The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

I have no idea where we are going, or why Gabriel has insisted I wear one of his fleece jackets instead of my own. Even more curious is the fact that he sniffs me before we set off.

‘You’re not wearing perfume are you?’ he asks.

‘No. Do I smell bad?’

‘You don’t. But they don’t like perfume or other strong human scents. My fleece smells of the woods, not wherever it is you’ve come from…’

‘Birmingham.’

‘Whatever. Are you ready?’

I have no idea what I’m supposed to be ready for, but the small flurry of activity has at least distracted me from the emotion-bomb that was the Comfort Food Café file. I suspect that was the whole point.

Gary is left behind, and he gives me a baleful look as I betray him and walk out the door. He’s like kids who cry when their mums take them to school: he’ll be fine once my back is turned. He has his basket and a chew toy and is a championship-level sleeper anyway.

I follow Gabriel down to the back of the barn, and we take a narrow path into the trees. The sun has faded but is still just about shining, and the autumn leaves are dappled with gold as we make our way into the dense woodland.

I recognise oak and yew and beech, and the floor is scattered with ferns and mushrooms, some of them plain little white caps, others spectacular displays of twisted form and colour. I wonder which would make a nice omelette and which could be used to murder someone, and decide to see if Zoe has a book about them.

The ground underfoot is soft and squishy with fallen leaves and mud, and the storm has thrown up a few obstacles—branches in our way, and on one occasion a complete tree trunk barring our path. We clamber over it, and continue on into ever-thickening woods, the light now almost completely blocked by the canopy of green and gold. Gabriel has a torch with a weird red beam, and he goes ahead, waiting for me to catch up when I fall behind.

Eventually he stops, and whispers to me: ‘We have to be quiet now. I’ve got a notepad and a pencil, and I’ll write down anything you need to know. It might take a while, but don’t talk. I know that might be hard for you.’

I’m not sure if this is a sly dig or a simple statement of fact, but I do a mime of zipping my lips up and follow him. We emerge into a little clearing, the ground seeming to dip in a bowl shape in front of us, the surface rough and lumpy with clumps of leaves and gnarled tree roots. He leads me to a small wooden hut with one of its sides missing, and inside there is a bench. The front of the hut has a hole cut into it that runs horizontally, creating a kind of viewing zone of the clearing.

I’m still not sure what we’re doing here, and am desperate to ask, but I can’t because my lips are zipped up. We settle down on the bench, and I’m uncomfortably aware of how much space my arse is taking up, and how closely we are squashed against each other. I look up at Gabriel, and see his profile in the dusky light. He seems totally relaxed, and has clearly gone into some kind of meditative state.

I’m not so good at meditative states, and struggle with sitting still and not speaking. I let my mind wander, flittering from subjects as disconnected as ‘I wonder how Sophie’s getting on?’ to ‘When is the next series of The Traitors starting?’, and ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if Daniel Craig came into the café for a cheese and ham toastie tomorrow?’

Eventually, he nudges me in the side, putting his fingers to his mouth to remind me to be quiet. He points outside the viewing window, and places his torch on it so it casts a diffuse red glow.

I don’t know quite what’s happening at first. The ground seems to start moving, and my mind immediately goes to that Kevin Bacon film, Tremors , where the monsters tunnelled through the earth.

What actually happens is that a little creature emerges, popping its head out from a hidden hole burrowed between two twisted tree roots. It has to knock some debris out of the way, possibly scattered there by the storm last night, and then sticks its face out into the world beyond. I suck in a breath as quietly as I can, and lean forward, taking in the long muzzle and the black and white stripes across its head. It’s a badger. I’m watching an actual badger, climbing out of its hobbit hole, whiskers twitching as it sniffs the evening air.

I feel completely enraptured as I watch him, as bit by bit he slithers his whole body out, deciding it’s safe and emerging fully into the clearing. He’s much bigger than I’d have expected, with a chunky grey body and a fluffy, stubby tail. His little black eyes seem to swivel around, and he’s clearly scouting about to check for danger.

Gabriel passes me the little notepad, and there’s just enough light for me to read: ‘That’s Carling. The dad.’

I nod, and carry on watching as Carling starts to scamper around the earth, digging into it with claws, investigating with his nose. Next out is a slightly smaller animal, and Gabriel tells me this is the mum, Estrella. She follows the sit-and-sniff routine, then starts to amble around, rooting in the grass and ferns, every now and then running back to the burrow with a clump of something.

