Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe

After Jimbo had sniffed and snuffled a few more times and I’d allowed the gentle sensation of sunlight on my skin soothe me down from the cliff edge the kids had driven me up, I helped the dog climb back into the boot, and slid back in the car.

Both of the kids were very quiet, which is always a worrying sign. I quickly glanced at both, making sure they were still alive, before fastening my seatbelt and preparing to move off.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ came a small voice from the back seat. I felt her hand pat me on the shoulder, which made me grin immediately. It was such a hesitant pat, like she knew she had to do it, but didn’t enjoy it either. Almost as though she might catch leprosy from me if she kept it going for more than a few seconds.

‘For what?’ I asked, not wanting to give in too easily.

‘For what I said about Dad. For being the Mean Girl. You’re doing great, and I’ll read the map if you want.’

I briefly touched my fingers to hers – keeping it quick so I don’t ruin the moment with too much affection – and nodded.

‘Thank you, Lizzie. And it’s fine – we all miss him, and we all get mean sometimes. But you know what? I think you’re right about this one. I think I’m going to have to break Dad’s rule and hope he doesn’t mind. Nate, get that sat nav out of the glove compartment …’

Nate hurried to comply, and within about six minutes, we arrived at Avebury – it appeared that we’d somehow managed to drive past it over and over again without ever noticing.

The visit was fine, the kids had ice cream and we all took photos. Jimbo discovered lots of new things to smell, and all things considered, I’d have to put it in the ‘win’ column.

The rest of the day, though, wasn’t such a winner. It consisted of – in no particular order – our car battery dying and having to flag down passing German tourists to help us; getting lost again (despite the sat nav); Nate getting very, very sick and having to vomit his way through various picturesque lay-bys; getting lost some more; an emergency pit-stop at McDonald’s in Yeovil; getting lost some more and Lizzie having to wee in a field.

‘I’m never, ever leaving the city again …’ she’d muttered, throwing the toilet roll at the car windscreen so hard it bounced off and flew away into the road.

With the various delays, it took us way too long to make the journey. We arrived in Budbury frazzled and irritable and, in my case, squinty-eyed from all the driving.

We spot the turning for the cottage complex – The Rockery – at the very last minute, and I veer suddenly to the left to pass through the open gates, thankful that the one-lane road behind me was empty of traffic.

We drive slowly past the shadowed playground with its colourful swings and slide, and past the games room, lit up inside and filled with what look like old board games, books, DVDs, table football and one of those air-hockey things, and follow the signs through to the cottages.

By the time we park up on a crunchy gravel-topped driveway that circles a large green lawn, the light is greying and I can see both the moon and the sun hovering in the sky. It’s very strange and a little bit like the beginning of some kind of fantasy film.

I climb out of the car, so relieved to finally be here, squinting in the fading daylight as I try and figure out which cottage is ours. Hyacinth House, our home for the summer. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for me to be able to identify why. This is becoming a more and more common sensation as I get older, which my mother tells me cheerily is the beginning of the end for my brain cells.

From what I can see in front of me, there are about seven or eight cottages scattered around the green. There’s a terraced row of three, a couple of semi-detached pairs and one slightly bigger house near the entrance. Solar lights planted around the edge of the lawn are glimmering, looking like glow-worms in the gloaming.

The windows of most of the cottages are lit up, some with curtains drawn, others still open. I watch families inside, brief glimpses of kids running around, flickering television sets, one window steamed up as someone works in the kitchen.

I’m not sure if our cottage is one of the ones I can see or if it is further afield. I can just about make out a path running down the side of the terrace and the shapes of a few more buildings beyond.

I decide we can explore later – but first I need to figure out how to unpack the roofbox. It occurred to me about an hour ago that I have possibly made something of a tactical error with the roofbox. When I was putting the stuff in it, I had to stand on a foot stool so I could manage.

Obviously, I didn’t bring the foot stool with me, and as I haven’t grown on the journey, I’m still about inches too small to reach. It’s a tricky one – and I suppose I’ll just have to hope they have foot stools in Dorset, or perhaps tall people. At least we are here.

