A Gift from the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  After this initial outburst of affection, Tinkerbell becomes slightly more reticent – finding hiding places all over the house, and making his base camp in the dirty washing basket. Saul just thinks it’s a splendid game of hide and seek, and even counts to ten (give or take a six) to give the cat time to find a new spot, so that’s not a problem.

  My mum, after being open and honest that first night, also becomes a bit more reticent – although thankfully she doesn’t start hiding in the dirty washing basket.

  We have two evenings in, where I cook and she damns with faint praise, and we both shuffle around the small living room trying to be neutral. I’m struggling with her sudden arrival, if I’m honest – I’ve not spent this much time with an adult human being since I moved to Budbury, and I’ve definitely become set in my ways.

  I’m also confused by what’s happening with my parents – and the fact that I’m so bothered confuses me even more. I’m a grown-up. They had a terrible marriage. Why should I be concerned at all that it appears to have come to an end?

  I don’t really have an answer for that, other than change is hard. Even when it’s change that we know, deep down, is a good kind of change, a change that was necessary, it’s a tricky fish to land.

  So when she’s being especially annoying – dusting the TV stand when I only did it the day before; insisting on watching Gardeners’ World and making saucy comments about the size of Monty Don’s pitchfork; rearranging my kitchen cupboards so they ‘make a bit more sense’ – I remind myself of that.

  I remind myself that no matter how confusing this is for me, for her it’s a million times worse. Yes, their relationship was beyond dysfunctional – but it was theirs. It was all she’d known for most of her adult life, and suddenly, it was gone. She’d been rejected for a woman she would most definitely not have seen as a love rival, which also had to sting.

  She’s still not eating much, and still wearing too much make-up, and seems to have developed a taste for skinny jeans – all, I suspect, in an attempt to somehow boost her self-confidence. She’s still flirting with everyone from the postman to Scrumpy Joe, which is quite amusing to watch. Scrumpy Joe just looks confused by it, and asks if she likes cider.

  Surfer Sam responds like Cal, with a generosity of spirit that brings a smile to her face. Matt simply stares over her shoulder, as though trying to figure out how to escape. Tom, Willow’s boyfriend, engages her in a conversation about Jean Grey from the X-Men comics, which is a joy to behold – that’ll teach her to say he looks a bit like a much younger Hugh Jackman.

  She does, however, leave Frank well alone – she might be in crisis, but she’s clearly had the good sense to get the size of Cherie and decide to live another day. Not that Cherie would actually squash her like a bug – not physically. Truth be told, Farmer Frank enjoys a good flirt, and she never seems to mind, but my mum doesn’t know that.

  By the third night, we’re both getting a bit stir-crazy. Tinkerbell is housebound for the first fortnight on the advice of Matt, so he gets used to the idea of this being his home before he’s allowed out into the wilds, and he’s not especially liking being cooped up with us. I think me and Mum feel exactly the same, as I come down from the stairs after putting Saul to bed.

  ‘So,’ she says, stretching out on the sofa that used to be my spot, ‘I was thinking we might give Netflix a miss tonight. We’ve done Jessica Jones and watched the best bits of Friends, and I did enjoy that one about the president with Kiefer Sutherland in it. But I’m all tellied out, I think.’

  I settle down into the armchair and nod in agreement. She’s right – we have watched a lot of TV. She hasn’t seemed open to much conversation about any issues more weighty than whether Ross and Rachel were really on a break when he slept with the girl from the copy shop, despite my attempts to gently prod her into it.

  It’s like she’s built some kind of wall of unreality around it all, and that’s probably easy to do here – where she’s away from the house she shared with my dad, away from the risk of bumping into him in the street with Fiona Whittaker, away from the grim everyday-ness of her current circumstances.

  I understand that, and in all honesty I’ve been happy enough to just binge-watch TV with her. We love each other but we’ve never been especially close, and this enforced proximity is obviously taking its toll on us both.

