Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  “Yes, I remember you always devoured that,” she replies, eyes narrowed slightly as she casts her mind back. “Like a starving little tinker, you were. No table manners at all.”

  I catch Laura’s expression as Barbara says this, and see her nostrils flare in barely-contained anger. I think if a starving little tinker child turned up on Laura’s doorstep, they’d get a slightly different reception than the one I got at Kate’s house. I’d probably have been adopted immediately. I shake my head very slightly to tell her to stand down – it’s almost over, and it would be a shame if we blew all our good work now.

  Instead, she scurries off to the kitchen, muttering to herself and wringing her hands on a tea towel. Perhaps she’s imagining it’s Barbara’s neck, who knows?

  Cal looks similarly annoyed, but you’d have to know him pretty well to notice the signs. The smile has faded from his eyes, and one of his fists is curled up in a ball, tapping away against his thigh. It feels good, having these cheerleaders – in fact, having them gives me the strength to simply not care about Barbara’s snippy comments.

  “I know,” I say, shoving a whole wedge of bread into my mouth at once. “And I’m not much better now.”

  The last few words are distorted by the fact that I’m talking with my mouth full, and I may well choke on them, but it’s kind of worth it to see her horrified reaction as I splutter bread all over the place.

  Ron, looking from his wife to me and back again, decides that this is the perfect time to check his watch. Can’t say that I blame him.

  “Come on, Barbara,” he says, standing up. “We’d better make a move – don’t want to get caught up in rush hour, do we?”

  As it’s only one pm, that seems unlikely – but I’m grateful for the diversion. We all stand, chairs scraping and bowls clanking, and everyone makes their farewells. Cherie, usually first on the scene to dispense hugs for any occasion, refrains from this, and instead shakes their hands. Frank gives them a polite salute, and Cal sticks with a simple: “It was good to meet you.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “Thank you so much for your hospitality,” says Barbara – redeeming herself slightly – “and please say goodbye to the others for me. I’m sure we’ll visit again sometime soon.”

  I walk with the two of them down the winding cliffside path to the carpark. It’s another crystal clear day, the breeze gently ruffling the air rather than beating it up, and the sunlight is shimmering on the bay. It’s so beautiful here, and I make a vow to never let anybody ruin that for me – I refuse to associate this place with anything other than positive vibes.

  We reach the Skoda, and Ron unlocks the doors, hovering at the side of the car. He gives me a genuine-looking smile, and says: “It really was nice to see you, Zoe, as well as Martha. Lovely place you’ve got here.”

  He’s okay, Ron, I remind myself. Lacking in backbone, but okay.

  He climbs into the car and starts the engine, and it’s Barbara’s turn to hover. Her hair is perfectly frosted and her make-up is perfectly in place and her clothes are perfectly respectable. She could actually make a decent living as a Margaret Thatcher impersonator, although I’m not sure how much call there is for that. The only thing less than perfect is the expression on her face – it’s one of uncertainty, which is definitely not an emotion I associate with this particular Iron Lady.

  I stare at her, wondering what she’s waiting for – surely she’s as keen to get away from me as I am to get away from her? She looks nervous, unsure. Like she’s considering doing something crazy.

  Turns out, she is.

  “I’m sorry, Zoe,” she says simply. For a few moments I am so confused I don’t even respond, just stand there with stray strands of hair flying in front of my face, gaping.

  “Sorry for what?” I eventually ask.

  “For everything. For that comment back there about your table manners. For not … not helping you more when you were younger. I know I should have. I was just … well, this isn’t easy for me to say, but I was always a little bit scared of you. You were everything I was trying to protect Kate from – you were wild and unpredictable and strong-spirited. But you were still a child, and much as I’ve denied it to myself over the years, you were a child in need. Kate always saw that more clearly than I did. And now you’re here, and you’re looking after Kate’s own child, and you’re doing it well. Better than we could. We love Martha, just like we loved Kate – but we don’t understand her the way you do. She needs you. So … thank you.”