I’m completely entranced by their behaviour, and even more so when the next two come out. They’re smaller, more streamlined, and they tumble out into the clearing in a flurry of fur. They roll around in a ball together, playing and fighting, before going their separate ways to forage.

These, I get told, are ‘the cubs—Stella and Artois’.

I realise, somewhat belatedly, that Gabriel has named all of the badgers after brands of lager, and I have to bite in a laugh. The animals are frolicking in front of us, and even the slightest sound will spook them.

We sit there for maybe an hour, watching the badgers go about their badgery business, as the final stripes of sunlight disappear and the chorus of blackbirds starts to silence. The dad takes off at some point, but mum stays with the cubs. The babies themselves seem to be mainly eating, and mum is making return trips to and from the entrance to the burrow with twigs and grass and leaves. I’m guessing she’s thinking about keeping them warm for the winter, and the cubs are thinking about their stomachs—it was ever thus.

They have a strange gait, walking and running in a way that is both graceful and comedic, and I suspect I could watch them all night long. They play, and eat, and groom each other, and the whole experience is so uplifting that by the time Gabriel nudges me and makes a ‘time to go’ gesture, I feel like I could actually float all the way home.

I nod, and we quietly tiptoe out of the hut. I see Estrella go on alert, sitting up tall, head swivelling and whiskers wobbling, before she settles again. I cast one final glance at them before we leave, seeing one of the cubs swipe his sibling across the face before running away. They’re so much like human children.

Once we’ve been walking back down the path for about five minutes, Gabriel whispers: ‘You can talk now. But quietly. If they don’t feel safe in this sett, they’ll move on.’

The route home seems tougher in this direction, probably because it’s fully dark now, so I am concentrating on where I put my feet as I reply: ‘That was amazing! Thank you so much for sharing that with me. How old are the babies?’

‘Apparently badger cubs are born in February, and I first saw them around April. They were much smaller, and almost unbearably cute. Hard to believe then that they’ll grow up to be the biggest land predator in the UK.’

‘What do they eat?’

‘Pretty much anything they can get their claws on. Earthworms, rodents, berries, nuts, seeds. Even hedgehogs. You sometimes see them foraging near people as well, rooting in the bins. If that happens while you’re here, don’t approach them. I know they look like pets but they’re not.’

‘Do you feed them?’

‘Sometimes I scatter some peanuts on the clearing—they like those—but mainly no, they’d become dependent on me.’

‘And that’s a bad thing?’ I say, as we clamber over the fallen tree trunk.

‘Yes. They’re wild animals; they should be self-sufficient. And I don’t like having anything dependent on me.’

‘You’re like the badgers,’ I say. ‘Self-sufficent. But not as cute.’

He laughs, short and sharp, and it feels like a victory. Every human response I get from this man feels like a victory, because while he is self-sufficient like the badgers, he doesn’t have their sense of community. They are part of their own little family, and he is alone.

This, I tell myself, is not a bad thing. It might not be everybody’s ideal, but who am I to judge what is right for him? Nobody forces him to live alone in splendid isolation, with only his sleeping bag for company. He’s a very attractive man—he’d be a huge hit on Tinder-for-grown-ups—but that doesn’t seem to be what he wants. He lives like this because he chooses to, and I don’t really know the first thing about him, plus I’m definitely not in a position to feel sorry for him, given the disaster zone that is my own life.

We emerge back in the grounds of his property, and I ask: ‘Why did you name the badgers after lager? Because I assume they didn’t pick those names themselves.’

‘No, and even if they did, I don’t speak badger so I wouldn’t have understood. If they have their own names, they’re something like cheek-a-cheek-a-waaaaah-grrrr-yeeek.’

He says this completely deadpan, but delivers it as a series of grunts and squeals that is a pretty good imitation of the various sounds the badgers had been making.

‘Dunno,’ he continues, shrugging. ‘I suppose I just like lager?’

I nod in acceptance—it’s as good a reason as any—and we make our way back around to the front. It feels completely different here now it’s nighttime, and other than a few birds still calling and the distant hoot of an owl, it is totally silent. I’m not used to this, and find it slightly unnerving.

Luckily, my nerves are settled by something more familiar: the sound of a car horn honking as Sophie swerves the Toyota into the courtyard. The wheels squeal and gravel flies up from the impact, and I see Gabriel’s eyes widen.

