As soon as the door to the gents’ shuts behind him, Laura is out from behind the counter, and on him like cling film. She wraps him up in a huge hug, squeezing him so hard he pulls a pained face. He’s quite a lot taller than her, and he rests his chin in the fuzz of her curls until she finally lets him go.
She stands back and looks up at him, blushing. Maybe it’s those Thor thoughts coming back to haunt her.
“Thank you,” she says, eventually. “For everything. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”
“I reckon you’d have done just fine, love,” he says, grinning. “I was just there to catch. Done it a couple of times before – I live in the back end of nowhere, and the odd medical emergency isn’t uncommon. I’m your man for a dislocated shoulder as well.”
“And where are you from? And what’s your name? And why are you here?” she says, in a rush of questions. Makes her sound like a bit of a nutter, but to be fair we’re all wondering the same.
“Thought you’d have recognised the accent by now …” he replies, strolling over to recover his cowboy hat. “Although I have only lived there since I was 8. Would it help if I called you a Sheila?”
Laura laughs, the starry-eyed look going nowhere fast as she watches him. I can see where she’s coming from. He’s tall, is indeed built like a superhero, and has the wavy blonde hair of a surfer. His eyes are a deep shade of brown, and the scar on his face does little to make him less attractive. He also, I start to realise as soon as he lays on the accent a little thicker, looks vaguely familiar.
Before I can quite put my finger on it, he strides over to our table, nodding to Lynnie and Willow, then fixing his eyes on me. I gulp slightly, and worry that I’m about to choke on my last piece of apple muffin. I might spit it all over him, then knock over my glass of Bucks Fizz – classic me stylings.
“Am I right in thinking you’re Zoe?” he asks, smiling at my confusion. “I’ve only seen photos, and the odd glimpse of you in the background on Skype, but that hair of yours is a pretty distinctive trademark.”
He holds out his hand for me to shake, and I’m now aware that absolutely everyone else in the cafe has stopped eating, drinking, and possibly breathing, while they watch this new scene unfold. I reward them by doing my very best goldfish impression.
“I’m Cal,” he says, taking my hand from the table and shaking it without any participation from me. “Martha’s dad.”
Chapter 17
Now, of course, I understand the flip side to sharing in the joys and triumphs of the folk at the Comfort Food Café. They also get to share in my floundering.
I feel like a flaming idiot, and probably look like one, as I can feel my whole face exploding into the blush to end all blushes. Luckily I’m wearing a jumper, or the whole world would get to see the fact that when I blush, it goes all the way down my neck and blossoms in bright scarlet flashes on my chest. It’s super-attractive, one of my very best features.
Cal stands before me, in all his glory, and I have the urge to slap myself on the side of the head and let out a Simpsons-style: ‘Duh!’
Why hadn’t I realised? Why hadn’t I recognised the accent and put two and two together? Why hadn’t I recognised him, never mind the accent? It had been pretty chaotic, and we were all concentrating more on Becca than the mystery man, but still … I should have known.
Laura is watching with interest, frowning, obviously confused, as though she’s wondering exactly the same thing. This must all look incredibly weird from the outside looking in.
In reality, it’s not that surprising – it’s not like me and Cal have ever met, or been in especially close contact. Kate came home from her backpacking adventure to Thailand with a bad case of athlete’s foot, some wonky carvings of elephants, and a baby in her belly. This was before the days when everything was digital, and she only had a couple of blurry photos of the man who was generous enough to give her the third item on that list. Although I use the term ‘man’ loosely, as he was only 19 at the time.
Kate herself had been as blurry as the photos when it came to her recollections of the encounter that would not only change her life, but create an entirely new one.
All she could really remember was that he was Aussie, blonde, drop-dead gorgeous, and a great shag. Obviously the final description has never been repeated to Martha, for fear of making her vomit.