  I am utterly horrified to see that Barbara’s grey eyes are swimming with tears. I don’t know whether it’s because she feels guilty, or because she’s just broken her cardinal rule and admitted to weakness, or simply because she’s missing her daughter.

  I don’t know, but I desperately want her not to shed them. Seeing tears on Barbara’s face would be one of those great, prophetic signs that the world was coming to an end. The kind of thing the Mayans would have predicted. Such a thing simply could not be allowed to happen, for all our sakes.

  I grab hold of her arm, not sure what I’m going to do with it, and it turns into a kind of awkward half hug, neither of us at all comfortable with the physical contact, but both perhaps needing to at least make some kind of gesture. We pull away from our horrible dance, and she daintily wipes the tears away with one finger. Phew.

  I know I need to talk. To say something wise and understanding and spiritual, something important. Sadly, I can’t think of a damn thing.

  “It’s all right,” I say, when the silence stretches into something oppressive. “You were a bit of a cow, but I know you can’t help it. You created Kate, and Kate created Martha, so I have a lot to thank you for as well. We’re both older and wiser now, aren’t we? So, let’s just … start again. Or at least do the best we can.”

  She nods abruptly, obviously as embarrassed and overwhelmed as I am. We’ve been playing cat and mouse with each other for so long, neither of us really knows how to do it any differently.

  “Right. Yes. Well. Better be off then …”

  She climbs into the car without a backward glance, and I see Ron looking at her with concern. He reaches out one gloved hand, and gently pats her knee, and eventually starts the engine. With a cheery honk of the horn and a wave through the window, they’re gone.

  I stare after them for a moment, before walking – very slowly – back up the hill to the cafe. I need a few minutes to gather myself after that unexpected encounter. I know I should be feeling happy about what just happened – but bizarrely, I only feel unsettled. Like something I’ve known and understood for a very long time has just transformed into something new and confusing before my very eyes.

  I mean, I know how to handle Bad Barbara – but what the heck am I going to do with Good Barbara? I can only hope she has a change of heart on the drive home, and sends me a vile text to put my mind at rest.

  I push open the cafe door, and am met by Cherie, Frank, Laura and Cal all looking at me in concern.

  “Has she gone?” says Cherie.

  I nod, and Laura starts dancing around the room singing ‘Ding Dong the Witch is Dead’ from the Wizard of Oz.

  Cal just looks at me, obviously sensing that something’s wrong, and walks forward to take me into his arms. He’s big and he’s strong and he smells good and I really need a hug, so I stay there for a while, him stroking my hair and making reassuring noises. I’m not at all used to being looked after, and it feels good.

  “Was she a complete bitch to you?” he whispers into my ear.

  “No,” I reply. “It was much worse than that. She was nice to me.”

  “You’re a nutter, you know that?”

  “I do know that, yes … and thank you.”

  He lets me go, and I feel suddenly full of energy. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath for the last few days, and now I can finally relax.

  “I need to do something fun,” I announce to the room.

  “Want to bake banana muffins with me?
” asks Laura, looking hopeful.

  “I’ve got some pigs that need mucking out …” adds Frank.

  “Want to sit outside and listen to music and get drunk?” says Cherie, clapping her hands together.

  Cal just raises his eyebrows at me, grins, and murmurs the words: ‘godlike skills …’

  Wow. I guess we all have our own different definitions of fun. Including me.

  “No … thank you all, but no. I know what I want to do … Cherie, would you mind if I sorted out all these paperbacks? Those bookshelves have been driving me mad since I got here!”

  She bursts out laughing, and nods.

  “Go crazy, my love. Alphabetise to your heart’s content.”

  Chapter 29

  It’s during the second week in December that I start to notice there’s something wrong with Martha. Well, not something wrong exactly – but something less right than it was.