I pull open the front and rear car doors, and the detritus of the journey tumbles out of every footwell – carrier bags full of tissues, muffin wrappers and apple cores, old drinks cups from McDonald’s, soft bananas with blackened skin, a torn leaflet about English Heritage, and finally, groggily, two grouchy children. I gather the litter up to put in the bin and pull open the boot so that poor Jimbo can clamber out and stretch his old legs.

Except Jimbo, of course, decides that after being cooped up in the car for far too long, he isn’t old at all. In fact he’s decided that he’s basically a puppy and sprints off over the grass like a gazelle on cocaine, springing and leaping and arcing through the dim evening sky.

He gallops in circles around and around on the grass, the solar lights highlighting the black gleam of his coat and reflecting off his eyes so he looks slightly demonic. He woofs and growls with sheer delight as he pursues his own tail and claws at the ground with his paws.

The kids start to laugh and I have to join in. I may be exhausted and frazzled and burned out, but the sound of my children giggling is enough to revitalise me even more effectively than a spa break and a bucket of chilled prosecco.

They’re both at such awkward ages – half-baked humans, not quite grown up, not quite babies – that giggling isn’t something that often occurs in our house. Lizzie’s out with her friends more and more and Nate spends a lot of time in his room playing X Box Live. They bounce between needing me and not needing me, and in Lizzie’s case between liking me and despising me. Even without the whole dead dad thing, I suspect it would have been a difficult time for us all.

Our laughter and the dog’s playful gnashing, are pretty much the only sounds I can hear. It’s almost alarmingly quiet at the Rockery. The families are all inside, living their barely glimpsed lives. There’s no traffic at all. No loud music coming from loud cars, distant sirens screeching, or trains or trams rattling past. None of the usual urban noises we’re all used to. Just the delicate twittering of birds at dusk, singing their last hurrah before bed time.

Jimbo jumps to his feet and his ears go on alert. We might think it’s quiet, and he might be about a thousand in dog years, but he can clearly hear something we can’t. His head swivels around, grey muzzle pointing towards the cottages, and he is suddenly galvanised into the fastest run I’ve seen from him in months.

He gallops away towards the path by the terrace, his inky fur starting to fade into the darkening light, his red collar just about still visible. I run after him and feel my now-frizzy curly brown hair billowing out behind me.

I catch up just at the point where the path stretches off between the buildings. There are a few more solar lights peeking out of the bedding plants here, so I can see exactly what has attracted his attention, and exactly why he’s stopped long enough for me to reach him.

Jimbo currently has his nose buried in the crotch of a man who appears to be only wearing a white towel, tied around his waist. There’s a lot more of him on display than I’ve seen of a man in real life for quite a while, and I’m glad it’s not light enough for him to properly see my bright-red face – a combination of being too hot, running when I’m about as naturally athletic as an asthmatic tortoise and being a bit embarrassed.

He’s tall, with wide shoulders that look on the brawny side. Like I imagine a blacksmith would look if I’d ever met one. Not many of those knocking round Manchester, funnily enough. His hair looks like it’s probably dark brown, a bit too long, and it’s dripping water all over his shoulders. I conclude from this, and from the fact that I can now see the swimming pool complex behind him, that he’s been for a dip.

It’s pleasantly warm now, even as evening falls, and I can see how that would be an attractive proposition. I quite fancy jumping into a pool and washing off the cares of the day myself. But first I have to try and drag my perverted old Labrador’s face out of a strange man’s nether regions.

I’m not quite sure how to go about it and am fearful that if I make a grab for Jimbo, I might accidentally dislodge the towel as well – which would be very rude indeed.

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ I mumble, trying to get hold of Jimbo’s collar so I can tug him back from his erotic encounter. ‘Jimbo!’

Jimbo has not only found the speed of a much younger dog today, he’s also found the disobedience levels of a puppy and he fights me every inch. He’s way too interested in having a good sniff.

So I tug and mutter apologies, and try to ignore the dog’s disturbing snuffling noises as he buries his nose even further into the white towel. I also become aware that the kids have followed and are now sniggering away behind me. I realise that this really must all look very, very funny to someone who isn’t, you know, me.