Kate had a home address and phone number for him, but knew they weren’t much use as he was continuing on his travels and wasn’t sure where he was going to land next. He was following his wild streak, and we later pieced together that it led him to Vietnam, Cambodia, India and – bizarrely – Florida before it eventually took him back home to the land of Oz.
It was there – when Martha was two – that Kate finally tracked him down. Previously, if she’d called and asked for him, she put on some phony accent and pretended she was trying to sell him double glazing. His poor parents must have wondered what the hell was going on, and started to lose their rag after the third time, when they’d already asked to be taken off the sales list twice.
After that, she was more honest – saying she was an old friend who’d lost touch with him on his travels and was wondering when he would be back. They never knew, and it was obvious that he hadn’t kept them especially well-briefed on his whereabouts either. Often they weren’t even sure what country he was currently in.
And, you know, she couldn’t really leave a message – ‘could you please tell him hi from Kate, who he met in the Rubber Pearl Bar in Bangkok, and also that he has a daughter?’ It wasn’t the kind of thing you could pass on third hand.
When she did finally call and find him at home, I think she was as surprised as he was. I suspect she’d always thought it would never happen, and wasn’t in the slightest bit bothered – by that point, Barbara and Ron had gotten over their mass hysteria, completely won over by baby Martha’s charms, and we’d all found a groove that worked for us. She didn’t want anything from him – not money, or time, or for him to share the burden. She just thought he had a right to know.
He’d wanted to come to the UK straight away, once he picked himself up of the floor, but she’d persuaded him not to. He was only in his early 20s himself then, so he hadn’t taken much persuading – his urge to do the right thing was tempered by his understandable terror at the thought of suddenly finding himself as a daddy, when he was barely grown-up himself.
Over the years, they’d all fallen into a rhythm that allowed everyone to function, feel appreciated, and not feel pressurised into doing anything they didn’t want to.
He started his life working on farms in ‘the back end of nowhere’, and we’d continued on our weird but merry way, Kate buying her terraced house and me moving in across the road. There were a few phone calls a year, the odd Skype once it was invented and we’d all figured out how to use it, and he sometimes sent gifts or photos. He’d asked to come and visit more than once, but Kate had always found a reason why it wasn’t a good time.
I never quite understood why that was. She certainly didn’t seem to have any bad feelings towards him, and always said she was grateful for the fact that his over-exuberant bedroom performance had given her the best gift a woman could have – Martha.
Maybe she was worried that it would rock the boat, mess things up at our end. Her career started to take off, and Martha was thriving, and we were more settled than anyone could possibly have predicted, given the situation and the people involved. Martha never seemed too concerned – she was happy in her unorthodox setting, because of course it wasn’t unorthodox to her, it was what she’d always known.
Whatever Kate’s reasons, Cal had remained a slightly mysterious figure, on the periphery of our lives. There’d been talk of Martha going out to visit him – of us all going out to visit him – once she got older, but … well. Events kind of overtook us on that front, and Kate would never be visiting anyone ever again. That thought drenches me with sadness, and I’m starkly aware of how
unfair it is that I’m getting to meet Cal, without her at my side to laugh at it all with me.
I’m dragged out of my stupor by Willow, who helpfully throws half her apple and cinnamon muffin at my head. It bounces off the halo of my trademark hair, and crumbles onto the table in front of us. A terrible waste of a good muffin, but enough to bring me back to my senses.
I stand up, and shake his hand properly. It feels weird – I’m not often in a formal enough situation where I have to shake hands with anyone, especially the man half responsible for creating the wondrous and multi-faceted beastie that is Martha Harris.
“Um … er … what are you doing here?” I finally manage to articulate, aware of the fact that everyone else is still watching, still listening. I meet Laura’s eyes over his shoulder, and widen them significantly. She gets the message immediately, and starts to scurry around doing tasks to mask her curiosity. I can tell she’s not really concentrating on what she’s doing when she puts the scales in the fridge, but at least it breaks the spell.
