The next major development in my life comes two days later, and is covered in fur.
Matt knocks on my door in the morning, just after I’ve got back from taking Saul to nursery. He’s shuffling, looking sheepish, and not quite making full eye contact, as is his tendency when dealing with humans.
‘Hi,’ I say, trying not to look annoyed. I think this is possibly the first time anybody has ever knocked on my front door, and it feels strangely intrusive. ‘Is everything okay? Is Laura all right?’
I gesture for him to come into the hallway, as yet again it’s pelting with rain. November is turning out to be nothing but rain.
His face creases into a huge smile as he steps inside, even the mention of Laura’s name transforming him into something completely different.
‘Yeah, she’s great – sorry, didn’t mean to worry you. I was … well, I was wondering if you could help me out with something. Laura was all for turning up with him in tow, but … I wanted to ask first. It’s a big responsibility. And you might be allergic.’
I am completely befuddled by this whole exchange, and it obviously shows on my face. Matt shakes his head, and apologises again.
‘Let me start over,’ he says, grinning at his own ineptitude. ‘Did Laura mention the rogue cat at all – the one that’s been hanging around the Rockery?’
The Rockery is the holiday cottage complex where both Laura and Matt live, in separate houses – although for how long, who knows? Zoe and Martha lived there for a while too, before they moved into the house next to the pharmacy with Cal. It’s owned by Cherie, who seems to have a habit of turning her holiday lets into permanent homes for the Budbury strays – now including a cat, from the sounds of it.
‘She did, briefly – she said he’d had a showdown with Midegbo and won. Sounds like quite a cat.’
‘He is – pretty much the biggest I’ve ever seen. A ginger tom, probably about three or four, but looks like he’s been in the wars. He was starting to make a bit of a nuisance of himself at the Rockery, finding his way into the cottages, chasing the dogs, probably worrying the sheep, planning world domination … usual cat stuff. The kids all tried to catch him, but he was too clever for them.’
‘Cats usually are,’ I reply, smiling at the image of the teenagers chasing a ginger phantom all over the gardens.
‘Yes. They are. Anyway, I did manage to catch him …’
‘Being a professional animal whisperer and all?’
‘Being someone with a lot of experience of cornering unwilling felines. I brought him into the surgery, and gave him a good look over. He’s a bit of a softy once you get close up – loves a fuss and a treat.
‘Anyhow – he’s not microchipped. No collar or ID of any kind. From the state of him, he’s not been living in a home for a while, and he’s been out and about getting feisty with the locals. The tip of one ear is gone, and he has a line of fur missing where it’s not grown back over some scar tissue on his face. I’ve called around all the local shelters and the police station and checked the pet registry, and nobody’s reported him as lost. I think he’s been stray for a while, and sadly nobody’s looking for him. I’m keeping him in for a day or two, giving him a course of vaccinations, and … well, performing the necessary operation to prevent a ginger tom epidemic.’
‘Ouch … that’ll make you popular!’
‘It’s only a small op – I’ll keep him with me for a few days, make sure he’s not a stitch-remover. But as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m here about what happens to him next … I need to find him a good home, and Laura suggested you, because Saul loves animals.’
I pause, and ponder this idea. It’s not terrible – but it’s not brilliant either.
‘Well, Saul also loves dinosaurs, but we’re not adopting one of those,’ I point out.
‘They’re extinct.’
‘I realise that – but … well, what do you think? What’s your professional opinion? I’m out a lot, and I’m busy. I’m sure Saul would love it – he loves Midgebo and Bella and Rick, and pretty much every other animal he comes across – but Saul is three. He’s not in a position to make mature decisions.’
Matt nods and looks thoughtful. This is easily the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and I’m finding it easier than I thought to be blunt. Matt is a straightforward man, which makes life so much simpler.
