‘No need to worry about me, and as for your mum … she’ll be okay, once she gets her head around it all. And … well, no, I haven’t run off with the ice cream woman, all right? I am staying at hers, but we’re not a couple.’
‘What do you mean, you’re not a couple? Mum seems to think you’re love’s old dream …’
‘Less of the old, cheeky. I told your mum I was moving in with Fiona, and she jumped to that conclusion.’
‘Much as Mum’s doing my head in a bit at the moment, I can’t blame her for that – it seems like a logical conclusion when your husband leaves you to live with another woman!’
He nods, as though conceding that I might have won that point on a technicality.
‘Yes, well. It was the wrong conclusion. Fiona – well, Fiona likes ladies, love, you see? And I’m not a lady, am I?’
A trick of unfortunate timing means that as he says this, I have just taken a mouthful of coffee. Coffee that is immediately spat out in one of those full-force snort-laugh-sprays that results in your whole face getting spritzed. After that, I choke for a second or two, while Dad passes me a napkin to dab my chin with.
‘She likes ladies?’ I repeat.
‘Yes. Is that so shocking in this day and age? I thought you young people were all up with that LGBTTQQ stuff …’
‘Hang on – what’s the QQ bit?’
‘Queer and questioning. There’s also intersex, asexual, allies and pansexual, if you’re interested …’
‘Since when did you become an expert?’
‘Since I became housemates with an L,’ he replies smugly.
I screw the damp tissue up into a ball and throw it into the saucer.
‘Anyway. That’s by the by,’ I say. ‘And of course I’m not shocked that lesbians exist. But I am shocked that you’re currently living with one, and maybe even more shocked by the fact that Mum thinks you’re loved up with the lesbian in question – and you’re letting her think that. Do you have any idea how much make-up she’s wearing at the moment? Or how much she’s flirting with any man she meets? How much weight she’s lost? All to try and make herself feel better because she thinks you’ve rejected her for Fiona Whittaker!’
He’s quiet again by the time I finish, all traces of smugness gone. He reaches out and pats my hand in an attempt to comfort me. I’d been so busy being annoyed by my mum, I hadn’t quite realised how worried about her I was.
‘I’m sorry, love – no, I had no idea. Though I should have guessed; it’s not like I don’t know how much of a drama queen she is. I just … it seemed easier to let her think that. Fiona’s not ashamed of herself for being what she is, and quite right too – but she also doesn’t shout it from the rooftops. People can still be old-fashioned, can’t they? She’s kind of a public figure as well … but you’re right. Maybe what I mean is it’s just easier for me. The truth’s a bit more complicated, I suppose.’
I gesture for him to go on, although part of me is convinced that he’s about to tell me he’s actually gay. That he’s been living a lie for the whole of his life, and couldn’t do it any longer. And, you know, that would be fine – eventually. Once I got used to it. I’m just hoping he’s not one of the T’s though – he’d make a terrible woman.
‘Okay,’ he says, looking at his coffee wistfully. ‘Wish I had some brandy in this … anyway. I got to know Fiona better over the summer. I’ve always known her, like you, for the ice cream van. Then one day, when I was getting a Magnum, we started talking about Lee Child books. You know, because it’s a gun? And then we talked a bit more, about other books – she’s a big fan of James Patterson, like myself. And eventually, she asked me if I fancied joining her book club.’
This conversation is most definitely not going the way I expected it to. I don’t quite know if it’s going worse, or going better, but it’s definitely heading off in a surprising direction. I find myself thinking, oddly, that the image of my dad sitting in a room discussing Jane Austen is potentially weirder than everything else.
‘Right,’ I reply, nodding. ‘You always did like James Patterson. So, you joined the book club …’
‘I did. And met some really interesting people, as you can imagine. Broadened my horizons a bit. Then one thing led to another … the occasional night at the theatre. A comedy club. Meals out. Even the ballet. All very friendly but nothing more, love, honest. For all my flaws I’ve never been unfaithful to your mother … I think I’ve become a bit of an A, to be honest.’
There are all kinds of answers to that, but I bite my lip. Being flippant won’t help anyone.