Frank announces in an overly loud voice that he’s going to fix the baby changer in the ladies, as it always seems to be on the fritz, and Willow engages Lynnie in a conversation about baby yoga that she cleverly knows will immediately appeal to her.
I get the feeling they’re all still half listening – apart from Lynnie – but I appreciate the effort. I get up, and steer Cal over to another table. Laura makes a brief appearance, plonking down another bottle of Bucks Fizz, then whizzes of to do some more chores.
I pour Cal a glass – Lord knows he deserves it – and swig some straight from the bottle, as I’ve left mine on the other table. I realise this is probably not the best way to make a good impression, but, well, he’s Australian. I’m sure he won’t mind.
“Okay,” I repeat, once my hands have stopped trembling. “Let’s start again. First of all, yes, I am Zoe, and it’s lovely to meet you. Secondly, thanks for what you just did – you’ve earned yourself a place in Budbury folk history for all of eternity. And thirdly – what are you doing here?”
He laughs, throwing his head back to reveal a strong, suntanned neck, vivid against the white of his shirt. His golden hair is wild and slightly long, curled over his collar, and his cowboy hat adds to his otherworldly appearance. He couldn’t look more out of place in a small English village if he was dressed as a sumo wrestler.
“Well, Zoe – I didn’t see that I had any choice other than to just head here and see what I could do to help. I knew that if I asked, we’d be in the same old position we’ve always been in – you’d have a good reason why I shouldn’t come, and I’d let you convince me. I should’ve come for the funeral, but I accepted what you said – you were probably right, it would all have been too much for her. I was okay with holding on, seeing how things developed. But the last time I spoke to you, you sounded … I’m trying to find a diplomatic way of putting this, but I’ve lived in the bush too long, so I’m fresh out of diplomacy …”
“It’s all right. I can take it,” I say, wondering if I can.
“You sounded … tired. Bloody exhausted, if I’m honest. Like you just didn’t know what to do, and like this move down here was a last ditch attempt to sort shit out. I can only imagine how hard all of this has been for you – losing Kate, dealing with Martha …”
“I’m not ‘dealing’ with Martha,” I snap, sounding – and feeling – unpleasantly defensive. “I love Martha. She’s not a bad case of shingles or something. I want to be here for her. I’ve always been here for her.”
There’s an unspoken addition to that sentence that doesn’t go unnoticed, even if I don’t actually vocalise it.
He raises one eyebrow, and his deep brown eyes go all serious on me.
“Yeah, I know. You’ve always been here for her, and I’ve always been on the other side of the world. I get it. It wasn’t always my choice, but I get it. And I don’t want you to think I’m expecting to waltz into her life and suddenly take over, go all Superdad on her. That’s not what I meant. I just want to help, okay? I’m finally old enough and grown-up enough to be able to do that. Maybe she’ll take one look at me and tell me to get on my bike, who knows? Can’t say as I’d blame her. But I want to try, all right?”
I nod. I drink a bit more Bucks Fizz. I try and sound a lot more calm than I feel. He sounds as though he’s trying to keep a lid on things as well, and there’s nothing to be gained here by both of us going off like over-emotional rockets.
“All right,” I say, after a couple of deep breaths. “Yes. I understand, and obviously, you’re her father. But … how long are you here for, anyway? Don’t you have a farm to run?”
“Took some leave. Haven’t had a holiday in six years, least they could do. So I can be here as long as it takes. As long as you two can put up with me, or think I’m useful, or need me. If nothing else, I’m good at delivering babies, changing light bulbs, and barbecuing. Plus, I’m handy in any crisis that involves killer snakes or spiders roaming round the tall grass.”
He’s smiling, and leaning back in his chair so he doesn’t appear too threatening or invasive, and I like the fact that he’s doing that. He’s giving me the space and time he thinks I need to come to terms with all of this.
Of course, what our smiling golden-haired cowboy seems to have forgotten is this: it’s not me he needs to convince. And there are far scarier situations ahead of him that anything to do with spiders or snakes – like meeting his daughter for the first time ever.
