Comfort Food

DOUGLAS watched his wife from the doorway for a few moments before calling to her. Her eyes were closed, whether against the sun or whether she was asleep, it was difficult to know.

“Kath.” Douglas balanced the cup on one hand, reached down with the other and moved his palm gently across her face. “I’ve brought you some tea.” Kath sat up.

“I wasn’t asleep.” Already she looked less relaxed. “I’d better get ready and see what I can do for Mum.”

She sat up quickly and rubbed the sun out of her eyes.

“Thanks for the tea.”

It was Saturday afternoon. This had always been their special time. Work over for the week, shopping done, household tasks all attended to.

This had been the time when they planned how they would spend Sunday, when they would bring out maps and brochures, check the weather forecast and decide on a trip.

But for the past few weeks, things had changed.

Kath’s mother Janice – a woman who was always on the go, irritatingly difficult to get hold of because she was attending a class, visiting a friend, or so busy researching for some talk she was giving at some women’s group that she didn’t answer her phone – had turned in the past few weeks into a recluse.

Her best friend, Bea, had died, and taken with her Janice’s joy.

“I’ve known her all my life. We sat together at primary school; she was my bridesmaid. I’ve known her longer than I knew your dad.

“It was different when your dad died. People understood and you were all there holding me up.”

Janice cried softly, a new kind of cry. One that reached long into the past, a continuous whimper like a child waiting for someone to understand what she wanted.

“Mum, your pals have been asking for you, saying that they hadn’t seen you, that sometimes you don’t go to the door even although they know you are in.

“You haven’t been to the embroidery class for weeks and you’ve missed Friday morning at the café.”

Kath took her mother’s hand. They were sitting in the sun lounge and the sky was blue with no streaks of moving white.

“I can take you on Friday, Mum. How about it? We can go to the café together. I can take Friday off work and come with you.”

“Look at me.” Janice pulled her hand through her hair. “I’m not fit to be seen.”

“Mum!” Kath’s throat was sore with unshed tears. “Come on. We can soon make you into your old lovely self.”

Everyone called it the Crowd Café, though there were differences of opinion as to why. It was situated in the community centre in Tillie and was run mainly by volunteers until Hector Robertson, former bank manager, intervened.

It was clear to him that somebody ought to be in charge and “accountable”, one of his favourite words.

A committee was formed and a rota of volunteers set up. Profits were allocated to a charity and then, after things had been put “on an even keel”, Hector suggested that there should be a bit of a look at the image.

Maybe the café should go for home-made favourites, which would demonstrate reliability, with perhaps a touch of experimentation.

Hector, well known as one who dined out, was listened to. His opinions were sound and often given an airing.

“We should get Bessie to make shortbread every week, for she makes better shortbread than any o’ thon stuff in the shops. And Maggie’s lemon cake is the best in the business.

“And how about thon meringues Jean makes? We’ll need to hae them every week. I don’t know how she does it

The community café had become an important part of the village, and so had the people in it . . .

but Liz’s gingerbread is just grand.

“No, we’ll no’ ask Agnes to bake, for she’s fair to middling at that. But she could be in charge of supplies, make sure we dinnae run out.”

“And who will make the tea and coffee? For that’s steady work?”

“Janice, of course. And we’ll make Bessie in overall charge of the baking.”

The new committee smiled in approval, for with becoming modesty Bessie had demonstrated just how a sponge rose easily if you put a bit of kindness in the beating, how pastry was never soggy if you lifted and sifted air into the flour, how ovens had moods that had to be respected and how patience and practice were all that was needed for the perfect pancake.

Hector could vouch for the pancakes, for he enjoyed a warm one straight from the griddle at every committee meeting.

“The best yet, Bessie,” he always said. “There’s no disputing.”

Kath was almost as nervous as her mum when they arrived at the café. The folk would fuss around her mum, asking how she was, hugging her. Enough to set her off balance.

Kath took a firm hold of her mother’s elbow and steered her through the doorway.

However, when they arrived, very little notice was taken. There was a buzz of women talking together in the kitchen. A head appeared round the door, a nod was made and a mouthed “Glad to see you back” before it was drawn back into the prattle.

They hung their jackets on the pegs and went to see what was the cause of the blether.

All attention seemed to be on Bessie, who was “in a state”.

“What’s ado?” Janice asked one of the helpers.

“Bessie’s boy is to be up in court,” she whispered back.

“Which one?”

“Billy, the young one. Something to do with a bike.”

“Billy?” Janice was shocked. “Nonsense! I taught that boy. As good a boy as you could hope for.”