‘That’s why she thought you were having an affair – the nights out, time away from home? She actually said she knew there was something wrong because you stopped fighting with her.’
He looks so sad when I say this that I almost feel sorry for him.
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it?’ he says gently. ‘For so many years, that’s been all we’ve had. I’ve done things I’m ashamed of. I’ve let myself get sucked in, every single time. I don’t know, love, I’m no expert on relationships – but I think to make a marriage work, you have to be the very best you can be. And all me and your mum ever did was turn each other into the worst possible versions of ourselves. Spending time away from it, with different people … well, it just opened my eyes a bit, I suppose.’
‘I can understand that, Dad – I really can. But why now? And why didn’t you at least try and talk to her about it?’
‘Have you met your mother?’ he jokes, absentmindedly ripping open sugar sachets. It reminds me of my mum, that first day in Budbury, trying to find something to do with her hands.
We’re both silent for a while, and then he says: ‘But you’re right. I should have done. I got home from work one day, and we had a huge row. This won’t come as any surprise to you, but it was a real humdinger – all over the fact that I said the potatoes were a bit salty. Serves me right, on the one hand – she’d cooked my tea, and I was sitting there moaning about it.
‘But then the usual happened, and before I knew it, we’re standing up screaming, and she threw the salt mill at my head, and I threw the pepper mill at hers, and … God, I was just so tired of it. We’d been there so many times. She’d carry on sniping, and eventually I’d snap and give her a shove, and she’d threaten me with the electric carving knife, and … I just couldn’t face it any more. It all got worse after you left, Katie.’
I’d like to pretend I’m confused by this, but I know exactly what he means – I was their buffer zone. Without me or Saul around to at least temper them, it must have been a free-for-all.
‘Without you there, we only had each other,’ he continues. ‘And it wasn’t enough. So I walked out and went to Fiona’s, and she offered me her spare room, and that was that. It’s not been easy. Sometimes I miss your mum, love – we’ve been married a long time, and it wasn’t all bad. But I knew that I couldn’t go back, not the way things were. I’m sorry – sorry for being such a coward and landing you with her, and sorry for the fact that you must have felt horrible when you were a kid. Trapped in the middle of it all. And I’m glad you got away.’
‘Got away from you?’
‘Yes, I suppose – although I hope you won’t always feel like that. I hope now things are different, eventually you won’t feel like you need to escape from us.’
‘I can hardly escape from Mum right now,’ I reply, point-ing my spoon at him accusingly. ‘She’s living in my house.’
‘I know. But again, that won’t be forever, will it? It’ll get better. And I’m glad you got away from Jason as well. I didn’t mind Jason, I really didn’t – and you’ve never told us why you left him. I’m not soft, though, and I can imagine – I think you were following in our footsteps. When your mum said she wanted you to use what was left of the nest egg your nan had left, so you could make your move, I was pleased. I was proud of you for being so strong. I still am, Katie.’
I let out a big breath, and kind of
slump back into my seat. I’m exhausted by all of this, I really am.
‘Okay, Dad. This is all big stuff. I’m glad you’re happier, I really am – but you’ve got to talk to her, all right? You can’t just ignore it. You need to see her and sort things out, and act like a grown-up. Stop letting me deal with it all, because that’s what’s happening right now, isn’t it?’
He nods, and finishes his coffee.
‘All right, love. Again, you’re right – and I will. Just give me a bit more time, will you? Don’t tell her for the time being. Just let me sort my head out for a bit longer, and then I promise, I’ll talk to her. Now, after all that … shall we nip to the pub for a quick one before I drive you round to the house? Don’t know about you, but my nerves are shot.’
Chapter 18
The next time I go to the café, a few days after seeing my dad, it’s turned into a Christmas wonderland.
I’m not a stranger to the café at this time of year, so it’s not a total surprise. It’s slightly different each Christmas, though, with new decorations added, and old ones revived. The bookshelves are lined with neon green plastic holly wreaths bearing berries in a colour not found in nature; all of the dangling mobiles have been adorned with glittering lametta, and there’s a whole display featuring a small electric train whirring through a snowy landscape like The Polar Express.
