A Gift from the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  It is, of course, one of the most counter-intuitive things I’ve ever heard – but possibly it’s better than having the smoke without the jogging. I nod, still feeling bemused at the psychedelic wonderland that is Auburn’s mind.

  ‘I’m going to patent it,’ she says, sounding slightly out of breath now. ‘I’ll call it the Fag Break Fitness Plan. I’ll start a blog, and I’ll probably get a book deal, maybe even an exercise DVD …’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ I reply. ‘Not long now until you’re on one of those health promotion posters we have in display in the shop. You and your Marlboro Gold.’

  She grins, and smokes, and then starts to jog more slowly.

  ‘It’s important to always cool down after vigorous exercise …’ she announces, eventually reducing her speed until she looks like a man on the moon in gravity boots, taking super-slow steps.

  I’m about to leave her to it when she speaks again: ‘Talking of which – did you get any vigorous exercise last night, Katie?’

  I frown and shake my head. I have no idea what she’s talking about until she adds: ‘Because I couldn’t help noticing that my big brother didn’t make it home at all …’

  ‘You have a dirty mind,’ I reply, turning my back on her to go and make some tea. I’m blushing, and don’t want her to see my weakness.

  ‘Maybe,’ she says, following me back in, puffing and wheezing slightly, ‘but my lungs are clear as mountain air! Did he stay over, though? At yours?’

  ‘He did,’ I answer, busying myself with less troublesome things like a kettle and tea bags. ‘But in case you were wondering—’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘He slept on the sofa. Nothing happened, and even if it did, I wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ she says, sounding like a sulky child. She leans back against the sink, and I notice that she looks tired too. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and the nails showing through her fingerless gloves are chewed so far down the skin looks raw.

  ‘Everything all right at home, with your mum?’ I ask, putting the pieces together.

  ‘They’ve been better,’ she replies, shrugging and looking sad. ‘We’ve made an appointment to go and see her consultant. She was really wound up yesterday, one of those “I don’t know who you are, why are you holding me captive?” scenarios.

  ‘When Willow suggested she read her book – the one that reminds her who she is and who we are and where she is – she threw it at her head so hard the spine cut her eyelid. After that, Mum went and barricaded herself in her room with the bookcase and a Buddha bust. She’s done this before, and we know it’s possible to move it all eventually – but if you do it while she’s still upset, it just makes her even more scared and agitated.

  ‘So Willow let her cool down, and Tom came over, and they waited until it was quiet and managed to get in. In the meantime Lynnie had conked out, and went to sleep for about twenty hours – except it didn’t look restful, you know? More like she was in a coma, which she’d wake up from every hour or so to have a good shout and thrash around in bed like she was fighting someone.’

  I hand Auburn her tea – plenty of sugar – and say: ‘That’s awful, for all of you. I’m so sorry. What do the team at the day centre think?’

  ‘They think maybe it’s a sign she’s going to decline. Or maybe it’s a sign she has some other illness she can’t tell us about. Or maybe it’s a sign that her meds need upping. Or maybe it’s a sign her meds are having side effects. Or maybe a sign she’s in pain, but we don’t know where. Basically it’s a sign that nobody has a fucking clue.’

  It’s not uncommon for Auburn to swear – she’s that kind of girl – but it’s usually in fun, or for comedic effect. This time it’s a reflection of her frustration and anxiety.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Auburn. You’ve done the right thing making the appointment. She’s really fit, your mum, physically – but there might be something else going on. She might have another urinary tract infection, like she did earlier in the year. They can test her easily for that. Or she might have a bump or a strain or any number of things. Is she up to date with her routine scans and checks?’

  ‘Hmmm … I don’t know. I’ll check,’ replies Auburn, already fingering her cigarette packet in a way that implies she might soon be going for another jog.

  ‘You might ask if she can have her bowels looked at as well. It’s a common problem, and anything going wrong down there can make even the most healthy of people get wound up and cranky. Have you noticed any changes in her toilet habits?’

  Auburn sighs, and I can’t say that I blame her.