The man is taking this canine sexual assault extremely well and eventually he simply leans down, takes Jimbo’s muzzle in one large hand and pulls it firmly away. He keeps hold of it and then kneels down in front of him, so he’s on eye level. He lets go of Jimbo’s mouth and starts scratching behind his floppy black ears, making his furry head twist around in ecstasy.

All the time, the man murmurs ‘good lad’-type noises, while also gazing into the pooch’s eyes and exercising some kind of Jedi mind-control trick that keeps him relatively still. For a few moments at least.

Jimbo suddenly darts forward to give the man’s face a very thorough tongue bath, then plops himself down at his feet. Within seconds, he’s snoring, curled up in an exhausted ball.

The dog whisperer stands up, holding on to the towel at his waist, although I have thankfully noticed the band of a pair of swimming trunks peeking out.

‘How old is he?’ the man asks, looking down at Jimbo, who is, I see, not lying at his feet – he’s actually lying on his feet.

‘Almost thirteen,’ I say, ‘and I’m so sorry.’

I am feeling suddenly very tired and very sad. The absurdity of my situation flashes across my mind: I have uprooted my children, myself and my very elderly dog on some kind of wild-goose chase, pursuing God knows what. Happiness? Progress? A break from the underlying misery that seems to have been wrapped around my heart every day since David died?

Well, whatever it is, I’m not pursuing it fast enough – all I’m finding is exhaustion, grumpy kids, senile dogs and a caffeine overload. That and chronic embarrassment as I apologise to a mostly naked man, in the dark, in a place I’ve never even visited before – a place I’ve unilaterally decided to make our home for the summer.

I clench my eyes together very, very tightly, squeezing back any watery signs of self pity that might be tempted to overflow, and force myself to look at the man instead of the dog.

I can only see bits of his face reflected in the silvery lighting, but he looks about my age. Maybe a little older, I’m not sure. His hair is definitely a bit too long, and will probably dry a lighter shade of brown once it’s not soggy. His eyes seem to be hazel or brown or green, I can’t really tell, and he’s not smiling.

He was smiling when he was playing with Jimbo. But now he’s not. Now he’s looking at me. I guess I just have that effect on tall, handsome strangers.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks, gruffly, frowning at me with such style and finesse that I instinctively know he frowns at least as much as he smiles. I suspect he’s one of those people who vastly prefers animals to people, and communicates much better with dogs than humans.

‘Oh, yes, thank you … just tired. We’ve been driving all day and now we’ve got to find our cottage and unload the roofbox, and I don’t know how I’m going to do that because I didn’t bring the foot stool and I’m too short, and the kids need some dinner and I need some coffee … well, probably wine, to be honest, and …’

I catch a glimpse of his expression as I ramble incoherently, and note that he looks slightly frightened. I realise I sound like a crazy person and as I have the kind of hair that expands in heat and I’ve been stuck in a hot car all day, I undoubtedly look like one too.

‘And yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ I say, firmly. ‘Do you happen to know where the Hyacinth House is? I have the keys.’

‘I can help you,’ he says, looking away from my eyes and gazing off into the distance. He sounds a little bit grumpy, a touch reluctant – as though he knows he should help, but doesn’t really want to engage.

‘No, I’m all right …’ I insist, wondering how I’m going to get Jimbo off his feet without appearing rude.

‘Let me help. I don’t have any wine, but I can help with the other thing.’

‘What?’ I ask, staring up at him in confusion. ‘You can help me stop being too short?’

Quick as a flash, a grin breaks out on his face and he lets out a laugh. It doesn’t last long and he seems to clamp down on it as soon as he can, like he’s not used to hearing the sound in public.

‘Sorry, no. I’m a vet, not a miracle worker. But I can unpack the roofbox for you. I’ll get dressed and come round. Hyacinth is just back there – next to the swimming pool. This is the nearest you can get the car, but I’ll help you unload. I assume you’re Laura?’

I feel a jolt of surprise that he knows who I am and also a jolt of a stubborn desire to continue insisting that I don’t need any help at all. I settle for just nodding and giving him a half-hearted smile as he extricates his bare feet from underneath the snoring dog’s tummy.

‘Thought so. In that case, if I know Cherie, she’ll have left wine in the cottage – so all your problems will be solved.’

Ha, I think, watching him disappear off up the path and noticing Lizzie still tapping away on her phone, face scrunched up in that very deliberate expression of vexed boredom that teenagers specialise in.

