The next few weeks pass so quickly, I barely notice they’re happening. November sees the weather settling into slightly calmer patterns: still cold, still blustery, but with brighter, crisper days and clear, star-studded nights.
Sam gives me a booklet on migrating birds, and I use that and my binoculars to spot the feathered friends who have made the journey from Scandinavia to their holiday home in the West Country. I see redwings and all kinds of geese and the awesomely titled red-breasted merganser. I am becoming a regular country girl, and wonder if I should start my own web show – a cut-price Autumn Watch without the experts or camera men or prime time TV slot. I could be an internet sensation – or just get spammed a lot by hot Russian babes looking for action. It could go either way.
I love these walks – and I don’t always do them on my own. Sometimes I borrow Midgebo, who snuffles and wags and investigates everything in his curious Labrador fashion. Sometimes Laura comes along, or Becca, with Little Edie bundled up in a cute baby carrier on her chest. Sometimes even Martha deigns to accompany me, pretending to be cynical but secretly enjoying it.
And sometimes – in fact quite often – Cal is my walking buddy. He’s used to living in the outdoors, and fills in his days around Martha time by working with Frank on the farm, and exploring the beaches and heaths in the area. He often looks at the freezing-cold water with something approaching lust, and it’s easy to imagine him when he was younger: long blonde hair, surfer-dude, bumming his way around the world.
Since our night in the flat, we’ve become closer. Become friends. Much as he is a treat for the eyes, there’s a lot more to Cal than the way he looks. He’s funny and kind and down-to-earth. He has a high tolerance for eccentricity and a forgiving attitude to the quirks of human nature, which you definitely need when you live in Budbury.
He’s quiet when I need quiet, and chatty when I need chat, and seems to have an unfailing instinct about which is appropriate. Perhaps that comes from living on a farm with a load of other men, where getting in each others’ faces is always a risk.
He might have been immature when he created Martha, and I know he still feels regret about being an absentee dad for most of her life, but these days he’s all grown up. I think Kate would have liked him, which is pretty much the biggest compliment I can pay someone.
We spend hours together, roaming the hillsides, exploring the caves, collecting fossils washed up on the shore after a downpour. Every now and then, there is accidental physical contact – he helps me up a steep path, or holds out his hand to steady me as we climb. Gives me a hug to warm me up, or sits close to me on the bench to share body heat and a flask of coffee.
Now, I’m only human – and he is a deeply attractive man. I’d be lying if I said I never felt a spark between us, or wondered what it would be like to take things further. To kiss him, and be held by him, and to touch the smooth golden skin I know lies beneath his clothes. To wake up in his arms, safe and warm. To see if the spark turns into a flame.
I’ve felt all of that, and I think he has too. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, in the same way I’m looking at the redwings – as though he’s trying to figure me out. Deciding where he fits into my life, and I fit into his.
I feel all of that, but I don’t act on it. It would be easy, and I’m fairly sure it would be wonderful as well – but then there’d be the Aftermath. The awkward conversations about what it all meant; the difficult silences; the extra layer of tension that always seems to accompany my relationships with men. I tell myself I’m holding back because of Martha – because the last thing she needs, just as we’ve started to settle ourselves and just as she’s getting to know her dad, is for me to jump into bed with him and mess it all up again.
I tell myself it’s because of Martha, and that is true, but if I force myself to be honest, it’s also because of me. Because I’m scared of what might happen. Scared of getting close to him, making a space for him in my life, and then him leaving again. I don’t feel strong enough to survive another loss, and it will be hard enough when he goes back to Australia as it is – never mind throwing sex into the mix. Sex … well, it always complicates the shit out of things, doesn’t it?
I’ve had my fair share of boyfriends, but none of them have ever been serious. Maybe it’s because I never met the right person – or, more likely, it’s because I was never willing to meet the right person. One guy I dated on and off for a few months eventually ended things because I was too closed off; too emotionally crippled. Because our booty calls left him feeling used, and he wanted more.
He left, and the main thing I felt was relief – relief that I didn’t even have to try any more. Pathetic but true.
With Cal, it’s different. We’re already close. We already have a link that can’t ever be broken – our past with Kate, and our future with Martha. He will always be in my life in some way or another, so I can’t afford to jeopardise that. We’ve already come much further than I thought we would, and I’m happy about that – because it’s good for Martha. The three of us are good together. She mocks us mercilessly, and I enjoy that – nothing like a good mocking to lift the spirits. I can tell she’s starting to feel stronger – more confident, more grounded. More happy.
A lot of that is down to Lizzie and their friendship, to her new college and new relationships – but some of it is also because of Cal being here, and me and Cal creating our own slightly malformed version of a family unit to support her. Hopefully, by the time he does eventually leave, some of that newfound strength will have become permanent, and will help her through the next stage of her life.
Things are improving, but I know she desperately misses her mum. Occasionally, when I’m brave enough to venture into her room to dig for fossil-like dishes under her bed, I can tell that she has spritzed her pillow with the Burberry perfume Kate used. Her way of keeping her close, I suppose.