Outside in the garden a giant inflatable Father Christmas is wibbling and wobbling around, almost as tall as the building, tethered to the ground by ropes like a tent. I remember them having a snowman version in previous years, but Midgebo decided it was a chewy toy and managed to puncture claw- and teeth-shaped holes all over it.
It all reminds me that I need to get our house sorted – find a tree, unpack the decorations from the attic, maybe buy some of that fake snow you can spray on windows. Saul would love that. This year, though, we’ll have to cat-proof it all.
Today is cold but bright, and I’ve called in to fill in some time after pre-school. I’ve done a shift at the pharmacy, picked up Saul, and walked straight from the bus stop to the café. The alternative was going home, which wasn’t that appealing as Mum is on one of her missions.
She’s decided to change the curtains in every single room in the house, and I’ve left her to it. I don’t really want my curtains changed, but I don’t seem to have much choice. She’s also taking the opportunity to give all the windows ‘a proper clean’ – as opposed to the improper clean I must have been giving them.
She’d waved at us as we walked past, cheery as heck, still wearing her pink lipstick and a pair of dangly earrings that would look right at home on RuPaul’s Drag Race. She’s super-glammed up to change the curtains, presumably in case Fabio happens to wander down the street and she needs to look her best.
I’d waved back and walked by, noticing Tinkerbell in Edie’s window on the way and making a mental note to pick up some soup for her from the café – she’s been under the weather with a cold recently.
I’ve had some cinnamon-dusted coffee and a slice of Green Velvet cake – Laura has decided that it shouldn’t be limited to Red alone and is making them in a variety of Christmassy colours. Now I’m sitting at a table, waiting for Cherie to finally say what’s on her mind.
She’s sitting opposite me, a slight frown on her face. Her hair is in a fat black-and-silver plait dangling over her shoulder, and she looks a bit tired. She’s sent Laura home early, and the fact that Laura didn’t object tells you how exhausted she must be feeling.
Willow is scurrying around doing some clearing up, assisted by Saul with his very own bin bag, and Frank is fixing the coffee machine, which is temperamental at best. The clanging and hissing provides a melodic backdrop to the conversation I feel is coming.
Cherie is uncharacteristically quiet, and seems to be turning something over in her brain before she speaks. She’s looked thoughtful and pensive ever since we sat down together.
‘I was thinking,’ she says, between spoons of her Green Velvet Cake, ‘about your mum. And you. And the twins.’
This is slightly out of left field, as we don’t know any twins – so I am assuming she is referring to the as-yet-unborn ones currently exhausting our poor head chef and café manager.
‘Okay,’ I reply, closing my eyes as I eat my own cake – something about green cake just makes me feel weird, and I don’t want my eyes to tell my taste buds not to enjoy it. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘You’ve not said much, Katie, as is your way,’ she pauses for effect, as though giving me the chance to disagree. I remain true to type, and simply raise my eyebrows in acknowledgement.
‘But I get the impression that it’s a bit crowded in your house at the moment. Saul says you and him are having sleepovers every night, which I can’t imagine is as much fun for you as it sounds for him.’
‘You’re right there,’ I reply, rubbing my side. ‘He boots me in the ribs constantly.’
‘Ouch. Anyway … I also think I need to get a bit of help in here. Laura’s doing her best, but she’s wiped out – and it’s not like it’s going to get much easier. So I was thinking about asking your mum if she wanted to come and work with us for a bit. And as part of the deal, if she wanted to, she could also use my flat upstairs?’
I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth, and hope the disloyal wave of euphoria I feel at that concept doesn’t show on my face. She’s my mum. I love her. But God, I would so love to get rid of her for a bit …
‘What would you need her to do? She’s okay at cooking, but she’s no Laura.’
‘Well, we still have Laura to be Laura – she just needs to be a bit less of a Laura. I was thinking she could still do the baking and the creating, but cut down on everything else. I can easily come in and do more, we have Willow, who’s a bit more flexible these days, and your mum could give us a hand with the rest. So it’d be taking orders, serving, and preparing the easier stuff – the toasties and paninis and coffees. Plus cleaning up afterwards.’
