A Gift from the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I, however, know her too well. I know she’ll be annoyed and possibly hurt that I didn’t confide in her. But this is more than that – this is the kind of mood that somehow makes the air around her crackle with the anticipation of a great big screaming row. I’m just the nearest target – I suspect the one she really wants to aim it towards is in the kitchen, abusing my kettle.

  In the meantime, it seems, I’ll do. I’m really not up for that, and I glance at my watch, seeing that it’s now getting on towards half seven. Time, I decide, for the little man to go to bed.

  He starts to argue when I scoop him up to take him upstairs, but it’s half-hearted. He winds his arms around my neck, and I feel his tiny fingers twine into my hair, the way they do when he’s really tired.

  I feel his warm breath on my neck, and think again how big he’s getting as I trudge up the stairs. I can still carry him at the moment, but he’s not a baby any more. It’s all so fleeting – it feels simultaneously like yesterday and like several lifetimes ago that he was so tiny I could hold him in one arm.

  He’s so wiped out he lets me undress him without any protest, raising his arms in the air for me to take his jumper off, holding onto my hair as I fasten up the buttons on his tartan pyjamas. He looks very Christmassy, decked out in his black and red.

  I muss up his hair and give him a kiss, and draw the covers of his bed up to his chin.

  He stifles a yawn, and holds my hand.

  ‘Mummy,’ he says, dozily, ‘when will Santa be here? Can we check?’

  ‘Course we can, sweetie,’ I say, getting my phone out and finding the page with the Santa-finding device. I lie down next to him, snuggling in while we both gaze at the screen.

  We see that Father Christmas isn’t too far away now – heading in our direction.

  ‘He’ll be here soon,’ murmurs Saul, sighing with contentment.

  ‘He will, my love,’ I reply, stroking his hair from his forehead. I decide I’ll stay here for a few minutes, with this precious boy, making the most of every moment of innocence he has to spare. Before I know it he’ll be drinking cider in the park and choosing his Christmas swag from the Argos catalogue instead of doing this.

  I lay my head next to his on the pillow, and watch as he tries to keep his eyes open and fails. His lids close, and his breathing steadies, and his face goes slack in that way that tells me he’s in the Land of Nod.

  And then I hear the first raised voice from downstairs that tells me my parents are in the Land of Arguments. I bite my lip and close my own eyes, and fight the tension that starts to sweep through me.

  Maybe, if I just stay here and stay quiet and stay still, it’ll all go away. I know, from too many years of experience, that it won’t – but it’s Christmas. I can but hope.

  PART 3 – GO?

  Chapter 34

  I’ve had enough. My head is pounding, and my eyes are sore, and every inch of my body from my scalp to my toes feels like it’s clenched up in protest.

  All I can hear is the screaming, rising in shrieks and peaks above the sound of festive music, a playlist of carols I have on my phone to try and drown it all out. The mix is horrendous: the sublime choruses of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ alternating with yells of abuse.

  Saul is sleeping, but restlessly, in that way that children will – I can see his eyes moving around under his lids, and his little fists are clenched, and every now and then his legs jerk, like a dreaming dog. It’s the night before Christmas – maybe he’s thinking about Santa, flying over the rooftops in his sleigh. I hope so, anyway. I hope he’s not about to wake up, and hear all the rowing, and the banging, and voices. I worked hard to protect him from this, but it’s chased me down, rooted me out.

  I’m in my own little house, but I don’t feel safe here any more. I’m in my own little house, and there are too many voices. Too much conflict. I’m in my own little house, and I’m hiding up the stairs, cowering beneath the bed sheets, paralysed by it all.

  I’m in my own little house, and I have to get out. I have to get away. I have to run.

  The problem is, I have nowhere to go – and no way of getting there. I’m barricaded into this room, with Saul, by my own emotions – just as securely as if I’d moved the wardrobe in front of the door.

  It’s been going on for almost two hours now. I only make out the occasional word from down the stairs, and none of those words are kind. None of them are mindful, or progressive, or belong in the mouths of people who have changed.