  ‘Okay,’ I say eventually, jolting slightly as Tinkerbell makes a sudden appearance, leaping up onto the back of the chair and splaying himself along it. I can feel his breath on the side of my face, and wonder briefly if he’s planning to eat my eyeballs. ‘So what do you want to do? Early night?’

  I could probably go for an early night, I think. I mean, I usually can – because I will definitely be getting an early morning, and not much rest in between. I love the very bones of my little boy, but he is not an easy bed companion – he tends to sleep horizontally across the mattress, his legs splayed across my tummy, curled up in a comma shape so his face is always millimetres away from mine.

  Sometimes it’s cute, and I do tend to lie awake staring at his beautiful features, listening to his little sounds, simply adoring this wonderful creature. But other times … well, I’m pretty exhausted, let’s leave it at that.

  Mum looks at me and smirks. It’s an annoying smirk – one that says, ‘My God, what kind of a woman are you?’

  ‘Katie, it’s just gone half seven. That’s no kind of bedtime for a woman in her prime!’

  ‘Right. Yes. You have a point. So … what, then?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking I might go out,’ she replies, stretching a bit like the cat. My first thought is: brilliant – if she goes out, I can have the sofa. And the remote controls. And a whole bloody night on my own.

  My second thought is: hang on a minute … aren’t I a woman in my prime, like she says? And isn’t she the grandma here? And shouldn’t she maybe be babysitting so I can go out?

  As soon as I think it, I see that it’s a silly thought. A ridiculous thought. I mean, where would I go? What would I do? The café is closed. My friends all have busy lives too. I’ve not had a night out without Saul since … well, ever, actually.

  ‘Is that all right with you?’ she asks, arching her eyebrows. ‘It’s not like you seem to have much of a social life, beyond your cake club and work. Seems a shame for us both to be stuck in. Anyway, you have Tinkerbell for company.’

  The cat nuzzles the back of my neck on cue, and I realise that she’s kind of right. I am a complete saddo, now I come to think of it. Not even thirty, and already one of those ladies who spends every night with a cat. If I’m lucky, by the time Saul’s left home and I reach my own mother’s age, I might have fifteen of them and wear a dressing gown twenty-four hours a day and never leave the house at all.

  The weird thing is, if Mum wasn’t here, I’d actually be quite happy with that prospect – a quiet night in with Tinkerbell, I mean, not my ultimate fate as a reclusive cat lady. But something about the way she says it, something about her expression (I think the best word for it might be ‘pitying’), rattles me. Puts my back up. Sends me into a rare mood where I actually think, no – that’s not right.

  I’m used to taking the back seat, and I’m fine with that. I’ve never enjoyed the spotlight, never been at the heart of a dizzying social whirl. I’m usually happier alone than with other people. All of that is true, but it doesn’t mean I want my own mother patronising me because of it.

  ‘Actually, Mum,’ I say, firmly, ‘I wouldn’t mind going out myself. I never get the chance to normally, because of Saul.’

  ‘Oh!’ she says, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Why’s that? Can’t you get babysitters in this part of the world? I’d have thought all your wonderful friends would have been pleased to help!’

  There’s a definite edge of cattiness to her voice as she says this – and it’s a cattiness I’ve heard many times before. One designed to provoke and push and start a row. She wants me to leap in and defend my friends, a
nd give her the chance to criticise them, and for all of this to end with a big argument where she can slam some doors and storm out.

  It usually used to work with my dad – he was just as bad as her, and always up for having his buttons pressed. But I’m not my dad and she’s not my wife, and this is not her life. This is mine, and Saul’s, and I’m not going down that road, ever.

  So instead, I take a deep, calming breath, listen to the sound of Tinkerbell’s purring for some extra zen, and reply: ‘You’re probably right, Mum. They would have, if I’d ever asked. I just haven’t for some reason. That’s my fault, not theirs. But it’s different with you, isn’t it? You’re Saul’s grandma and he loves you, and I’d feel comfortable leaving him with you. But maybe we can do that another time – maybe tonight, you can go out, and perhaps at the weekend I can take a turn. How does that sound?’

