a minute, slowly peeling off her skeleton gloves, and shakes her head.
‘No, thank you. I’m just … well, I just thought I’d pop in and see how things are going?’
She doesn’t even sound convinced by this herself, and I see her automatically reach out and pick up a cookie from the plate. She takes a bite and pulls a face.
‘Not as good as they could have been,’ she says, frowning. ‘I made these at home to take to the café, and Midgebo ran into the cottage being chased by a cat. Poor thing was terrified.’
‘The cat?’ I ask, not unreasonably, as Midgebo is a very large, very lively black Labrador.
‘Oh no – Midgebo! The cat was a monster! Seriously, the biggest ginger tom I’ve ever seen. It chased him around the kitchen, trapped him in a corner, then as soon as his job was done, gave me a look, like “yeah, puny human, your kingdom is mine”, and strutted back out again. I’ve never seen him before, but I suppose people must have cats … I mean, a lot of us have dogs, don’t we? And Becca has those goldfish. But perhaps other people have cats …’
She’s wittering now, and doesn’t seem able to stop. I recognise the wittering for what it is: self-distraction.
‘Laura, are you all right? Auburn said you’d left the café because you didn’t feel well. Is there anything I can do for you?’
I’m thinking it might be bowels. The great British public seems, as a race, constitutionally unable to say the word ‘bowel’ in public without at least attempting to whisper it.
She bites her lips viciously, and I’m horrified to see tears springing up in her eyes. Laura is one of the most cheerful people I know, and seeing her crying simply does not compute. I know she’s had her share of hardships and tragedy, but since I’ve known her, she’s been such a happy soul. Kind of like Mary Poppins in café cook form, always upbeat and positive, and carrying a big bag full of everything you could ever need in life.
‘Yes. No. Maybe … is the chemist like a doctor? Or a priest? Or Vegas?’ she asks, in a tumble of words, all falling over each other.
‘You mean, are there rules about confidentiality?’
She nods, her curls bobbing up and down with the motion, and the tears finally spilling down her cheeks.
‘Well, I have rules about confidentiality, and they’re probably stricter than any laws, so don’t worry. Now, come on, what’s the matter? Don’t be upset. It can’t be that bad – and don’t be embarrassed, whatever it is. I’m a medical professional, you know, even though I didn’t look like one when I walked into the café this morning!’
I intend that last line as something of a joke, and she looks pathetically grateful for it, swiping her hands across her face to remove the tears as though she’s angry with herself.
‘Yes,’ she says firmly. ‘You are. And thank you. It’s kind of related to what we were talking about then, anyway. I’ve been really tired recently, and was just putting it down to getting older and being busy and the fact that I eat way too much cake and not enough quinoa or whatever. But then me and you had that conversation, about how exhausting it is to have a baby around, but how quickly it goes, and how it completely and utterly changes your life, and how it’s both the best and the worst time you ever have?’
We’d barely touched on any of that, but clearly, in her head, we had, so I just nod encouragingly.
‘Well, after that, I was in the kitchen, making a toffee caramel sauce for the puddings, and I suddenly hated toffee caramel pudding. I mean, look at me, Katie – I’m not the sort of woman who hates toffee caramel pudding!’
The last few words come out in a kind of desperate wail, and I suddenly start to get an inkling of what might be bothering her.
‘Ah … so you’re wondering why you hate toffee caramel pudding? And why you’re tired?’
‘Yes, and … well, having looked at the calendar on my phone, I suppose I’m also wondering why I’m ten days late with my period as well … I mean, it probably means nothing. I’m probably going through early menopause. And I’m probably going to love the pudding again tomorrow. But …’
‘You thought maybe you should check? Just to put your mind at rest?’
She nods, looking forlorn and deflated now she’s finally admitted what’s bothering her, and I walk over to our high shelf full of slightly adult items – by which I mean condoms and pregnancy tests and other things that would make a teenaged boy blush. I grab one of the packages, then turn the sign hanging on the door to ‘closed’. I hope we don’t get a sudden rush – but even if we do, Auburn would understand.
‘Come on,’ I say, leading her through to the back rooms. ‘Are you ready to go? Or do you need that tea?’
‘No, I’m bursting,’ she says, managing a smile. ‘I drank a whole bottle of water on my way here, just in case. If you hadn’t been in, or you’d been busy with a customer, I’d have probably just weed myself quietly in the corner and hoped nobody noticed.’
We approach the loo – a common or garden loo, with a small wooden sign showing a gnome urinating on the door – and I feel her slowing up. Like a dog who recognises the entrance to the vet’s, and tries to drag its heels as you take him in.
‘No point waiting,’ I say, firmly but, I hope, kindly. ‘If you’re not pregnant, then you can start eating some quinoa and maybe take some vitamin D, which I can find for you here. If you are pregnant, then ignoring it won’t make the problem go away. And it’s not even necessarily a problem – just an adjustment.’