  It’s small things, really. She starts cycling to college instead of going on the bus, which is weird as the weather is freezing and every day seems to bring with it the threat of snow. Claiming she wants to get fitter, she teeters off down the driveway every morning, bundled up like an Eskimo, her bike wheels leaving patterned trails as they crunch through the frost.

  She also starts coming home later, and seems both exhilarated and exhausted when she does. When I query where she’s been, I get told she’s been doing course work, or attending an after-school club, or doing Christmas shopping. None of these things is an outrageous claim, but none of them quite rings true either.

  I also notice that she’s eating a lot more than usual – or at least appearing to. She makes extra sandwiches for her packed lunch, and takes multi-packs of crisps to her room, and piles apples and pears into a carrier bag every time she leaves the house. This gives me a momentary panic that she’s pregnant, and leads me into a very undignified privacy invasion where I check her bathroom for tampons or stray pee-sticks. I find the former, and thankfully not the latter, and have to hope for the best.

  It’s all so bizarre, and all of these things alone are so small, that I am almost convinced that I’m going mad. Teenagers need their secrets, and I’m probably worrying too much.

  When I raise the issue with Cal, during one of our walks along the beach with Midgebo, he gives it some serious thought before replying.

  “Well, when she was round at mine the other day, I did notice that my lager supply had gone down a few notches. I know you were worried about her drinking when you left Bristol, but I’ve not seen any signs of that, have you?”

  I ponder this, and shake my head, my bobble hat wobbling around on top of my head. It’s so very cold – I have my hat tugged down, and my scarf tied around my chin, and only my nose is peeking out to greet the chilly air.

  “No, I haven’t,” I reply. “And I’m always pretty vigilant about it. I know the signs well enough to get a panic alert pinged straight to my brain about that kind of stuff. I haven’t even seen her smoking. That’s partly what I’m worried about – that she’s somehow managed to hook up with Budbury’s answer to a rebel without a cause, and is sliding down the same slope she was on before. Am I being mad?”

  He laughs, and throws an arm over my shoulder, bundling me closer as we traipse along the damp sand, our footsteps accompanied by Midgebo’s insanely circuitous paw prints.

  “Well, the answer to that question is usually yes,” he replies. “But in this case, I’d say trust your instincts. You know her better than anyone else, and if your gut is telling you there’s something wrong, there probably is. Have you asked Laura? Or spoken to the college?”

  These are both very sensible suggestions, and bizarrely I have actually done both.

  “Yep. Laura talked to Lizzie for me, and after a bit of subtle probing managed to glean that there is something going on, before Lizzie invoked the Teen Code and shut her down. Laura reckons that if it was anything, you know, life-threatening, she would have blabbed – but teenagers can be weird about this stuff, so that didn’t completely put my mind at rest.

  “I spoke to her learning mentor at college, and she said things were basically fine – but she has been leaving early when she has free periods, and she’s definitely not joined any after-school clubs, so that one was a fib.”

  We pause in our walk, looking on in amusement as Midgebo – a big, full-bodied black Lab – is merrily getting humped by a Chihuahua wearing a tartan coat. Midge just seems a bit confused by it all, which is fair enough.

  “Well,” says Cal, once we rescue our pooch and walk on, “it sounds like you’ve done everything you can apart from one thing.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “The hardest thing of all. I think we need to actually talk to Martha.”

  Chapter 30

  That, of course, proves to be a lot harder than it sounds. Martha is a bright girl, and can be as slippery as an eel when she wants to be. Plus, you know, I’m not exactly the world’s biggest expert at this whole mothering lark, and probably go in with as much subtlety as a bulldozer.

  “You would tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn’t you?” I say, gazing at her over the cornflake box the next morning.

  “What do you mean, in trouble?” she answers, narrowing her eyes at me in suspicion. “What do you think I’m up to?”

  “Well, that’s the thing – I don’t know. But my spider senses are tingling, Martha, and I need to know that you’re all right.”

  She shovels a huge spoonful of cereal into her mouth, and I recognise it for what it is – an attempt to buy time while she comes up with an answer that will get me off her back.