  ‘No, but I’ve not been paying close attention. I will now … that’ll be fun.’

  ‘Well, it’s worth asking the doctor about. Anything like that could be what’s causing the problem.’

  ‘Or,’ she says, staring at me while she chews her lip viciously, ‘it could be that she’s entering the end stages. I should know this – in fact I probably do but I’ve deliberately forgotten it – but what is life expectancy with Alzheimer’s?’

  I do know the answer to this, but it’s not one she’s going to like.

  ‘It varies massively,’ I say, cautiously. ‘All kinds of factors come into play – her physical health and wellbeing, the level of support she has at home, her treatment plan. All of which I’d say are excellent.’

  ‘Yes, but …?’

  ‘For someone diagnosed like your mum was, in her early sixties, it averages between seven and ten years. But it can be much longer.’

  Auburn nods abruptly, her nostrils flared and her lips pinched tightly together. I can only imagine what she’s going through, how complex and devastating all of this is for them, and say a little prayer of thanks for the fact that my mother, no matter how annoying, is still my mother. Hopefully she’ll be annoying me for a long time to come.

  I’m wondering if Auburn’s going to ask me more questions, and decide that all I can do is answer them honestly, when both our phones make beeping noises to tell us a message has landed. We exchange a glance, knowing it’s likely to be about Edie, and both reach to check.

  Sure enough, there’s a text on mine from Becca – obviously sent in a round robin to everyone waiting to hear the morning’s news. I hold my breath slightly as I start reading it, telling myself that if it was bad – if there was no more Edie – then Becca wouldn’t be telling us by text. She just wouldn’t.

  Luckily, I’m right on that – and the news is good.

  ‘Ahoy sailors!’ it says, bizarrely. ‘Better news on the Good Ship Edie. She’s awake and talking and drinking her tot of rum. Waiting to see the Captain on her rounds. Jolly Roger that, over and out, Able Seawoman Becca.’

  I smile – because it really is good news – and then frown. Because it’s also confusing.

  ‘Why did she go all nautical-but-nice on us?’ asks Auburn, also frowning.

  ‘I have no idea!’

  ‘And do you reckon they really give you rum for breakfast in hospital?’

  ‘Not in my experience, or it’d be a lot more popular. But it’s good news anyway – really good. Becca’s probably just knackered. Have you seen Sam this morning? I said I’d check in on them for her.’

  ‘Yep, I saw him when I was opening up – he was taking little Edie into work for the day. Said it’s never too young for your first ammonite.’

  Sam works as a ranger, and gives guided walks along the Jurassic Coast, pointing out the fossils that get washed up on the shore or are embedded in the cliffs. Looks like Little Edie’s getting her first lesson in fossil hunting.

  ‘Anyway … didn’t get a chance to say it yesterday,’ says Auburn, putting her phone down on the counter. ‘But well done. You were a bit of a hero.’

  ‘What do you mean? What did I do?’ I ask, genuinely bewildered.

  ‘You saved Edie’s life. Didn’t want to actually say that out loud until we knew how she was doing – but you did, Katie.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,
’ I scoff, embarrassed. ‘All I did was notice the cat in her windowsill and call for help. It hardly makes me Natasha Romanoff, does it?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’d make a great Black Widow, but heroes come in different forms, don’t they? You could just as easily have not noticed the cat. Or not wondered why the cat was still there. Or decided it didn’t matter. Or told yourself you were imagining things, and ignored your instincts and gone home. You’re a nurse – you know how bad she was. You know it was touch and go. If we hadn’t found her when we did, she might not have made it through the night. So don’t argue – you saved her life.’

  I don’t agree, but I also don’t argue. There’s no point with Auburn. I just smile, and walk back through into the shop with my tea.

  I settle in on the scary lipstick sofa for a minute, and text my dad, telling him he needs to get his arse into gear and sort stuff out with Mum. She’s happy right now, because of the obviously exciting idea of moving out of my house, but it’s still not fair.