‘I know,’ I murmur. ‘I’m sorry. My spirit animal might be a donkey, but hers is Lewis Hamilton.’

I’m relieved to see her home at a relatively early hour, and even more so to see that she is stone-cold sober. Mums can always tell.

‘What have you two been up to?’ she asks, after getting out of the car and slamming the door. I hear Belle bellow her objections from the paddock.

‘We’ve been badger-watching!’ I announce, with some glee. I can’t wait to tell her all about it.

‘Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?’ she responds, giving me a saucy wink. ‘Why are you wearing Gabriel’s clothes?’

‘Because mine smelled too weird for the badgers, and his smell of woods and trees and dirt, and they like that.’

I realise that this doesn’t sound very complimentary, but I needn’t have worried—he’s already walking away and leaving us to it. He opens the door, turns to give us a nod goodnight, and disappears into the house without a word.

‘So, how was it?’ I ask, putting Gabriel and his quirks out of my mind.

‘Good, yeah! I mean, it was hardly a wild night out as you can tell, but I get the feeling everybody has a different body clock here. Circadian rhythms adapted to countryside hours or whatever. But I met some cool people. Martha’s ex, Bill, was there, and his brother, James. He’s my age, and he’s doing an apprenticeship on “Frank’s farm”, which seems to be still called that even though Frank is sadly RIP. And I met a girl called Jess, who’s second year in her A-levels and lives in the next village. And I met Martha’s dad, Cal, who is Australian and a complete DILF. Looks like a cowboy version of Chris Hemsworth. He wears a hat and everything!’

The words spill out of her in a rapid-fire ramble, and I can see that she’s happy. She has a thick veneer of confidence, my daughter, but I know that beneath the surface she can be shy and sensitive. Finding a little tribe she feels comfortable with will make our time here much more enjoyable for her.

‘Plus, I think I’ve decided I will do resits. Term’s already started, but I’m sure I can catch up— Miss Edmonds said she’d arrange access to online lessons for me. Martha went to Oxford, you know, and it sounded really fun. I might try that.’

I blink, and try to nod encouragingly. Sophie got two Cs and a D in her A-levels, so I suspect she might be overreaching. But who am I to put her off? She’d initially wanted to study psychology, but who knows now? She seems to be in a constant state of change.

‘So did you really see badgers?’ she asks. ‘And not, like, the dead ones on the side of the road that always make you cry?’

She’s right. My empathy sponge goes into overdrive when I see roadkill. Most people see a dead hedgehog and go ‘aah, that’s a shame’, and forget about it. I will spend the next half-hour pondering the poor hedgehog’s life, and the babies it might have left undefended, and wondering if Mr or Mrs Hedgehog is sitting at home worrying about them.

‘I did! They were gorgeous, Soph. You’ll have to go and watch them. It was like nothing I’ve ever done before. They’re so cute.’

We walk back into the house as we chat, and I automatically start to speak more quietly once we’re in the kitchen. Gary has other ideas and runs towards us woofing and wagging, unbearably excited at our return.

Sophie looks at me, and I look at her, and we both make ‘who knows?’ faces, because we have no idea if Gabriel is still downstairs, or what he’s up to, and basically it’s a bit weird. We have to navigate a whole new set of rules here, and that’s hard because I have no idea what the rules are. Are we allowed in the living room, where he sits on his solitary recliner and reads? Do we need a bathroom rota? What time does he go to bed, and should we tiptoe around in case we wake him?

I put the kettle on for a cuppa, and realise as I make it that there’s nowhere to sit and drink it other than the kitchen table. That’ll do for now, I suppose.

As I’m pouring in the milk, Gabriel himself appears, as though I’ve summoned him. He stares at me, and I feel nervous. It’s like he’s never seen me before, and is wondering what this strange woman is doing in his kitchen. Gary rushes over to sniff his crotch, which at least breaks the moment.

‘Tea?’ I ask, holding up a mug, as though demonstrating what ‘tea’ looks like.

‘No. Thank you. Look, I just wanted to tell you that you might hear me moving around in the night. I don’t sleep much. So, that’s it. Goodnight.’

He nods, as though satisfied that he’s delivered his message, and disappears off up the stairs.

‘He’s so weird,’ whispers Sophie as we sit down. ‘But I think I like him.’