  I want to just go down and tell them to shut the eff up. I want to kick them out. I want to scream at them myself, and tell them how much I despise this, how angry I am that they’ve brought their drama into my home on this night of all nights.

  I want to do all of this, but somehow, I just can’t. Maybe I’m a coward. Maybe I’m exhausted. Maybe I have no resources left.

  Maybe hiding away and drowning it out with music is just too engrained in my behavioural DNA for me to do anything different.

  I glance at Saul, and see that he’s fine. I know he’s fine. He sleeps deeply, and neither the racket from below nor the sound of the carols has roused him. He’s fine – it’s me who isn’t.

  I tiptoe out of his room, and into my own. I sit on my bed, and stare at the window. I get a rucksack from the cupboard, and I start to fill it. I place a few items of clothing inside, mine and Saul’s. I put the framed photo of my nan I keep by my bed inside. I put the bag down on the floor, and kick it, several times, careful to aim at the clothes and not the photo.

  There’s a lull downstairs, and part of me wonders if it might be safe to come out. To creep down and take a peek into the living room. But I know better than that – I’ve been here too many times. I know it’s only temporary, while they both catch their breath.

  The door creaks and opens, and Tinkerbell leaps up onto my bed. He curls his face into the giant ginger fluffball that is his tail, and looks at me. I swear to God he looks sad, but I’m probably projecting.

  I get up, open the wardrobe door. The two big red sacks are in there – Saul’s presents. I want to take them out and carry them downstairs, and somehow get hold of Saul and run for the hills. I want this so badly it’s like a craving.

  I’ve done it before, and I’m starting to think that maybe I should do it again. I have a cat and friends and a job here. But now, I also have psychopathic parents and a man who somehow has become my ex without ever being my boyfriend. I have complications and ties and responsibilities.

  I’m not sure I want any of it any more. It all feels sour, and joyless, and I decide I’m a fool for ever thinking it could be any different. For thinking I could escape the fate of the now-resumed screaming match below me.

  I hear the familiar sound of my mum’s high-pitched screech, the one I always think of as her war cry, and wait, head cocked to one side, for what I know will follow soon after – the sound of something breaking.

  Sure enough, seconds later, I hear a crash and a thud. No shattering, so my plates and glasses are probably safe. It might be a book, or even the wooden fruit bowl, and I picture all the apples and tangerines scattering over the carpet.

  I want to run, but I’m not sure I can. The logistics are challenging. It’s Christmas Eve, it’s snowing, and I have nowhere to go. I have the keys to the pharmacy, and I could set up camp there. I have the phone number for a taxi firm in Dorchester, who might charge me double-time but would at least get me out of here. I could go to Bristol as the first stop, to my parents’ house. I could leave them to it, and decide what fresh start to make tomorrow.

  I could wrap Saul up warm, and load those Santa sacks into some stranger’s boot, and disappear. It’s not like my parents would notice my leaving – I’ve learned this much by now. Everything else, including their own daughter and grandchild, is invisible to them when they’re this deep into it.

  Tinkberbell would be fine, I tell myself. I could text Matt, and ask him to get him. Auburn could find someone else to do what I do
at work – it’s not like it’s rocket science. People might be surprised. Laura might cry. But eventually, nobody would really care – they’d all get used to my absence. They have each other, and their own busy lives, and after a while, it’d be like I’d never even lived here.

  And maybe, I think, feeling a self-indulgent tear slip down my cheek, Van would even be relieved. He’s trying to be a friend. He’s trying to be steady. But wouldn’t it, just possibly, be better for both of us if we made a fresh start? Whatever we might have had, we’ve messed it up. It might be my fault. It might be his. It might just be a great big enormous dollop of bad timing. But it’s gone now – it was barely even there.

  Better to go now, before it all gets worse.

  I haul the present bags out of the wardrobe, and stare at them. Imagine how all of this would affect Saul. If there is any way I could sugar-coat this one – pretend it was a game, an adventure, an exciting piece of Christmas fun.