November is hard for us both – containing as it does the anniversary of Kate’s cancer diagnosis. The first of a series of unpleasant anniversaries that are looming ahead of us – our first Christmas without her; the day she died, the day we said goodbye at her funeral. None of it is good, and I know there may be some bumpy times ahead. Cal and I do what we can – but we’re not Kate. We never will be.
Martha herself has started to talk about her mum more, which I take as a good sign. Before, no matter how much I tried to get her to open up, she toughed it out – slammed the door in my face both literally and figuratively. Always resisted any attempts on my part to talk about Kate, and what she was going through.
I probably wasn’t the best person to be doing it, really – I was still in pieces about Kate myself, and maybe a tiny part of me was relieved not to have to constantly talk about her. Now, though, things seem to be changing for both us. I’ve talked to Cal, and I know Martha has talked to Lizzie, and maybe that’s exactly what we both needed – someone to talk to about Kate who didn’t live through the loss, share the same pain at the same time.
Recently, I’ve noticed that she’s able to laugh about silly things she remembers her mum doing; mention her name without crying, pick up the Terry Pratchett book her mum always told her she should read. Small steps, but significant. I even found her flicking through photo albums one night, curled up in her Glastonbury hoodie on the sofa as she turned the pages.
I’d sat down next to her, and we’d looked together – telling each other stories and sharing memories and shedding a few tears; her asking me more about Kate as a child, filling in the gaps that all teenagers have about their own parents’ youth. Of course most teenagers get to ask their parents those questions themselves – but for Martha, I was as good as it got.
Apart from Barbara and Ron, of course – who were scheduled to visit the weekend after next. I tried hard not to look as though I was going to vomit at the prospect because, again, it might be good for Martha. They could tell her about their version of Kate, and it would be a chance for them all to help each other heal. Much as Barbara and I loathe each other, I never, ever doubt how much she loved her daughter, and how much she loves Martha. She might show it through obsessive amounts of toilet cleaning and Marks and Spencer gift cards, but the love is there – and it matters.
In fact, as I make my way back to the cafe after a particularly nice walk all on my lonesome, their visit becomes the subject of all conversation.
I walk through the garden and into the cafe, enjoying that wonderful sense of wellbeing you get when warm air first strokes ice-cold skin, and shrug my coat and scarf and gloves off. There are a couple of actual customers there, both scooping cream off the top of their hot chocolates with long-handled spoons, newspapers spread out on the table in front of them.
Cherie is manning the kitchen, as Willow is at a hospital appointment with her mum, and Laura’s having a day off with Matt, doing some early Christmas shopping in Bath. Martha’s college is closed for a staff training day, and she is here with Cal, foraging for food.
I join them, looking on in wonder at Martha’s lunch – fish finger sandwiches on white bread, squished up exactly the way she always liked them when she was little. Exactly the way her mum always made them.
I glance up at Cherie, who is waving me over, a mug of the creamy hot chocolate on the counter alongside a slice of chocolate cake. I will turn into a woman made entirely of cocoa beans if I stay in this place much longer.
“How did you know?” I ask, looking at Cherie half admiringly, half suspiciously. Her long, fat plait is lying draped over her shoulder, and her cheeks are rosy from cooking.
“How did I know that you’d want chocolate?”
“No – that’s not a challenge. I always want chocolate. I mean, about Martha and the fish finger butties … it’s what Kate always used to make for her.”
I’d heard stories about Cherie’s legendary ability to match people to their particular comfort food before – hence the name of the cafe – but this was the first time I’d really seen it in action.
“Oh, well, my love … it doesn’t take a genius. You just have to keep your eyes peeled and listen to what your instincts tell you. Ivy Wellkettle was in earlier, and that’s what she always has – reminds her of when young Sophie was still living at home, it does. And I saw the way Martha looked at those sandwiches – like she might actually sneak over and steal them – and put two and two together. Everyone has a comfort food, don’t they? Something that takes them back to happier times, or simpler times. Though beyond the chocolate, I’ve not yet quite figured out yours …”
“That’s because I’m an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a drunk person. And I’m perfectly happy with the chocolate, thank you … what is this? It smells amazing!”
I scoop up a chunk of sponge with my fork, and can immediately confirm that it also tastes amazing.
“Laura’s latest for the winter menu. Chocolate fudge cake, but made with some peppermint as well. Mint in the hot choc too – all very co ordinated, our Laura. Go on – go and sit down. I’ll pop over in a minute for a chinwag before the rush arrives. And by that I mean Edie.”
I nod – my mouth is stuffed full of cake – and take my goodies over to the table.
“Your face is blue,” says Martha, looking at me like I’m an exhibit in a travelling freak show. “It’s freezing out there. Are you trying to walk yourself to death?”
Cal smirks a little, and I shoot him half a dagger to shut him up.
