by Sharon Owens
‘Was seeing, actually. We finished over a week ago.’ Bridget checked her hair in the little mirror behind the optics. She was delighted to note that it was looking great. Her ringlets were supple and bouncing, like David Devaney's thighs.
‘Is that all? One week! Blimey! You don't hang about.’ Daisy rattled the glasses noisily in their wire trays, annoyed by Bridget's assumption that she was entitled to first pickings of any male talent on the premises.
‘What do you mean by that?’ snapped Bridget, still tired from her late-night heart-to-heart with Gerry.
‘Now, now. Let's not fight,’ soothed Marie in a tiny voice. ‘A lady should be dignified at all times.’
‘What did you say?’ the other three asked in unison. Marie blushed and turned away, reaching for a duster to shine the beer pumps.
‘No offence, Bridget, but I think your image is a little mainstream for David.’ Daisy patted one of her bright red hair-knots. ‘Look at his spiky hair. I mean, he's obviously very cool.’
‘Listen to me, Daisy. You're young and immature so I'll do you a favour. My ex-boyfriend, Gerry Madden, told me for a fact that young people with way-out hairstyles and freaky clothes are extremely insecure, and desperate for attention. And he's a shrink and he knows about these things. Now, I'm not saying for one second that diagnosis applies to you. I don't know if you're insecure or not. But you might like to rethink the Halloween hair?’
Two pink spots of rage appeared in the middle of Daisy's pale cheeks. ‘Young and immature, you say? I'm only six years younger than you are, for God's sake! And what does this Gerry of yours have to say about skimpy tight clothing?’ Daisy looked pointedly at Bridget's short fitted dress. ‘What does Gerry say about women who go about the place half naked? Huh? Advertising their wobbly bits? Why don't you just wear a sign around your neck that tells the boys when you're ovulating?’
Bridget's eyes were cold with anger but she managed to squeeze out a rather brittle little laugh. It was high time Daisy Hardcastle was put in her place, once and for all. She jabbed a finger at Daisy's baggy jumper and red velvet trousers with pink love hearts all down one side.
‘All those pretty pink hearts on your slacks! Love me! Love me! Love me! That's what I'm hearing. Every one a cry for help,’ she accused.
‘They are not cries for help. They are motifs. Just because you dated a shrink, doesn't make you one as well,
you know,’ snarled Daisy through gritted teeth, wondering how she was going to continue working with this miniature madwoman. That was the trouble with most jobs. They usually involved having to cooperate with other people.
By this time the Devaney brothers had begun to sing and play a selection of lively pop tunes but Daisy and Bridget were oblivious to the entertainment. Daisy had endured a week of Bridget's incredibly annoying manager-antics and she was spoiling for an argument.
‘Were you ever young, Bridget O'Malley?’ she asked. ‘Or were you born middle-aged? I feel sorry for you, to be honest. Unless you're bossing other people about, you don't feel very important. Do you?’
‘Oh! Is that right? Well! Thank you for your assessment but I thought we were talking about you, Daisy? Did you run up those trousers yourself?’ Bridget gasped, sensing she was losing the fight. ‘I've not seen the like of them in any shops around here.’
‘Yes, I did make them, as a matter of fact. And I didn't run them up, as you put it. What a strange expression! Actually, I designed and created these wide-leg pants. It's called high fashion, you pint-sized little bitch. A one-off piece like this would cost thousands in a London boutique but you wouldn't understand such a concept.’
‘Why don't you go and clean some tables, and take your designer togs with you?’ Bridget sighed, pretending to be bored.
‘I will indeed. I'll be happy to clean some tables, Bridget. Because I'm only working as a barmaid while I'm a student. I won't still be a scrubber when I'm twenty-five. Like some people I could mention.’ And with that Daisy flounced off to set clean ashtrays on the tables. Bridget stood shaking with bad temper behind the bar and wondered if she had the power to fire the part-timers. Really, that Daisy had a serious problem with authority figures.
When the brothers had finished their audition set, Bridget had calmed down enough to toss her white curls and bat her innocent blue eyes at David Devaney.
‘Do you know “Angel” by Robbie Williams?’ she purred. ‘Such a beautiful song.’ Bridget had obviously cottoned on to the fact that she was very pretty in a heavenly sort of way, Lily knew at once.