‘It’s better to think it through,’ he agrees. ‘I see too many cases of people taking on pets they’re not equipped to deal with, and it ending badly. But I would say this – cats are a lot less high-maintenance than dogs, on the whole. This one in particular seems pretty independent, very robust physically, and has a nice nature. Even when the kids were chasing him around, and Midgebo was barking at him, he never once scratched or lashed out, which is usually a sign of a good, stable personality. Maybe you could come and meet him, and bring Saul?’
‘If I bring Saul, it’s a done deal – I won’t be able to resist the pleading! If it’s okay with you, why don’t I pop in now, while Saul’s out? I must admit, I do kind of like cats …’
He gives me a small and understanding smile – like I’ve just made a life-changing admission – and waits while I grab a coat and an umbrella. I feel like I have the umbrella permanently glued to my side these days. It should be made part of my arm, like a cyborg limb. Robo-Brolly.
Together, in what I have to describe as a companionable silence, we make our way down the slight hill to his surgery, which is closed until the afternoon. Neither of us seems to feel the need to fill the time with small talk, which is refreshing – and leaves me free to save all my spare oxygen to use in the outrageous coo-ing sounds I make the minute I lay eyes on the cat.
He’s in a big kennel in the back of the building, next to a sorry-looking Dalmatian who I’m told is recovering from knee surgery. Opposite, there’s a far more feisty French bulldog, who is turning round and round in circles, so happy to see Matt he’s almost climbing the walls. Matt makes a few comforting noises, lets the bulldog lick his finger through the cage door, and gives me a few minutes to make the acquaintance of the ginger tom.
He is ginger – but with gorgeous stripes of so many different shades that he almost looks multi-coloured. He’s absolutely enormous – especially for a stray – but a lot of that looks to be made up of a very thick, very fluffy coat. His tail is fanned, a bit like a golden retriever’s, and he has bright green eyes set in a very wide face. His feet are all white, like he’s wearing little boots, and I can see the ear with the tip missing and the scar Matt mentioned.
He gazes at me that way that cats can – the way that says they can see into your soul, that they know all your secrets, and that they’d quite like a can of tuna now, please.
Matt has opened the cage door, and after a few moments of getting to know each other, he finally trots to the edge, and gracefully leaps to the floor. Once there, he winds in and out of my legs, purring and snuffling, rubbing his fur against my jeans and basically totally flirting with me. I lean down and stroke his head, and he leans into my hand, giving me a quick lick with a sandpaper tongue.
Matt’s right. He is a big softy. Also, I suspect, a big softy who knows a thing or two about human manipulation, and is putting on a good show of adorableness.
‘So,’ says Matt, after a few minutes of this dance, ‘what do you think? Take some time if you like. It’s a big decision, I don’t want to rush you …’
‘I’ll take him,’ I say quickly, tearing myself away from my new friend and standing straight. Because suddenly, I can’t imagine our little home without this cat in it. He is clearly some kind of cat Jedi, and has totally mind-controlled me.
Matt lets out a quiet laugh at my undoubtedly soppy expression, and leans down to scoop the cat into his arms. Said cat looks at me pleadingly as he is reinstalled in his prison, and lets out a few plaintive meows to let me know he expected better of me as I stand by and allow him to be jailed again.
‘It’s okay, sweetie, I’ll be ba
ck …’ I murmur, poking my finger through the door to touch his fur. He gives me one sad look before curling up in a giant fluffy ball, as if to say ‘yeah, right … I’ve heard that one before.’ I suspect he’s a cat who’s had a lot of humans disappoint him in his time. Or – just possibly – I’m reading too much into it.
‘Okay,’ says Matt, walking me back into the reception area. ‘Good decision. I think he’ll settle just fine, and I’m always around if you need me. What are you going to call him? Not that it makes much difference with cats.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, putting my coat back on, and smiling. Smiling because I’m genuinely happy – almost excited in fact – at the prospect of getting a cat. I really should get out more.
‘I’ll leave that up to Saul,’ I decide, looking around at the posters about worming tablets and neutering programmes and the importance of vaccinations.