“It’s beautiful out there,” I answer. “You should try seeing life beyond your phone every now and then. It’s gorgeous.com.”
She pulls a face that suggests I have just climbed onto the table and farted in her face, and replies: “Why is it that old people always think adding ‘dot com’ after something lame makes it hip and cool? It doesn’t. It just makes it evenmorepathetic.com.”
“And you’re a rudecow.com,” I say, sipping my hot chocolate and pulling my own face – one that possibly resembles an orgasm. It’s that good.
“I think you’re both totallyawesomechicks.com,” chips in Cal, which earns him a dirty look from both of us. United at last.
“So,” says Martha, leaning back and narrowing her eyes at me. “Guess what?”
“I can’t possibly guess what – just tell me.”
“You’ll like it.”
I can tell from the look on her face that I won’t like it. I make a ‘wind it on’ gesture with my hands, and note that Cal has carefully schooled his expression into something unnaturally neutral.
“Gran and grandad are coming down this weekend instead of the one after. Isn’t that completelymarvellous.com?”
I try and emulate Cal, and keep my face neutral, but I suspect from the fact that Martha bursts out into witch-like cackles of laughter that I’m not entirely managing it.
Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. Even Laura’s most divine creations would probably taste like ashes in my mouth right now.
I’d got used to the idea that they were coming. In fact, had even persuaded myself to welcome it, for all the right reasons – it would be nice for Martha, it would give Cal the chance to meet them, and it would hopefully also reassure Barbara that all was well. Seeing Martha in the flesh might actually convince her that we hadn’t actually run away to join some kind of hippy commune to smoke dope out of specially crafted wellington boots.
But I’d got used to the fact that they were coming many days from now. It was the tomorrow that never comes – the disaster on the horizon that you still had time to prepare for. Time to stock up on tinned goods and fix the air filtration system in your underground survival bunker, that kind of thing.
The news that I now only have one night to do all of this completely unhinges me.
“Oh,” I say, quietly, laying my spoon down on the table and taking some deep breaths. “Oh … right. Gosh. I have so much to do. I have to clean the bloody toilets. And change the bedding. And dust, and hoover, and hide all the booze, and buy some food, and learn how to cook it, and … and …”
I am hyperventilating slightly by this point, and Cherie has come over to see what’s going on. I sense her hovering above me, but my vision has started to cloud as I panic.
I don’t know why I feel quite this bad. I knew they were coming. It’s not that big a deal. But suddenly, I feel completely overwhelmed – threatened, and pressurised, and exposed. I think it’s because I know that no matter how much I clean the toilets or scrub the cottage, it won’t be good enough. In Barbara’s eyes, I was never even good enough to be her daughter’s friend – never mind her granddaughter’s guardian.
Since we’ve been here, in Budbury, with all these strangely delightful people, I’ve been so much more relaxed. When you’re hanging round with Amazonian geriatric rock chicks and surfer dudes and space princess waitresses and women in their 90s with life-long delusions about their fiancé, you start to feel less weird. Weird becomes the new normal, in fact.
Now, Barbara and Ron are on their way, to show me that it’s not. To judge me, and find me wanting.
I only calm down when Cherie and Cal launch a double attack. Cherie lays her arm around my shoulder and squeezes, and Cal reaches out across the table and takes both my trembling hands in his. Martha, to be fair, is now looking slightly guilty about winding me up so much, shuffling round on her chair, eyes wide as she watches me go into my meltdown.
“It’s okay, Zoe,” says Cal, his voice deliberately low and gentle and monotone, like he’s trying to calm down an anxious animal. “It’ll be all right. You’re not doing it on your own, you know? We’re all here. We’ll all help.”
Cherie nods, and squeezes me some more. I suspect I may be bruising like a peach by now, such is her insistence on reassuring me.
“That’s right, my love,” she says. “You don’t worry about a thing. We’ll get everything shipshape, and we’ll have them over here for dinner, and we’ll show them the sights – it’ll be grand. There’s no need for you to worry so much. We’ll all look after you. You’re a member of the tribe now, and we’re good at protecting our own, you know.”
I look up at her – almost six foot, built like a warrior, encased in an apron that says ‘Kiss the Chef’ – and I nod. I’d lay good money on Cherie being the best defender on the planet. And Laura, and Willow, and Edie, and even Cal. Becca could probably win a street fight even with a baby strapped to her chest, and Sam and Matt will be with me too. They’re like my very own Dorset Avengers, and I know they’ll assemble when I need them.
Cal is stroking my fingers, and brushing wind-tangled strands of hair away from my face, and I start to breathe a little more easily. Even start to feel borderline embarrassed about my drama queen attack, because it’s really not like me at all – at least not in public.
I feel my heart rate coming back within normal human levels, and try on a grateful smile for size.
The smile becomes slightly more genuine when Martha finally decides to speak. She doesn’t meet my eyes, and is fiddling with her black hair as she says it, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Don’t worry,” she says, quietly, gazing at a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “I’ll clean the toilets.”