mARch Exclusive - "Foggy" - Part 1

Hug a Mugs Cafe

Brighton, England

“And what would you like for your pudding, sweetheart?”

Bobby blinks at the red-haired waitress. It’s a good question; Vicky (he knows her name, he knows this café) has cleared away the remains of his shepherd’s pie, and pudding always comes next. Pudding, in all honesty, is the best part of lunch at Hug a Mugs.

“I think we all know what Bobby wants,” says Mummy, laughing.

Yes, of course. It’s always the same thing, a routine etched in stone.  The weekly treat after their walk along the beach, and especially true after today, because it wasn’t a warm walk, there was no bucket and spade, no rolled up trousers to paddle in the water. No, it was chilly, it was a wrapped up with scarf and mittens, wearing boots kind of walk. Bobby looks down at his feet, reassuring himself that yes, he is still sporting his shiny red wellies.

He is even more reassured by the sight of the teddy bear sitting on the chair beside him. Bee-bee doesn’t eat lunch but he likes to come along for the walk, safely tucked inside Mummy’s bag until it’s time to come out. He reaches for the bear and strokes its old head. Bobby has had Bee-bee for such a long time. Forever and a day, Mummy says.  Which is a very long time.

Too long, maybe?

“What do you reckon?” asks Vicky, standing beside him. “What sound good to your tum-tum?”

Bobby looks at her, blank-faced. He has something else on his mind. He can’t put a name on it, just like he can’t seem to tell the freckled waitress (Mummy says freckles are little kisses from God, which makes sense to Bobby because Vicky is always so sweet and bubbly) what he wants.

“Silly boy." Mummy tousles Bobby's hair. “You want apple crumble, don’t you.”

Yes, that’s what he wants. He nods, and then he stares down at his hands, returning to the puzzle in his head. He’s confused, but this isn’t normal confusion. This isn't like not knowing his left and right when it's time to put on his wellies, or why he should sit on the toilet before they leave the house even when he doesn't feel the need to pee. For the first time in a long time, Bobby actually understands that he’s confused all the time, and this has rendered him speechless. Which has caused him to raise his head and stare open-mouthed at Mummy, Vicky, and the café around them.

“You’re in your own little dream-world, aren’t you.” Mummy pats his hand. “He’d like the apple crumble, please,” she tells Vicky.

Vicky smiles. “That’s your favourite,” she says to Bobby in a tone meant for very little boys, which Bobby now understands makes sense and doesn’t make any sense at the very same time. “I bet you’ll eat every bite!” Vicky looks at Mummy. “With custard?”

Mummy nods. “Oh yes, Bobby loves custard.”  She nods at the waitress. “And a coffee for me, please.”

Vicky smiles. “Coming right up,” she says brightly, and then she’s gone, taking her smile and freckles with her, leaving Bobby to look down at the cloth bib that is tied around his neck.

His special bib, the one they take to the café. He’s worn it so many times, but this is the first time that Bobby has really inspected it. Green, striped, with a dinosaur on the front.

Mummy pats Bobby’s hand again. “Thank goodness Mummy remembered your bib! Such a messy boy.”

Bobby knows he's a messy boy. Mummy is always wiping and dabbing at him, making him clean and tidy again.

The dinosaur is holding an orange box tied with a blue ribbon, as if it’s going to open a birthday present. Or is it giving the present to another dinosaur?

He points at the dinosaur. "Green," he mumbles.

Mummy nods enthusiastically. "That's right! Clever boy, you know your colours!"

Bobby nods right back. Of course, he knows his colours. But did he know them yesterday? Five minutes ago? There’s something curious happening, and it has to do with time. He looks at the other customers – mostly old people, although there’s a baby sitting in a highchair. The baby is much smaller than Bobby, and that’s curious as well, because they don’t seem all that different.

The baby is ignoring his food and rolling a toy car back and forth – making Bobby thinks of cars, how fast they can go, how much noise then can make. And then he thinks of trains.

Trains are faster. Noisier.

There’s a train underneath Bobby's dinosaur bib. A smiling Thomas, with letters underneath that Bobby has no hope of reading. Why not? Why can’t he read?

Bobby purses his lips, annoyed both at his lack of literacy and that he doesn’t have a toy train to play with, and then he looks over and sees the fogged-up windows. Because it’s winter.

Last time Bobby noticed, wasn’t it summer? Wasn't it bucket-and-spade weather? But the strangest thought in Bobby's head is the knowledge that he hadn't wanted a bucket and spade. He had wanted to drive; he had wanted to get the hell out of-

“In your own little dream-world,” Mummy says fondly. She takes out her phone and starts scrolling.