Chapter 18
I’m not quite sure how to break this new and exciting news to Martha, and spend ages waiting in the car for her, staring numbly down the road through the village as I wait for the school bus to trundle back into view.
The drizzle has made a sneaky return, and it’s now cool enough that I flick the heating on as I wait, listening to some Motown Magic on the radio. Tears of a Clown, which is appropriate, because I feel like having a little weep myself.
Cal’s surprise arrival has taken me aback in a way I don’t quite understand. I think I was starting to hope that Martha and I were just about finding our feet, here in Dorset. There have been small, warming signs of her coming out of her emotional deep-freeze, thawing in the heat of Lizzie and Josh’s friendly advances, and the Cherie-patented cuddles, and the new college courses. Tiny signs – but definitely there. She’s been less distant, less attached to her phone, more willing to at least ignore me politely rather than ignore me in a way that makes me feel like throwing myself off a cliff.
It’s delicate, though, all of this. Fragile – because it’s based on a bedrock of ‘if only …’ Every new thing that she does – starting her A-levels, meeting the Budbury gang, even small stuff like discovering a new band she likes – is tainted by the deep and underlying wish that Kate was here to share it with her. That her mum was around to listen to her war stories, or give her a pep talk, or tell her that the new band she’s discovered is actually crap and she should listen to some Jimi Hendrix instead.
I understand that – because I feel it too. Every time I sit on that bench and look down at the bay below, or eat one of Laura’s creations, or see a bloody baby born – I wish exactly the same. Kate was more than my friend. She was my sister, partly my mother, and the most important connection I’d ever made in my life. I miss her every single minute of every single day. I’m lost without her, and the pain of that lives inside me, hidden away, beating next to my heart.
I try and hide all of this from Martha, and pretend that I am coping – the last thing she needs is my anguish dolloped on top of her own – but it’s there. Always. My new friends are wonderful, but they are not, and never will be, a replacement for what I’ve lost.
So these tiny shoots and buds of hope that I’ve been seeing in Martha are precious. Important. Treasured beyond belief – and just as it seemed like we could at least try and steady our rocking ship, Cal has swum out into the wreckage, knocking everything off course again.
I’m also, I force mys
elf to admit, a tiny bit worried about Cal’s role in Martha’s world, and what it might mean for my role in Martha’s world. This is such a selfish and petty thought that it makes me bite my lip hard enough to break the skin. If I was to look in the rear view mirror right now, I don’t think I’d like my own reflection.
Because, being brutally honest, jittering along with the anxiety is a miniscule amount of jealousy. Kate always said I was Martha’s second mum, and wanted me to carry on playing that part – but Martha’s never seemed overly keen on the idea, and much as I’ve done my best, there is a silver of concern that now her ‘real’ parent is here, I will be surplus to requirements. Who could blame her if she saw Cal as her knight in shining denim? She might even want to run off to Oz, and start a shiny new life with her dad.
And that, I realise, as I finally see the bus weaving its way towards the stop, is frightening: if I’m not looking after Martha, what use am I? All the roles that defined me are gone. I was Kate’s friend, and she is dead. I worked in a book shop, but now I’m unemployed. I was someone’s daughter, but I stopped thinking of myself as that long ago. Without Martha, what is the bloody point of me at all?
I’m spared further tortured soul-gazing by the bus juddering to a halt, belching exhaust fumes into the air and rocking slightly as young people stomp their way down the steps. Tears of a Clown is replaced by Diana Ross asking someone to touch her in the morning, which is just as mournful. I switch off the radio. It’s too depressing.
I watch through the windscreen as the combined youth of Budbury all pile off the bus, a mass of purple uniforms and flannel. I smile as I see Lizzie and Nate scuffling over a bag of crisps, which eventually flies out of their fighting hands and crashes to the floor. It is immediately swamped by pecking seagulls, and they both stare at each other, as if to say ‘that was your fault.’
Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café Page 11