I stay for a few more minutes, chatting to Matt about Laura and the impending life-changing arrival, and find out that she’s started back at work, that she’s feeling so excited it seems to be helping override the less pleasant physical symptoms, and that they have an ultrasound booked in a few weeks’ time. After that, assuming all goes well, they’ll start telling people their news. Until then, it’s their little secret.
Or, I suppose, mine too. Mine and the cat’s – because he undoubtedly read my mind and knows all about it by now.
Chapter 13
I leave the surgery and stand beneath the porch roof for a few moments, sheltering from the rain while I decide what to do next.
I have another couple of hours before I have to go and get Saul, and am fighting the urge to rush out and buy luxury cat beds and a box full of toy mice. Cats, I know, rarely care for such things – they’re far happier on the luxury bed that they find in your bedroom, and Budbury is definitely full of real mice that will be a lot more fun.
Instead, I decide to go to the café. Of course. It seems to exert some kind of magnetic force on everyone who lives in the village, and there’s little point resisting. Besides, I’m already halfway there, and I can get warm and dry, and eat home-baked bread slathered in fresh dairy butter. What’s not to like? Especially as the only bread left in my own house is half a packet of wholemeal pittas that are destined for the bin.
Anyway, I’m overdue a visit. I’ve not made it there for a few days, after my initiation into the Budbury Cake Club, and feel like I need to make the effort. Like if I leave it too long, it’ll be harder to join in again – like when you don’t use your earrings for ages and the holes are a bit healed over and you end up having to semi-pierce the skin. Or maybe that’s just me. I could, of course, start my Christmas shopping instead, but I don’t quite have the energy to tackle that one – plus I have to wait for payday at the end of the month. I already know what Saul wants – I trick him into writing a very early letter to Santa so I can be prepared – and none of it is going to be difficult to get. I’ve already half decided that I’ll probably combine the shopping with a trip back to Bristol anyway, as I really do need to see my parents.
Dad has stayed radio silent for the last couple of days, but that’s not actually unusual. He’s not a fan of mobile phones, and thinks social media is the work of the devil. He may of course be right on that one.
Mum has sent a few more texts, which are a strange combination of attempts at reassurance blended with a subtle sense of mystery – like ‘I’m fine, love, or at least I will be …’; or ‘Don’t worry about me – what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!’ Like that.
She is a drama queen, and I tell myself not to overreact. I always reply, tell her to call when she can, and make the appropriate concerned noises. But after a few days of this kind of exchange, I’m starting to think there’s nothing actually wrong at all. That she’s just short of attention and needing a moment in the spotlight.
My nan always used to call her Judy Garland, because of her tendencies towards melodrama and tears. Looking back, her combative relationship with my dad was definitely not helped by this personality trait. Maybe the fact that he always engaged with the script was part of the attraction.
It also made it hard to distinguish between her real moods and needs and the ones that she was playing out like a B-list movie star, placing herself centre stage in a kitchen-sink drama.
She was, admittedly, in an awful situation – the constant fights, the physical tussles, the ongoing battle for supremacy with a man who was supposed to be her partner, but only was if you added the word ‘sparring’ in front.
With them, it was never as simple or horrendous as her being a victim. They drove each other on to increasingly nasty levels of conflict. So sometimes when she was sitting in a tearful heap at the kitchen table, looking around at the smashed plates and overturned chairs, it was genuine. She’d sob and weep and her shoulders would shake with the pain of it all; at the grief and disappointment over what her life had become.
But other times, there’d be a strange sense of glee in her upset. The teenaged me would pat her hand and try and console her, and she’d look up at me, and through the tears I’d see it – I’d see that she was feeling like she’d won. That she was triumphant. It was all very odd and confusing, and definitely taught me not to accept everything she says at face value.
As I trudge my way yet again up the hill to the café, I make a small plan in my mind. I will continue to exchange these texts with my mum; I will continue to try and contact my dad, and I will definitely make a weekend trip back to Bristol to combine seeing my parents and hitting the mega toy stores at the outlet village. Simples.