  I slump back down on the bed, and feel like screaming in frustration. No. Of course there isn’t. Waking him up on Christmas Eve, loading him into a cab on a freezing cold night? Taking him away from everything he loves, everything he’s used to?

  That wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be okay, not even a tiny bit. There’s another burst of vicious yelling from downstairs, and a bellow from my dad, and yes, right on cue, the sound of something actually smashing. Maybe my plates and glasses aren’t so safe any more.

  When I was a kid, I used to find ways to pass the time while I was exiled upstairs. Listening to music, texting my friends, reading magazines, even doing homework. A lot of the time, I even managed to sleep – with my headphones in, to drown out the cacophony from the floor below.

  Now, I can’t risk the headphones. I can’t risk not hearing Saul. I’m trapped up here, with nothing to do.

  I pick up the rucksack again, and for some reason hold it to me, like it’s a baby I’m cuddling. I wander to the window, and look outside. The snow is falling more heavily now, piling up on rooftops and pavements and the swinging pharmacy sign. Under other circumstances, it might even look pretty. Christmassy, in that way that English Christmases are always portrayed in American films.

  I notice the usual lights on in the usual homes; see the silhouettes of movement in bright windows. If I strain my ears, and turn off the phone carols for a minute, I can almost hear – or maybe just imagine – the sounds of laughter and companionship coming from the pub. It’ll be busy in there, the log fire blazing and hissing, every table full, bar staff wearing their traditional elf and snowman hats.

  I notice a car parked by the pharmacy, and realise that it’s Auburn’s. I frown, and squint so I can see better, and realise that a light has just gone off in the pharmacy. Weird. I hadn’t even noticed the light was on until it all went dark again.

  I watch, in my dimly lit bedroom, wondering who’s there. It’s a lot better than wondering how long the screaming downstairs will go on for. It could be almost over. It could go on all night. They’re certainly showing no signs of letting up so far – I suppose they have months’ worth of steam to blow off, after all.

  The pharmacy door opens and closes, and I watch as a figure emerges. Tall, broad, dressed in dark clothes. It’s Van, although I have no idea what he’s doing. I look on as he locks up, and turns to walk back to the car. He pauses, beneath the yellow light of a lamppost, frozen in a circle of shining shadow.

  The snow is flurrying around him, and he’s holding a box of some kind. His beanie hat is pulled down over his ears, and he’s wearing his body-warmer.

  He stands still, and looks across towards my house. I feel momentarily guilty, standing here spying on him, and wonder what he’s thinking. Whether he knows where I am, or even cares. Whether he’d miss me if I left. How long it would take him to even notice.

  I realise that I’m crying as I stand there, staring down at him, and wish so hard that I could be the kind of person who could reach out. Tell him how much I appreciate him. Tell him how much he’s come to mean to me, and how much I need a friend right now.

  But I’m not that kind of person. I’m not strong enough to be that weak.

  I wipe the silent tears from my eyes, and at that moment, he looks upwards. He sees me. He waves, once, hesitantly.

  I wave back, and close the curtains, and collapse onto my bed, too sad to even care about my parents any more.

  Chapter 35

  I’m tangled in my sheets, eyes red and stinging and barely open, as my phone rings. I ignore it, but it’s enough to wake me up – or at least drag me even more into consciousness.

  I’ve not exactly been asleep. Not properly. I’ve just drifted in and out of a restless and traumatised state, and now I feel disjointed and bewildered. I blink my eyes open and shut a few times, and look at my watch. It should be four in the morning, but I see it’s only just after eleven.

  I can still hear my mum and dad hard at it – they obviously have a lot to sort out. I sit up, and slap myself in the face. I need to wake up properly, go and check on Saul.

  Before I can mobilise – my body really doesn’t want to cooperate – my phone rings again. I snatch it up from the pillow, where it had been playing carols to me, and look at the display. Van.

  I want to ignore it again – I feel too compromised to add my feelings about Van into the mix tonight – but something tells me he’ll just keep calling. And anyway, it could be something urgent.