  I don’t expect any kind of reaction from him, because he’s usually so bad with his mobile, but I actually get a reply straight away. A reply that makes me want to scream, but I don’t suppose you can have everything in life.

  He’s going away for a bit, he says. On a mindfulness retreat in Tenerife. With Fiona and some of her friends. But, he assures me, he’ll be down before Christmas to talk to Mum.

  I sit still for a moment, drinking my tea, and trying to be more mindful myself. Maybe it’s a good thing, I decide. I have my blood pressure to consider.

  Maybe it’s for the best, I think. Maybe he’ll come back with some answers. And long term, who knows? He was definitely a changed man when I saw him – and that can’t be a bad thing. Mum’s a changed woman as well, but that’s different, and a lot less positive – hers is change she’s had forced on her rather than chosen. No wonder she’s a mess.

  I shake my head, and leaf through the sex aids catalogue almost without realising what I’m doing. As soon as I get to a brightly coloured page full of pastel-shaded vibrators, I throw it away, wondering if I now need hand sanitiser.

  It’s all so strange, this family stuff. Here, in Budbury, I’ve made friends better than I’ve ever known. I’ve become part of an extended family that I chose for myself, rather than the one I was born with. But family is still family – still part of my history and my genetic make-up and my future. I wonder about Saul, and what he’ll make of it all when he’s older. Right now, he accepts that his dad lives in Scotland and he lives here and that’s all fine.

  But Saul is only very small, and knows no different. This is the only way he’s ever known it to be. Maybe that will change once he’s old enough to ask questions. When he’s at school, and has his own friends, who all might have perfect little Mum-and-Dad set-ups. He’s bound to be curious – to want to know why his dad isn’t around; why we split up, why he’s not in his life more. It’s only natural, and I know that day will come – and I’m surely dreading it.

  I idly mess around on my phone, feeling low-level stressed about pretty much everything. About Edie, about my parents, about Lynnie, about Van, about Saul. I find myself on Facebook, which I rarely use as I never have any pictures of nice meals to post.

  I flick through my newsfeed, laughing at the fact that Lizzy’s page is now full of photos of Tinkerbell and the dogs, and press like on them all. I see that Laura’s shared a picture of her Green Velvet Cake and like too.

  I see that my mum has updated her profile pic – the first time she’s posted since she set up her account four years ago. It’s a selfie with trout pout, taken against the backdrop of my purple curtains, and looks frightening. Still, I like that as well, as Facebook hasn’t as yet introduced a button for ‘that scares the shit out of me’.

  Barely thinking about what I’m doing, I type in Jason’s name and search. I scroll through the results, and find that there are an improbably large number of people with the same name as him online. Eventually, after investigating a few, I find him.

  Feeling guilty and sneaky and really hoping he can’t tell I’ve been looking, I open his page. I’m met with a photo of him and his wife, Jo, at their wedding. It looks nice, one of those candid shots with confetti fluttering across their laughing faces. She’s about my age, Jo, but couldn’t look more different – she’s brunette, almost as tall as him, with one of those Amazonian figures that makes her look like Wonder Woman.

  I know she’s a teacher, and that they’ve been together for the last two years, getting married this summer.

  I roll the page down, looking at their various joint posts, at the numerous pictures – Jason and Jo on honeymoon; Jason and Jo at a barbecue; Jason and Jo on a mini-break to Paris; Jason and Jo eating spaghetti.

  They look happy. They look good together. I feel strange about it – not out of any sense of jealousy, but out of a weird sensation that I’m intruding on a life that has nothing at all to do with me. Except it does – because for better or worse, this is Saul’s dad.

  Jason and I communicate mainly by email, which is easier because we both get to think carefully about what we’re saying. He always remembers Saul’s birthday, and Christmas, and even sends Easter eggs and boxes full of creepy chocolate treats at Halloween.

  He’s mentioned coming to see him a few times, but it’s never happened. I don’t know whether that’s down to distance, or something deeper – whether Jason doesn’t push for it to happen because he doesn’t want to see me. I don’t suppose my lukewarm response has helped – I’ve never said no, but I’ve never shown any enthusiasm either.