Bobby blinks, forgets about driving. But time stays with him. He can consider changing seasons, he can frown and wonder why he had been sure that it was summer, just yesterday, just a moment ago.

He frowns more deeply at the ache in his temples. It feels like his head is being squeezed. He wrinkles his nose, a dull anxiety bubbling in his chest. Because headaches are bad, headaches are the very worst. He has cried about headaches, he has begged and moaned.

He looks over at Mummy. He should tell Mummy, and she will make the headache go away. That’s what she used to do, a long time ago. In the summer. Bobby hasn’t had one of those nasty headaches for the longest time.  Forever and a day.

He opens his mouth to tell Mummy, and then he stops.

Because her name isn’t Mummy. Not really.

Bobby looks down at the sleeves of his coat that hangs over his chair. There’s a pair of mittens, left and right, dangling from the sleeves.

Left and right. Important for shoes and socks. Not important for jumpers or T-shirts.

Mummy dresses him up lovely and warm for their walks. A little while ago, Mummy had told him it was time to stop playing with his choo-choos, time to put on his red wellies and mittens. Mummy makes sure that Bobby-

His head squeezes more tightly.

His name isn’t ‘Bobby’. Not exactly.

Robert gasps, but it’s soft, not enough to attract the woman’s attention.

He reaches up and massages his temples. And then he knows her name.

Of course, he does. He knows his wife's name.

The wife that talks to him as though he's a little boy. The wife who keeps him in nappies. nappies. He pushes his thighs together, feels the familiar bulge. He looks at the sippy cup decorated with rocket ships in front of him, and the squeezing in his head becomes so bad that he is certain that he’ll throw up. He takes a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, because that's what the doctor told him to do, a long time ago, when doctors spoke directly to him instead of over his head at his wife.

He focuses on his breathing and the nausea fades, replaced by the less-urgent but still present ache.

Robert groans.

His wife looks up from her phone, sees him rubbing his head. Her eyes widen. “Oh, sweetie! Do you have a sore head?"

He puts his hands on the table. "Jane," he says.

She gives him a funny smile. "Oh, honey. That's right, Mummy's name is-"

"What's going on?" asks Robert. He fixes her with a stare, as if she might disappear in a puff of smoke if he takes his eyes off her. "Why mi...why am I..." His tongue feels as lazy and out of practice as his brain.  He exhales loudly, and then resorts to his original question. "What's going on?"

Jane takes his hands in her own. She’s not smiling anymore. "Love, are you remembering? The accident, the terrible..." She squeezes his hands. "My God, do you remember?"

Robert replies, “Bits and pieces." Enough to understand that this is a heaping pile of wrong. He darts his eyes back around the other diners and blushes; everyone can see the dangling mittens, teddy bear, the sippy cup. He whispers, "What’s with the...I'm not a..." He looks back to find tears in Jane's eyes.

"I've been caring for you since the accident. You had a terrible head injury; you were in hospital and then the rehabilitation place for weeks." She wipes at her eyes, and she barks out a strained laugh. "I'm sorry, I don't know where to start.” She looks at him intently. “What do you remember?"

Robert grimaces. The headache continues to push his skull inward. "Bits and pieces,” he says again. He looks back at the fogged windows. "It was summer, when it happened."

Jane offers a half-smile. "Spring. It was...it's been ten months since the accident." She shakes her head. "Oh honey, I had to teach you how to walk, to talk." She takes his hand again. "It's been a long road, Bobby."

"Please. You know I don't like 'bobby’. And all of this..." He waves with his free hand at his clothing, the sippy cup, the teddy bear sitting beside him like an unwanted guest. "I've been calling you..." He blushes more deeply; he can't say the word out loud.

And then he looks down, keenly aware that everyone he's seen since the accident has considered him a helpless idiot. He says softly, "Why is it all so childish?"

Childish. As if that even begins to cover how his wife treats him. Wife? They haven’t been husband and wife since the accident.

Mother and child. Mummy and Bobby.

Jane combs her hair with her fingers; shorter hair than before, shorter than Robert prefers. "It kind of just worked out that way."

Despite his headache, Robert snorts a laugh. "I'm going to need more than that."

Her tone changes in a heartbeat. "It's been really hard, okay?" says Jane harshly, accusingly, and then her face falls, and tears spill down her cheeks.

Robert looks at her, stricken. When was the last time he really looked at her? His wife has cut her raven hair short, she's wearing less make-up. A soft, brown jumper that matches her eyes. And she’s lost weight. She looks younger, prettier in spite of the tears, than Robert remembers. Because at the end, before the accident, they had both turned ugly.

Bits and pieces.