  She bites her lip, leaving her teeth stained with bright pink lipstick – she wears lipstick all the time these days – and considers what I’ve just said. My tone seems to have taken the wind out of her sails, which is exactly what I’d hoped for.

  ‘Well, when you put it like that, I see what you mean. It’s not my fault you moved away, but I’ve not done much on the grandma duty front. I do love our little man, and I’d be happy to look after him for you. Anyway, I can go out any time. I was only planning to go to the pub over the road anyway, see if I could make some new friends … I don’t mind staying in if you have something you’d like to do, love.’

  Suddenly, of course, I feel guilty. My poor mum, trying to rebuild her life and her self-confidence, was only wanting to make some new friends. And I chose that exact moment to start being selfish about it all. I’m on the verge of opening my mouth to apologise and insist that she goes out instead, when she starts speaking again.

  ‘While you’re out, I could give the bathroom a good deep clean. I swear I saw some mould growing around the shower curtain this morning …’

  Let me make this clear: there is no mould growing around my shower curtain. There is no mould anywhere in my house. My house is very clean, even if it sometimes gets messed up by having a small child around. This is a mould-free zone, thank you very much.

  I look across at her and see that she’s staring around the living room – the very clean living room – with a critical eye. I follow her gaze and see that yes, there is a pile of toys left out in the corner. That Saul’s little art table has a higgledy-piggledy heap of colouring books on top of it. That there may, in fact, be one brightly coloured sock poking out from beneath a sofa cushion. But no mould, anywhere, definitely. I keep a clean house.

  I realise, as my nostrils flare in annoyance, that for the good of our relationship, it is suddenly very important that at least one of us gets out of the house tonight.

  I stand up, dust myself down and make my mind up.

  ‘Right. That’s great then. I’ll go out, and you can look for mould, and we’ll both be fine.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a plan. But where will you go – you know, in case of emergencies? And who will you be with? Everyone here seems coupled up already.’

  ‘Well, I’m not looking for a place on Love Island, Mum – just a quiet night out. I’m sure I can find someone to play with, don’t you worry.’

  Her eyebrows are raised again, and it’s starting to really wind me up. I wonder if maybe I could sneak into her room late at night and shave them off without her waking up.

  ‘Okay, sweetie, that’s fine. Even if you just go out for a little walk on your own, maybe that’ll help calm you down.’

  As anyone who has ever had an argument knows, being told you need to ‘calm down’ is a sure-fire way to strip you of any calm you did, in fact, have left. Again, though, I don’t rise to it. I smile sweetly and walk into the kitchen, where I spend a good five minutes crushing up recycling into small cardboard squishes. When you’re a single parent, you soon find healthy ways to release your frustration.

  After that, I’m left with a problem – I’ve now won a battle with my mother, and put myself in a situation where I have to actually go out. Minutes ago I was pondering an early night, and now I have to somehow dredge a social life up from absolutely nothing.

  I grab my phone, and consider who I can call. Even if it’s just to go around to theirs and sit with them for an hour. It’s still lashing it down outside, so I can’t even resort to plan B and go and hang out at the bus stop with a bottle of cider like a teenager.

  I try Laura first – a quick text asking if she’s up for a visit. She replies with the not unsurprising news that she’s already in bed, followed by a long line of smiley faces. Then I call Becca, but there’s no answer. I’m on the verge of trying Zoe, but then I remember that her and Cal and Martha are away in Oxford for the night, visiting the college Martha’s applied to.

  Next up is Auburn, who answers on the first ring.

  ‘Madam Zelda’s House of Bondage – whom may I say is calling, and what is your safe word?’ she says, before erupting into laughter.

  ‘Erm … hi, Madam Zelda. It’s Katie.’

  ‘I know that. I can see it on my phone. I was just having a bit of fun. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Well, I seem to have got myself into a bit of a predicament, and need to find a buddy for the night. Do you fancy a pint?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she says, dragging it out into a thousand syllables, ‘ordinarily I’d love to, but I was just out in the garden having a fag, and this passing pterodactyl did an enormous shit in my hair …’

  I snort out loud at that one, and she continues: ‘Seriously, I did actually just wash my hair. Not because of a pterodactyl or anything, obvs. I was planning on having an early night in with Mum. But Van’s around. He’s doing nothing more interesting than waxing his balls and painting his toenails tonight …’

  She says the last sentence with such obvious glee that I can tell he’s within earshot. I’m tempted to hang up on her, admit defeat, and let Mum go out while I carry on with a surreptitious mould-check in the bathroom.