  That, a tiny little voice whispers into my ear, probably isn’t fair. Maybe if I’d been more open, more encouraging, he’d have made the effort. The way Jason and I ended was horrible – but I don’t for one minute see him as a threat to me, or to Saul. Not a physical one, anyway.

  With the hindsight of a couple of years away from him, and with my parents as examples, I can see quite clearly how easy it was for us to descend into the arguments and bitterness. It wasn’t by any means inevitable that it should end the way it did – not all men who fight with their wives slap them. But I also don’t think it was typical of Jason, or indicative of the way he is now. I genuinely believe it was a one-off – one he was as horrified by as I was. Although maybe that’s what all women think, who knows?

  I do know, though, that in some ways it gave me an excuse to finally end a relationship we both knew wasn’t working. And then I ran away, and I’ve kept him at arm’s length ever since. He’s probably still ashamed, and hasn’t pushed as hard as he could have to stay in Saul’s life – and perhaps I need to have a think about it all. I don’t like thinking about it, obviously – things go much more smoothly when I don’t think at all.

  But with everything that’s been happening – my parents, Edie, even Van – the time has come. I don’t want the complications. I don’t want the mess. I don’t want my orderly little life to be disrupted by all this tangled emotional stuff. But this isn’t about what I want; it’s about Saul’s future.

  On the spur of the moment, I hit the button that sends a friend request. I immediately feel a little tremor of panic run through me as I do it, and jump up to do something else. Anything else. I don’t know why it feels weird – it’s not like we never communicate. We do. But somehow a ‘friend request’, and this little foray into his personal life, feels too intimate – like I’m inviting him to be more to me than he currently is.

  I need to find work to distract myself, and decide to rearrange our display of Rimmel make-up – the lipsticks are all in the wrong places, so it’s pretty urgent. I’m still stubbing plastic tubes into plastic holes when Auburn trots through from the back room. She’s taken her coat off but is still wearing her fingerless gloves after goodness knows how many cigarettes while she pulled herself together.

  ‘I feel great!’ she says breezily, completely transformed from the maudlin state she was in a few minutes ago. ‘I think I might r
un the London marathon next year!’

  ‘Will you smoke while you do it?’ I ask, wondering if anybody has ever done that – and whether they’d get on TV cameras if they did.

  ‘Only a few – you know those little places they have set up on the course, where they give you bottles of water and whistle pops?’

  ‘I’ve never seen them handing out whistle pops, but I know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’d just stay there for a minute, and have a quick puff. I don’t think I’d actually smoke while I was running – it wouldn’t be ladylike … anyway, there’s time to plan for all of that later. I’ve got some prescriptions getting sent in from the surgery in Applechurch – let me know when they land, will you? And by the way – there’s a big dinner at the café tonight. By royal decree of Cherie – says she wants everyone to get together to have a feast to celebrate Edie being on the mend.’

  The nurse part of me is worried by that – because while the Good Ship Edie might be doing better today, it’s by no means guaranteed that it’s plain sailing from this point on. She’s fighting pneumonia, she’s 92, and she’s in hospital – where there will be other people, with other infections, potentially sharing their germs with her. She’s still very, very poorly.

  It seems churlish to mention this right now, though, so I keep my thoughts to myself. Dinner at the café will be lovely. Saul will be the centre of attention; there’ll be dogs for him to play with, and the food will be a heck of a lot better than the chicken kievs I have in the freezer. Plus my mum can talk to Cherie about her glamorous new life as a member of Team Comfort Food.

  Van will probably be there too. Which is fine, I tell myself – that will also be lovely, and I won’t be drinking. It’s all under control.

  ‘Okay. Great,’ I reply, finishing with the lipsticks and moving over to the dispensing area to turn the computer on. We get prescriptions sent electronically from local GPs, and get them ready either for patients to collect, or for us to sometimes deliver. Auburn does most of that part due to my childlike inability to drive a car.