She snorts out a quick laugh, and finally takes off her puffa jacket.
‘It would be less of an adjustment, and more of a “holy fuck what am I going to do next?” kind of thing, really. I don’t even know what I want it to be … negative would be easier, and, you know, I do like my life as it is. But positive wo
uld be … well, it would be a baby, wouldn’t it? A new life. A bloody miracle …’
Laura rarely swears – at least out loud – and it’s a sign of what a tizzy she’s built herself up into. She hands me her jacket, gives me a brave smile, and says: ‘Right! I’m going in … if I’m not back in ten minutes, call the fire brigade!’
I nod, and tell her I’ll be waiting back in the shop. I mean, nobody can pee properly while they know someone’s outside listening, can they?
I feel jittery and nervous on her behalf, and calm myself down by checking up on our stocks of pre-natal vitamins and nappies. You know, just in case? By the time I’ve decided we’re fine for both, and dusted the already dust-free shelves they’re sitting on, Laura emerges from the back.
Her skin is still pale, and her lips are quivering, and she’s crying again. I don’t know whether it’s from relief at not being pregnant, shock at being pregnant, or a combination of all of the above. I fight the urge to run across the room and shake her shoulders, screaming ‘what was it???’, and instead just smile. Whatever the news, she doesn’t need some hysterical shop assistant getting in on the action.
‘Well?’ I ask, then hastily add: ‘If you want to tell me, that is. It’s completely fine if you don’t, I respect your privacy.’
She holds out her hands, inviting me to take them.
‘Don’t worry, I did wash first …’ she says, grinning, as our fingers interlink. ‘And it was positive, Katie. I might need to do another seven, just to be sure, but … well, I think I might be just a little bit pregnant!’
‘And how do you feel about that?’ I ask, keeping my tone even – she’s smiling, but I still can’t 100 per cent figure out what’s going on in her head. Probably she can’t either.
‘Well, I feel terrified. And shocked. And worried. Concerned about how Matt will react, and how Lizzie and Nate will react, and how I’ll manage at my age. How I’ll fit in work, and how that might affect Cherie. And I’m cursing that night away we had for Matt’s birthday, and all the cheap prosecco we drank that might have made us a bit careless, and that Princess Leia outfit Becca bought me for a laugh that made us definitely a bit careless …
‘And I’m even a little tiny bit sad about David, my husband who died? Which is extra stupid – but this seems such a big deal, and I really want to talk to him about it. And … well, there are a lot of problems. The house is too small. I have a job that involves toffee caramel puddings. I have teenagers. I have a crazy dog. I’m overweight and middle-aged and … oh lord, Katie, mainly, I’m just absolutely delighted! The minute that second line appeared on the pee stick, I was just filled with joy … I can’t believe it, still, but I’m over the moon. Thank you! Thank you so much!’
She pulls me into her arms, and we do a crazy, unbalanced jig all over the room, bumping into shelves, knocking over cardboard display stands, and generally wobbling and whooping and waving our hands around. Anyone passing by outside who happens to glance in will wonder if we’ve been getting high on our own supply after breaking into the Party Cupboard.
Eventually, we come to a standstill, both wearing matching grins on our faces – her hysterical level of happiness is completely infectious.
‘What will you do now?’ I ask. ‘Apart from seven more tests. And maybe you should make an appointment with the GP. And … well, I’d suggest having a drink to calm yourself down, but that’s not really appropriate, is it?’
Her expression momentarily clouds over – understandable, as I’ve just pointed out she’ll be teetotal for the next few months – but soon bounces back into happy mode. Then confused mode. Then frowning mode.
‘I need to tell Matt, obviously. I think he’ll be okay about it, but … gosh, this is a really big thing, isn’t it? I think I might need an hour to myself.’
‘Go to my place. There’s a spare key in the soil of the hanging basket. Excuse the mess, but make yourself at home – have a cuppa. Have a think. Take your time. I’ll be here for a bit, then I’m off to Willow’s to collect Saul, so there’s no rush.’
She bites her lip, looks through the window at the rain, and nods.
‘Thank you. That’s a good plan. Nobody will look for me there … I’ll just sit for a minute, and try and get my head a tiny bit straighter before I go and see Matt. Oh my … how do you think he’ll react?’
That’s a tricky one. The truth is that even though I’ve technically known Matt for a long time, I don’t actually know him. Matt is the local vet, and he definitely seems to communicate better with animals than people. Like myself, he’s a private kind of person. Always polite, always the type of guy you know you could count on in a crisis, but also always slightly guarded. Like he doesn’t quite trust you if you only have two legs and no tail.