I don’t pause and admire the view down to the bay this time – it’s raining too much to see anything other than dirty grey clouds and dirty grey sea. I just plod my way across the garden, which is starting to resemble some kind of marshland nature reserve, and push open the doors to the café.
The warmth wraps around me like a blanket fresh from the radiator, and the aromas of cinnamon and ginger tell me Laura is not only back, she’s already experimenting with her Christmas menu. This is a tradition of hers – and a very fine one. We all get to be guinea pigs in the great Christmas bake-off preparation, and I for one am a very willing participant.
Nose twitching, I glance around the room as I shake off my umbrella and stash it in the big holder Cherie has placed near the door. It’s made of wrought iron and is in the form of a giant sunflower, which seems cheery even when it’s full of soggy brollies.
I see Laura behind the counter, apron on and covered in floury fingerprints, putting together some bacon butties and garnishing an omelette. I see Cherie, standing next to her, waiting to take the orders out to customers. I see the customers – a table full of middle-aged women laughing so hard that I assume someone has just told the world’s best joke. They’re soaked to the skin, and have obviously been walking the coastal paths.
I see Zoe, leaving the counter holding a mug of coffee and a plate bearing some kind of muffin, heading in my direction as she exits with her takeaway.
‘Christmas muffins,’ she says, giving me a wink. ‘In November! God, I love this place …’
I nod in agreement as she bustles past, doing a mad dash over to the bookshop. Her hair is still massive and frizzy from the mad dash over here, and I anticipate it being the size of a Renault Clio by the end of the day.
I see Edie, in her usual perch on a high stool next to the counter, probably playing online Boggle on her iPad. She has an astonishing knowledge of arcane and random words that make her cackle in delight every time she finds them, especially if they sound rude. I thought she might pass out from laughing when she once found ‘fellatio’ on the grid.
I see Cal, Zoe’s boyfriend, watching her as she leaves. His blond hair is damp from the rain, and he’s wearing an actual denim cowboy shirt that makes him look like he’s about to engage in a spot of rodeo riding. He’s sitting at a table for two, chatting to someone with her back to me.
I hang up my coat
and make brief eye contact with Laura. She gives me a quick thumbs-up to show that all is well, and then pulls a weird face and nods over towards the tables. She looks a bit like she’s swallowed a wasp, and I have no idea what she’s trying to tell me. Cherie notices me from the other side of the room, where she’s deposited the breakfast orders with the table full of amused ladies, and makes a similar gesture. Her eyes are wide, and she seems to be nodding in Cal’s direction.
I nod and smile, and don’t question their behaviour too much. I know I don’t have Beauty Parlour hair and make-up today, so I’m not too worried. Besides, sometimes the Budbury Cake Club ladies are just plain weird.
There are plenty of empty tables, and I’d usually choose one as far away from the rest of the crowd as usual – that’s just been my vibe since I got here. But now, embracing my brave new world, I decide to aim higher, and head for the table next to Cal’s. Apart from anything else, he looks like a cowboy – one of life’s simpler pleasures.
I nod to him as I walk over, and his eyes crinkle up in amusement. I resist the urge to double-check my hair, but do glance briefly down at my shirt, in case I’ve missed a couple of buttons or something. Nope. All present and correct.
It’s only when I go to pull a chair back at the table beside him that I realise what’s going on. When I realise who he’s chatting to.
‘Better pull that chair over here, love,’ he says in his Aussie drawl. ‘I’ve got an old friend of yours here with me …’
I stare at him. I stare at her. And finally, I say: ‘Mum! What are you doing here?’
Chapter 14
‘What, can’t a mother decide to spontaneously visit her only daughter now and then?’ she says, sounding half amused and half annoyed. I recognise the tone – it’s her Disappointed Joan Collins voice.
She glances up at Cal, sees him watching our interaction, and lets out a ridiculous little laugh. It’s the kind of ridiculous little laugh teenaged girls let out when they’re busily flicking their hair at a boy they fancy. Mum has short hair, so she can’t do that, praise the Lord.
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 8