‘She does love cleaning …’ I reply, putting my spoon down and giving it some proper thought. To me, it sounds ideal – but my judgement may be clouded by the prospect of her moving out, if I’m brutally honest.
‘I’m talking to you about it first because I wanted to check you were okay with the idea,’ Cherie continues. ‘I know you like to play your cards close to your chest, but this isn’t the time to suffer in silence; if you think it’s a bad idea, or if you think I’m an interfering old busybody – which I am, by the way – or if you want her to stay with you and Saul, then just tell me. You don’t get to be this old and this ugly without learning how to deal with being told no every now and then.’
This, I’ve learned, is fairly typical of the way Cherie operates. Yes, she is an old busybody. Yes, she does meddle. But she always meddles in a respectful way, if that makes sense.
‘Personally I think it’s a great idea, Cherie,’ I reply after a few more moments of thought. ‘It is crowded at ours, and it would be nice to get my bed back. But as well as that, I think it might be good for my mum. It might make her feel more involved. Give her a bit of purpose. Make her feel a bit more … needed?’
‘Well, that’s something we all like, isn’t it? Whether we realise it or not. Feeling useless is an absolute curse in life. So, tell her to pop in, and I can talk to her about it. Unveil my latest masterplan …’
She lets out a fake evil-villainess laugh as she says this. Or at least I think it’s fake – if she is an evil villainess, she seems to have very benign motives.
With the masterplan in place, I finish my cake, and ask Cherie if she can carton up some soup for Edie.
‘How is she? I must call in and see her,’ she says, as she ladles delicious-smelling pea and ham into two takeaway cups and prepares two slices of cake. One for her, one for her fiancé, of course.
‘She was on a Stranger Things marathon when I saw her yesterday,’ I reply, beckoning Saul over to begin the process of re-coating him. ‘Sh
e was sniffly, chesty, and seemed a lot more tired than usual, but I’ll keep an eye on her. Tinkerbell was keeping her company when I walked by this morning; she usually lets him back out about now so he can come home for his tea.’
‘In that case, I’ll pack him one of these leftover salmon fillets as well …’ says Cherie. The pets of Budbury are as pampered as the rest of us.
Once I’ve managed to get Saul’s hands encased in the mittens he has threaded through his coat on a string, we walk back down the hill and into the village. It’s still very, very cold, but the sun is shining and that makes it somehow feel better.
We entertain ourselves with one of our favourite games – making animal noises and guessing what they are – and by the time we reach Edie’s, I’m letting Saul think he’s completely bamboozled me with his silent mouth-gaping impression of a fish.
‘Is it a parrot?’ I ask, looking confused.
‘No! Silly! Parrots go squawk, or say pretty boy! Try again …’
He continues his silent cheek-puffing, and I suggest: ‘Is it a rhinoceros?’
‘No again! Rhinocerosseses … rhinoseroos …’
‘Shall we just say rhinos for short?’
‘Rhinos go … oh, I don’t know what noise they make! But mine was one of Becca’s goldfish. I win. Mummy, what noise does a rhino make?’
I’ve trapped myself with that one, because I frankly have no idea, not ever having been up close and personal with one.
‘I’m not sure, sweetie. Maybe we’ll ask Matt?’
Saul thinks about this, and decides it’s a sensible course of action.
‘Yes. Matt knows how to talk to all the animals. We’ll ask him. Will Matt’s new babies be people or puppies?’
‘They’ll be babies, sweetheart,’ I reply, laughing at the look of disappointment on his little face. He continues his chatter as we approach Edie’s house, and becomes excited when he spots Tinkerbell through the window.
I, on the other hand, become slightly concerned when I spot Tinkerbell through the window. We have a bit of a routine going, along this street. Tinkerbell eats his breakfast at ours, then we let him out for a wander, and he heads to Edie’s or Becca’s. They’ve agreed never to feed him, so he always comes home – and they always kick him out at about three.
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 13