‘I couldn’t possibly say, Laura. You know him better than anyone. Trust your instincts. And try not to worry – I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’
‘Yes, you’re right … I’m sure it’ll all be … shit!’
‘What?’ I ask, as she tries to hide behind me – a foolish decision, as she’s at least two inches taller, significantly more round, and has huge hair. ‘You think it’ll be shit?’
‘No! I meant – oh, hi, Matt! How are you?’
He walks into the room, accompanied by the sound of the doorbell tinkling, having clearly decided to ignore the closed sign. It’s starting to feel a tiny bit like a French farce in here now, with all the comings and goings.
Matt – tall, brawny, looks a bit like I imagine a blacksmith would look if I’d ever met one – nods politely at me. That takes approximately one nanosecond, before he turns all his attention to Laura. His face visibly softens as their eyes meet, and for a second I see a glimpse of what Laura’s Matt is like. Not the public Matt – but hers.
They share a smile, one of those smiles that makes you feel like you might just be invisible, and he reaches out to touch her amusingly large hair.
‘Cherie texted me,’ he says, simply. ‘Said you’d gone home sick? And that you felt repulsed at the idea of caramel toffee pudding?’
Laura laughs out loud, and replies: ‘Yes, well. I’m amazed she didn’t call 999 at that stage. I’m all right … I’m … erm …’
I feel so awkward, so much of a spare part, that I begin to edge backwards out of the room. This is private. It’s personal. It’s special. It’s nothing at all to do with me. I try and think up a quick and believable excuse for leaving the two of them alone that doesn’t involve a pterodactyl with the runs, but soon realise I don’t need to.
I am still invisible, and they don’t even see me as I skulk off to the back of the building, through the dispensary, and into the relative sanctuary of the stock room and the tiny kitchen.
I close the door behind me, leaving them alone, which technically I’m not supposed to do in case they raid our drug supply – but I’m convinced they have other things on their minds than selling asthma inhalers on the Budbury black market.
I stand still and listen – relieved when all I can hear is the low-key hum of their voices and not any actual words. I look around, and see that I am surrounded by unopened boxes, shelving stacked with trays of plastic bottles and random objects like a pricing gun and shampoo samples and an as-yet-unassembled Christmas tree, lurking in one corner like a festive ambush.
I lean back against the counter, absentmindedly wiping up some spilled tea with the dishcloth, not even noticing for a few moments that I’m actually crying as I wipe.
It’s not sad crying – nothing sad has happened – it’s just … girl crying. You know the kind – when you’re just feeling overemotional and a bit off balance and you don’t really understand why.
I let myself have a small weep – nobody can see, it’ll be my little secret – and then swill my face with cold water so I don’t look too blotchy.
I’m being daft, I know – I have nothing to cry about. Sometimes, though, you just don’t need a reason, do you?
I distract myself for a
few moments by washing and drying the mugs and spoons that are in the sink, and then tiptoe to the door to see how things are getting on. I can still hear voices, and some laughter, and then a silence. I’m kind of hoping they don’t get into some huge debate, or a mammoth life-planning session, and forget I’m here.
Just as that thought crosses my mind, I hear Laura shouting: ‘Katie! Katie, where have you gone?’
I emerge back onto the shop floor, and am immediately wrapped up in a big Laura hug. I glance from beneath her hair at Matt, who looks stunned, dazed, and utterly soppy.
‘He was pleased, then?’ I whisper.
‘Ecstatic. Honestly, if I’d known he’d be that happy, maybe I’d have done it on purpose …’
She smiles as she walks back over to Matt, who places a protective arm across her shoulders, and nods at me. This time, it’s a nod with a lot of warmth.
‘Thank you,’ he says simply. ‘For looking after her.’
‘Not a problem,’ I reply. ‘Any time at all. And obviously, I won’t mention this to anyone, until … well, until you make it official.’
After a few more moments of faffing, and Laura insisting on paying me for the pregnancy test she used and the spare she takes home ‘just in case’, they finally leave.
I flip the shop sign back to ‘open’, and watch them amble down the main street together, laughing and giggling, wrapped in each other’s arms. They’re a funny sight – her in the hot pink puffa, Matt in his far more sensible navy blue Berghaus – and completely lost in each other and in their own secret world. They don’t even seem to notice the rain, as neither of them has bothered pulling up their hoods.
I settle back behind the counter, looking on as they pass the pub and head for Matt’s surgery. I’m smiling, but I still feel a bit unsettled. A bit melancholy. A bit … just not quite right.
I can’t put my finger on what the exact emotion is, until I realise that I can no longer see Matt and Laura and their little bubble of intimacy and happiness. They’ve disappeared off from view, and now I’m just staring at my own reflection in one of the pharmacy’s tiny window panes. Rain is streaking down the glass, creating a weird optical illusion where it looks like my face has been chopped in two.
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 6