  I answer it, and say nervously: ‘Hi? Is everything all right? Is your mum okay?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. She’s at home with Willow and Auburn and the dog.’

  ‘Oh. So, where are you then?’

  ‘Look out your window,’ he says, sounding amused.

  I stand up, and walk my wobbling legs over to the window. I tug the curtain aside and see him there, in the street, holding his phone in one hand, waving at me with the other.

  He’s standing beside what I assume is Tom’s camper van, and the camper van is decorated as brightly and colourfully as the Father Christmas sleigh that the Rotary Club used to ride around our estate every December.

  The VW is draped in strings of fairy lights, in pink and yellow and blue, twinkling on and off in a frenetic spasm up and down the body of the van. Their brilliant blinks are swallowed up in the snow, shining through the flakes and making them multi-coloured.

  Against the odds, it makes me smile – the first smile I’ve managed for some time now.

  ‘I’ve come to rescue you,’ he says simply, looking up at me from the street. It’s weird, watching his lips move in real time out there, and hearing his voice in my ear. ‘I was outside earlier, and I heard your parents. To be honest I think people in Applechurch heard your parents. I … well, you’d told me about it, what they were like, but I don’t think anything could have prepared me for those kinds of sound levels. Jesus. Is Saul managing to sleep through it?’

  ‘He is, thank God,’ I reply, still groggy and still confused by what he’s doing here.

  ‘Well, get your stuff together. Get his presents. Get him. And come to me. We’re going to run away together, just for the night. I’m going to hang up now, so you can’t say no. If you don’t come out, I’ll just stay here, and sleep in the van all night.’

  He promptly does exactly what he said he would, and hangs up. I stare at the phone. I stare at him. I stare at the decked-out camper van taking up most of the road.

  Then, I do exactly as he says. I do it quickly, because I know that if I pause – if I let myself think about it – I’ll talk my way out of it. I’ll persuade myself that this is a terrible idea. I’ll come up with a million and one reasons why this is wrong.

  First, I make two journeys up and down the stairs with the Santa sacks and my bag. Then I put on my trainers and a coat and a hat, ready to go out into what I know will be a freezing cold night.

  I make my way into Saul’s room, and wake him up. Kind of. He’s still asleep, really, clinging on to me as I plunge his head int
o the neck of a chunky sweater and encase his feet in thick socks. He clings onto my neck as we creep downstairs, whispering into my ear as we go past the living room door.

  I pause for a moment, and hear my mum’s high-pitched voice telling my dad he’s ‘a useless lying piece of shit’, and him replying gruffly that he wouldn’t need to lie, if she wasn’t an evil bitch with no soul.

  If ever I needed any further prodding, that was it.

  Tinkerbell has padded down the stairs after me, and is sitting on the bottom step, his green eyes glittering as he watches us sneak away. I hold the door open for a few seconds, as if inviting him to join us, but he starts licking his front paws instead. I take it that he’s decided to stay where the radiators are, and I leave him to it. He’s a cat. He’ll be fine.

  Van’s waiting outside for us, rubbing his hands together in the cold. His face breaks out into a huge smile when he sees us, and I gesture to the bags in the hallway.

  I carry Saul up into the van, and he follows, hefting all three bags at once, like a super-human Santa.

  Inside, the van is even more Christmassy. There’s a small fake tree set up on the fold-down table, decorated with tartan bows and glittering angels, and all the windows have tinsel tacked up around them.

  There’s a double bed, which again I assume can possibly be folded up, and I gently lay Saul down on top of it. The heaters have obviously been working overtime, and it’s warm and cosy in here – warm and cosy and quiet.

  Saul stirs as I tuck him in, looking up at me with big blue eyes.

  ‘Is he here?’ he murmurs, grabbing hold of my hand. ‘Is Santa here?’

  ‘Not yet, sweetie,’ I reply, smoothing down his hair and soothing him. ‘But we saw on the Santa tracker that he’s very near … and … Van came round, to see if we’d like to go and find him. How does that sound?’

  ‘Nice. Wake me up when we find him …’