  “I’m not in trouble. I’m working hard at college, I’m not smoking, drinking or doing crystal meth, and I’m not pregnant with Eminem’s love child. I am, in fact, the model citizen – so give me a break, will you, SS Grupenfuhrer?”

  She’s gone a little far in the Nazi comparison, I feel – which actually only serves to confirm to me that she’s hiding something. This is Martha doing what teens do so well: going on the offensive to stop them appearing defensive.

  She drinks the milk from her bowl, gives me a Hitler salute, and goose-steps into the hallway, where I hear her putting on her seventeen layers of clothing ready for her cycle to college. I take a quick peek into her backpack, which she’s left lying on the floor by the table, and see three bottles of water and a random assortment of snacks in there. No crystal meth, or love tokens from Eminem.

  After she’s gone, I spend a lot of time thinking about it all. Wondering if I’m overreacting. Being a drama queen. Trying to stir up trouble where there is none. This, combined with an illicit search of her bedroom and randomly googling phrases like ‘teenager secrets’ and ‘what to do when your teen calls you a Nazi’, takes up a lot of my day.

  Eventually, I find myself sitting on the couch, staring at the framed photo of Kate in desperation.

  “What do I do next?” I ask. Luckily, Kate doesn’t answer – but I realise that I have access to the next best thing, and I decide to turn up on Laura’s doorstep. I’m distracted, and forget to put socks on, and realise after about three steps that bare feet and Crocs are not appropriate footwear for winter.

  I am shivering and possibly turning blue by the time she answers the door, Midgebo hot on her heels in case it’s someone with bacon, the sounds of domestic chaos wafting through from the cottage. I can hear Nate playing something loud and shooty on the X Box, and Lizzie is clearly upstairs, as the delicate sounds and intricate melodies of thrash metal are booming down the steps.

  “Come in, come in … you’ll catch your death!” she says, ushering me into the hallway.

  “I’ve always found that a weird saying, haven’t you?” I reply, grateful for the warmth that immediately engulfs me. “When I was little, I had a teacher who used to say it all the time, to the point where I was convinced that death was actually some kind of contagious disease …”

  “I suppose it is weird, now I come to think of
it,” Laura answers, heading straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on. As ever, there is the fragrant smell of baking hanging in the air, and I realise as my tummy rumbles that I kind of forgot to eat today.

  She hears the rumbling – possibly passing Russian satellites also hear the rumbling – and stares at me with a probing gaze.

  “Hmmm. You look like crap.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Go and sit down – I’ll bring supplies.”

  I do as I’m told, and perch by the big dining room table. It’s battered and scarred and made of oak, scattered with magazines and recipe books and car keys and the detritus of modern family life. Nate gives me a little wave of acknowledgement at the far end of the room, before going back to his game.

  Within minutes, Laura is sitting across from me, wrapped in a bright pink fleece that damages my retinas, and I have a mug of coffee and cheese on toast in front of me. Aaah, cheese on toast – so perfect, in all its gooey yellow simplicity.

  She refuses to engage in any conversation at all until I’ve eaten a slice, which takes approximately seven seconds. I feel so much better after that, and give myself a telling off for being such a dick.

  “You have to look after yourself,” she says, her voice concerned. “I know it’s hard when you’re busy looking after someone else – but there’s not enough of you to be skipping meals, Zoe. I’d be all right for a month or two, but not you. Now … what’s going on?”

  “It’s Martha,” I say, pushing my hair behind my ears in preparation for tackling slice number two.

  “Well I could have guessed that. Are you really worried about her?”

  “I am! I really am … but I don’t know if I’m just being paranoid. I mean, it’s nothing I can quite put my finger on. Having a healthy appetite and riding a bike and needing time alone are not crimes, are they? But I just feel like there’s more to it, and I’m … well, I’m completely out of my depth. I do my best, but I’m not her mum, and I’m convinced I’m doing everything wrong …”