If only.

Chapter 6

Hyacinth House is rustic and pretty, and filled with the aroma of home-baked bread and fresh, sugary confections. It smells so good, in fact, as I push open the heavy wooden door, that for a moment I think it’s been spritzed with one of those artificial scents that people use when they’re trying to sell their home. Not that I’m sure those artificial scents even exist, but if not, they should. Maybe I’ll invent them and make my fortune.

I flick on the lights in the hallway and then the living room. Actually, I realise, as I take it all in, it’s one big open-plan room, really, in an L-shape. The little leg of the L is the kitchen and the big leg of the L is long but cosy and has a dining table at one end, and squishy-looking sofas and a TV at the other end.

There’s a lot of exposed brick and wooden beams peeking out of the low ceiling and a big stone fireplace that we’re unlikely to use in this weather unless we decide to do some hot yoga.

The interior design runs very much to the chintzy end of the style spectrum, with swirling floral patterns on the sofas and the throws that are on the sofas, the curtains and the lamp shades, and pretty much every available soft-furnishing surface.

The dining table is vast and battered and made from what looks like oak; it’s solid and scarred and seems like it’s led an interesting life. It’s also bearing a big tray of delicious-looking cupcakes, all iced in different rainbow colours, and a huge seed-topped loaf that has the slightly wonky look of something home-made.

There’s also a big bunch of wildflowers in a glass vase, and yes – praise the Lord! – a bottle of wine. Looks like it has a home-made label, so it is probably intensely organic and will get me very drunk, very quickly. Excellent.

Propped against it is a little note, which I pick up and read as I hear the kids stomping their way through. Nate heads immediately for the cupcakes, drawn like a moth to a fattening flame.

‘Who’s that from?’ asks Lizzie, also reaching out for a cake. She’s become disgustingly figure-conscious over the last few months and I count a day of her eating McDonald’s and cupcakes as a positive, weirdly enough.

‘It’s from Cherie,’ I say, ‘you know, the – ‘

‘The woman who was bonkers enough to give you a job?’ she finishes. That obviously wasn’t what I was going to say, but she kind of has a point. I don’t answer, choosing to remain dignified and aloof.

‘Don’t do your ‘who’s farted?’ face, Mum, you know what I mean!’

Apparently my dignified and aloof needs a little work, so I shove a whole cupcake in my mouth instead.

‘I mean,’ Lizzie continues, ‘that it’s all a bit weird, isn’t it? She’s never even met you. I didn’t mean it as an insult – you’re, you know, pretty good. At cooking. I’m sure you’ll be all right at working in a café. I just wish you’d found one a bit …’

‘Closer to home,’ supplies Nate, helpfully. ‘I think it took Matt Damon less time to get off Mars than it took us to get here.’

He flops down onto the sofa and straight away starts trying to figure out how to use the TV remote. Jimbo leaps up onto the couch next to him, circles precisely three times, then falls asleep with his muzzle buried beneath his own tail.

‘So what does she say, then, the mysterious Cherie?’ asks Lizzie, snapping a few pictures on her phone as she prowls around the room. A close-up of the bread, the flowers. A snarl before she takes one of the floral curtains, which are presumably not to her sophisticated tastes. One of Jimbo. One of Nate, who is now repeatedly pressing the same button on the remote, as though it might work the ninety-ninth time he does it. Then one of me, as I quickly realise that I shouldn’t have put that whole cupcake in my mouth all at once.

I wait a few moments, chewing frantically, before I am able to answer.

‘She says she’s sorry she didn’t get to see us earlier, but she has to go to her salsa class tonight. She says she hopes we enjoy the cakes and the wine – that bit’s aimed at me, obviously – and that she’ll see us all tomorrow. That we should spend the morning getting settled in and come round to the café for lunch. Isn’t that nice?’

‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ says Nate, giving up on the TV and instead shuffling down on the sofa so he can rest his head on the dog. Jimbo absently licks his face, then goes back to sleep.

‘Adorable,’ says Lizzie. ‘I can’t wait. Do you think that tall bloke is going to come round or not? I think my phone charger’s in one of the bags in the roofbox.’