  I hear a scuffle at the end of the phone, and the sound of Auburn yelping and shouting something about someone being officially the world’s biggest bastard. In a way that suggests she really, really means it.

  Seconds later, Van comes on the line.

  ‘Hi. Auburn’s indisposed at the moment. She was wearing one of those towel turbans on her head, like all you ladies do and men are incapable of making, and someone accidentally set it on fire with a nice lavender-scented candle.’

  I’m not sure if he’s serious or not. I mean, it sounds like a crazy thing to do – but my only-child mindset understands that in theory, siblings actually do things like that just for fun. The sound of a running tap in the background suggests that possibly Auburn is now dunking her towel in the kitchen sink.

  ‘So,’ I say, feeling a little unsettled by it all. ‘What colour are you painting your nails?’

  Obviously, I avoid referring to his balls. It wouldn’t be polite.

  ‘I’m thinking a nice shade of coral … but I’ll happily sacrifice my mani-pedi if you’re finally at a loose end. Assuming I read Auburn’s end of the conversation correctly. I’d ask her, but she’s busy right now. You know. Putting out the fire and all.’

  ‘Well, it’s not that urgent. I was just … wondering what people were up to. You don’t need to change your plans,’ I reply noncommittally. I’m not sure I’m ready for a night out with Van, now or ever. It all feels a bit too delicious. A bit too exciting. A bit too scary.

  ‘In fact I think I might stay in after all,’ I add, as much to myself as him.

  ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, I must have got the wrong end of the stick,’ he says, sounding disappointed. ‘I’ll pass you back to Auburn.’

  At that moment, my mum bustles into the kitchen, with a whispered ‘don’t mind me!’, and starts poking around in the cupboard under the sink, once she’s figured out the child lock. She emerges with a bottle of spray-on Mr Muscle, a wire scrubber and several cloth
s, waving them in the air triumphantly as she leaves the room.

  I watch her skinny-jeaned backside go. If I stay in, there might be blood. I should have told Van yes. I should have agreed to go out with him.

  ‘He is such a wanker,’ says Auburn, once she’s back on the phone. ‘I could have died. I’d have become a cautionary tale on the internet: this young woman died from drying her hair … anyway, you okay?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m okay.’

  ‘Really? You sound about as okay as Meghan Markle is ugly.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I reply, smiling at the way she pulls these crazy images from thin air. ‘I’m out of practice at sounding enthusiastic. To be honest my mum’s driving me nuts, and I told her I was going out and she agreed to babysit, and now …’

  ‘Now you feel like a big fat loser with nobody to play with?’

  ‘Exactly. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you at work.’

  ‘Oh no, missus,’ she says firmly. ‘You have opened the lid to Pandora’s Box. Be at the pub in an hour, okay?’

  I nod, realise she can’t see me, and agree. It’s done. I’m going out!

  Chapter 16

  It actually feels weird, going out. On my own. At night. Luckily, I’m only actually on my own for about forty-five seconds, which is as long as it takes for me to cross the road from my house and reach the Horse and Rider on the opposite side. It’s about three doors down from the Budbury Chemist, which is a slightly longer commute of about a whole minute.

  Having set out my stall as a busy woman-about-village for my mother’s benefit, I found myself having to go the whole hog. Clean jeans, a fresh top, a touch of grown-up make-up rather than Beauty Parlour style, and even an attempt at doing something with my hair. Admittedly not much – just a slightly off-centre French plait. I always find my arms aching way too much to do them well.

  I give myself a spritz of perfume, and pull on my trainers. Okay, so it’s not a hike and I could have gone for heels – but it’s only my local pub. And it’s only Auburn.