I’m sorry that you’re stuck. But I’m not stuck. I’m loving it, all of it. And if you can’t get on board, then maybe we’re finished.

Jane takes a hitching breath. "Everything I've done has been for your own good, for your recovery.  You're wearing nappies because otherwise you have accidents. We've gotten you to when you need to go number two, you can let me know, and we normally make it to the toilet, but your tinkles..." She shakes her head. "The bib, because you're a messy eater. The sippy cup, otherwise you spill. The mittens, partly just to keep you warm, but also..." she sighs. "To keep you from picking up everything you find."

Robert points at the teddy bear. “And him? What’s he for?”

Jane throws up her hands. "That was your idea! Those headaches after the accident, you were in so much pain, so confused, you were delirious, and the doctors wouldn't give you anything for them. The third night, you called out for him." She points at the teddy bear. "Begged me for your Bee-bee, and so I dug it out of the attic and gave it to you." She sighs. "You haven't wanted it out of your sight since."

“What are you saying?” Robert can hear his voice harden. Everything between them has changed, and yet nothing has. The last months before the accident, the strongest memory – the strongest feeling – is that every conversation ended in an argument.

Every moment I’m away from home, I’m working for us. For the things you ask for, you say we need. I’m doing it all for us, and every time you complain about me being away, you make it that little bit harder for me to succeed.

Robert tilts his head at his wife. “You saying I asked for this?”

Jane opens her mouth to protest.

"Here we are!" The freckles return, along with the rest of Vicky. She puts the coffee down in front of Jane and the pudding bowl in front of Robert. "Careful, Bobby," she says, in a slow, condescending tone that Robert immediately hates. "Bowl's warm, don't touch." She demonstrates by tapping the edge with a finger and then blowing on it theatrically. "Ow! Don't wanna burn your handies!"

A few minutes ago, Robert supposes he would have giggled at Vicky’s cloying tone. Now, such treatment is intolerable. And perhaps it is the stubborn headache which makes Robert unwilling to play nice, but what is he supposed to say? And so, he says nothing, looks away from the waitress.

Confusion flashes across Vicky's face. “Don’t you...” She turns to Jane. “Doesn’t he want it?”

"Sorry," Jane says quickly, giving Robert a look. "Bobby's a little grouchy. He's got a little bit of a headache."

Vicky puts her hand on Robert's shoulder. "Poor thing! I bet Mummy will help make it better." She smiles at him, and Robert manages not to growl in return.

The freckles leave, and Jane says softly, “I know you didn’t ask for this. I’ve just been trying to do my best, that’s all.” She shakes her head. “You don't know what it's been like, you’ve been in a dreamworld most of the time.” She folds her hands on the table and whispers, “I’m the one who had to pick up the pieces.”

Robert nods. In spite of his embarrassment, his horror at how people see him, he has to give Jane credit for staying with him. “Sorry,” he says. His turn to reach across the table and take her hand. “I’ll be better once this headache goes away.”

Jane frowns. “Hang on, did we forget...”  She pulls her hands away, reaches for the backpack and unzips the front pocket. "Did you not take your medicine this morning?" she asks, mostly to herself. She retrieves a bottle of red-coloured liquid.

She starts to unscrew the lid. "You’d better take it now. We don’t want that headache getting worse.”

"Maybe later," Robert replies. It feels good to make a decision of his own. It feels well overdue. He stands up.

Jane looks astonished. "Where...what are you doing?"

"Toilet," replies Robert. His diction isn’t as crisp as he’d like, but it’s getting better. He smirks. "I’m thinking that maybe I won’t wet myself today."

Jane gets to her feet. "I'll come with you, in case you need-"

“I don’t,” Robert says. And he’s about to turn on his heels when Jane raises her hand.

“Hang on.” Jane shows her palm – stop – and Robert does so. He’s been obeying that signal for the longest time. So that he doesn’t run into the road. So that he doesn’t touch the hot stove. So that  he doesn’t fall victim to countless childhood hazards.

“I know you’re feeling better,” Jane says, and her tone is maternal, caring – but it’s also authoritative. “But I’ve been looking after you for ten months, and I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Robert nods. It would be easy to acquiesce. Simple to let Jane help.

But he hasn’t got his scrambled adult mind back, just to be taken to the toilet like a child.

“I need to do this by myself,” he says. He rubs at his temples, but feels better despite the ache. He smiles at her. “Won’t be long.”

Jane smiles back. “Don’t be,” she says. And she takes the teddy bear and hugs it to her chest. “Bee-bee will be lonely without you.”

Robert laughs, walking briskly in the direction of the gents. He won’t feel guilty about the feelings of a soft toy. And even if he does, there’s no way on Earth he’s admitting it to Jane.