Bessie, head down, leaned against Janice.

“Calm down, Bessie.” Janice sounded positive. “I know your boy and I could vouch for his decency. He would never do anything wrong. Tell me what happened.”

She led Bessie towards a corner table. It was a tribute to Janice that the bustle of women moved away and busied themselves noisily with crockery and cutlery.

Janice was a good listener. She’d navigate her way through Bessie’s story and get to the nub, though Bessie was not the best communicator on the planet.

Bessie had singlehandedly brought up two boys who made up in charm what they lacked in learning.

“They were never ones to keep their noses in a book, but they were good boys.” Bessie was apologetic.

“The best learning doesn’t always come out of a book. I’ve told you that often enough, Bessie. You’ve been a good mother to your boys, we all know that. We’ll get this sorted out.” Janice sounded business-like. “Now, tell me, a bit at a time, what happened.”

“Billy was cycling.” “And?”

“He went across the golf course on his bike. Well, not the whole course.” She twisted a handkerchief in her hands. “You know thon corner near the park. It’s part of the golf course but folks take a bit of a short cut across it.”

Janice nodded that she understood.

“Willie Young, the bobby, saw Billy cycle across it and gave him a shout. Billy says he waved to him, for he thought he was just saying hello.

“Next thing I know, Willie Young was at the door saying as how there were notices all over the place to say there was a match on and folks had to enter the course at the clubhouse.

“He said Billy had been real cheeky and could I not show a better example?”

“Bessie, Willie Young’s always on his high horse about something. He likes to parade a bit.”

“But, Janice, he said for all intents and purposes Billy was breaking the law.”

“Don’t worry. Willie will calm down after the match is over. Probably no more will be mentioned about this.”

“There will! He said Billy would go to court and he’d be astonished. I know that’s bad, for it happened to Jimmy Carson when he drove his tractor too fast on the main road.”

“I think you mean admonished. Trust me – dry your eyes. Here’s Hector Robertson come in for his pancake.”

Kath and Janice were strolling contentedly back to Janice’s house. Nothing was said outright, but they both knew that Janice was beginning to shed her skin of grief.

Kath had been proud of the way her mum had taken control, of how she had listened to Bessie, helped her calm down.

Because he had been in both their minds, it was unsurprising when Billy ran up alongside them. Janice greeted him. “Billy. Your mother seems a bit upset. Something about you and your bike.”

“Mrs Chalmers, you know me.” He gave a beatific smile. “It was Willie Young. He’s aye spittin’ teeth, then he’s OK. My mum worries too much.”

“Well, Billy. What are you going to do about it? “Billy gave a grin.

“I’m going to be a chef and look after my mum.”

“A chef?” Both women were surprised.

“Aye. My mum’s taught me all about cakes. And Hector Robertson’s been telling me about haute cuisine. Every week he comes for his dinner. He knows all about fancy food – soufflés, tortellini, couscous – all that.”

“I meant about your trouble with the police.” Janice tried to bring Billy back to the subject in hand. “You and your bike. What about that?”

“Hector says he’ll speak to Willie. They’re pals. It was just a silly mistake I made.” Billy moved ahead of them and waved back. “I’m in a hurry, sorry. I’m cooking tonight.”

“He’s a charmer, isn’t he?” Kath said to her mum.

“He is that. And I’m surprised, but delighted, that he seems to have settled on a career. A chef! It would never have occurred to me. But it’s made me feel so much better. I’m even feeling the warmth of the sun.”

It was high summer in Tillie. Apple blossom had dropped from the trees revealing the promise of tiny fruit. The Crowd Café was preparing for the annual barbecue.

Billy was in the kitchen, concentrating hard on making sauces. He tasted and frowned, sprinkling and stirring, tasted again then smiled at the ceiling.

Bessie was laying paper napkins and cutlery on the trestle tables. She loved eating out of doors for there was no bother with crumbs.

Hector Robertson was making sure all was as it should be, nodding like a proud father at Billy and gazing fondly at Bessie.

Janice and Kath listened and watched.

“Do you think? Do you think?”

“He needs a woman to soften him a bit.”

“It sounds daft, I know,” Janice said, “but I’ll talk to Bea when I get home. We’ll have a wee smile together about Hector and Bessie.

“Bea’s not really dead, not to me. Every day something reminds me of her. Every day I tell her something.”

Janice was laughing as she took hold of her daughter’s hand.

“Do you think maybe we’ll have a wedding some time soon, here at the Crowd Cafe?” n