‘And what would happen if your phone ran out of charge?’ I ask, sarcastically.

‘I’d die of boredom,’ she replies, deadpan. ‘And I have a signal at the moment. Didn’t you say it was a bit dodgy here? I have some serious communicating to do, so I’m going to make the most of it before we plummet back into the Dark Ages.’

Right on cue, there’s a knock at the door and the Tall Bloke walks through into the living room. I hastily swallow the last mouthful of cupcake and wipe the icing off my chin with a half-hearted swipe of my sleeve. I have the awful feeling that when I next look in a mirror, there’ll still be some there – along with the long, frizzy hair, the rosy cheeks and the harassed expression. The only sensible response to the entire situation is to never look in a mirror again. I may get Lizzie to go round the whole building covering them up with towels.

As the man enters, Jimbo looks up and lets out a high-pitched yip, thumping his tail a few times in appreciation. It makes the man smile, which I’m starting to realise is probably so rare in the wild that David Attenborough should make a documentary about it.

‘Cake?’ I ask, gesturing at the tray on the table. ‘Wine? Bread?’

Dear Lord. I’m starting to sound like Mrs Doyle off Father Ted, and probably look even worse.

‘No. Thanks,’ he says, not quite making eye contact. He’s dressed in a pair of faded Levis and an equally faded black T-shirt that fits very snugly around all the muscular parts of him I probably shouldn’t even be noticing. His hair’s been roughly towel-dried and is an attractively shaggy mass of brown and chestnut. The eyes, I note, are definitely hazel.

‘Shall we get you unloaded then?’ he prompts, which makes me wonder if I’ve been staring at him for two seconds or two hours. Awky-mo, as Lizzie would say. Or would have said last year, it’s probably not cool any more. Like LOLcats or wicked.

‘Right!’ I reply, wiping my hands down on my jeans and nodding. I look at the kids and give them my very best ‘get off your lazy arses and come help’ face. Nate immediately feigns sleep, letting out huge fake snores, and Lizzie runs away up the stairs, presumably to call dibs on a bedroom.

I suck in a breath and smile.

‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘I can beat them later. They’re overdue a whipping.’

He raises his eyebrows and I have the feeling he’s not a hundred per cent sure if I’m joking or not. Neither am I.

‘Okay,’ I exclaim, walking towards the door. ‘Let’s get started.’

I turn back and hold one hand up in a gesture of ‘wait a moment’ to him as he follows.

‘Just cover your ears for a bit,’ I say. As soon as he does, I bellow at the top of my voice: ‘Lizzie! Nate! Come and help or there will be a ban on ALL electronic devices for the next week!’

I exit the cottage, smiling in evil maternal satisfaction as I hear Lizzie thundering downstairs and Nate groaning as he drags himself off the squishy sofa.

We walk back to the car, along the path, and around the terrace, and across the crunchy gravel. Just like we’re all going on a bear hunt. It’s properly dark now, bright spots flickering among the plants from the solar lights. The bird song has quietened down and the only sound is that of our footsteps and the occasional trickle of laughter from one of the other cottages.

‘Weird, isn’t it?’ asks Nate, looking around suspiciously, as though a mad axe murderer might leap out of the bushes at any moment.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Not hearing the police helicopter?’

‘That doesn’t happen often!’ I snap back, somehow offended on behalf of our actually very nice part of Manchester. In reality, I suppose we hear it hovering somewhere nearby maybe once or twice a week – but it’s not as though we live in some crack-den infested ghetto. There’s a Waitrose, for God’s sake!

Lizzie is holding her phone in front of her with the torch app switched on, her eyes staring at the ground as she walks, carefully measuring each step, like she’s never walked anywhere in the dark before.

There’s a sudden and very strange noise from one of the distant fields. It sounds vaguely like someone moaning in pain, deep and low and a tiny bit sinister.

‘What’s that?’ I say, gazing around us and wondering if I’ve walked into some bizarre Wicker Man-type scenario. I notice the kids both freeze solid as well, looking very young and very scared. I tense, coiled with protective instinct, ready to kill anything that threatens my young.

‘It’s a cow,’ says the man, who turns back to give me a sympathetic look. A look that says ‘you poor, sad city person’.