‘I do. Sure, don't you look like an angel yourself?’ smiled David.
Daisy rolled her eyes and even Lily and Jack were embarrassed.
‘Maybe next time?’ smiled David. ‘If we get the gig.’
‘You sounded good enough to me,’ said Lily quickly. ‘You're hired.’
‘Cool,’ said David. And Michael blushed again, underneath his long fringe of chestnut-brown curls.
‘Will you stay for lunch, boys?’ asked Jack suddenly, to the amazement of his wife. ‘I'm badly outnumbered here with all these women.’ And then Lily understood his out-of-character request. It must be hard for Jack to have to share his beloved bar with four new females, and to be fair to him he was coping magnificently. The Devaneys accepted Jack's impulsive invitation and the three men sat down to discuss the playlist. Even though Jack was nearly twice their age they had a lot of favourite groups in common. They all agreed that the Beatles were nothing more than a vastly overrated showband, and that David Bowie was the real genius of popular music. Also, they all admired Johnny Cash, Elvis Costello and Elvis Presley. Lily was pleased for Jack. She'd forgotten how shy he was.
‘I'll fetch the soup, then,’ she said and hurried upstairs.
Barney, having listened in to the morning's developments, slowly reached out a liver-spotted hand and silently closed the door to their booth.
‘Did you see the cut of the clothes on them two young fellows?’ he whispered as he puffed deeply on his pipe. ‘They can fairly sing, I'll grant them that. But the X-rated trousers! They're braver men than I am. That's for sure.’
‘Indeed. Leather should only be used for making shoes and schoolbags, in my humble opinion,’ said Joey. ‘I'd rather face a rabid dog than have to wear something like that up the street in broad daylight.’
‘I'd rather face two rabid dogs than have to witness you doing such a thing,’ added Francy Mac. ‘Your round, Joey. Cheers.’
By mid-afternoon the charged atmosphere had settled down again. Daisy and Bridget had been persuaded by Lily to apologize to each other and make friends. However, Bridget was secretly determined to flirt like mad with David, just to make Daisy jealous. No part-time barmaid was going to call her a bitch and get away with it. And also, Bridget wasn't about to lose any man to a freak like Daisy Hardcastle, with her awful red hair.
The Devaney brothers had gone home, presumably to give the leather trousers and their sex appeal a good rest. The fire was burning merrily in the grate and Lily had warmed them all up with another big bowl each of parsnip soup. Even Barney and his gang had tasted some and said it was very fancy. It was a new recipe Lily was trying out and they all thought the added curry paste and coriander leaves were a great idea.
‘There's no lemon juice in this soup, is there?’ asked Trudy suddenly.
‘Just a drop,’ said Lily. ‘Why?’
‘I'm allergic to lemons, wailed Trudy. ‘I told you at the interview!' She began to gasp for air and her neck and face turned red with worry. Her pencilled eyebrows moved up on her forehead by another half-inch.
‘Oh, sweet God! I clean forgot. I'm so sorry. What will happen to you?’ Lily was stricken. She held Jack's hand for reassurance. ‘Trudy, I'm really sorry. Have I got your next-of-kin's contact details just in case you pass out or anything?’
‘Oh, mercy!’ wept Trudy. She stood up quickly, shook her hands in front of her face with pure fear, and then sat down again. ‘Feel my head. Am I ho
t? Am I getting hot?’
‘Now, don't panic,’ said Jack. ‘You had some soup earlier and nothing happened. Allergies can wear off, you know.’
‘It could take a while for the lemon juice to travel round my system.’ Trudy looked at her watch. ‘How long since bowl number one?'
‘Will I phone for an ambulance?’ asked Bridget, halfway to the payphone. She had a raging paramedic-fetish. (As well as a doctor-fetish.) Those green uniforms with ‘paramedic’ emblazoned across the back made her feel positively wanton. She had frequent fantasies about being strapped to a metal stretcher and lifted into a helicopter. In a raging storm, preferably. In the highlands of Scotland, if it could be arranged. And then, as she lay hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness, the gorgeous paramedic (with his high Celtic cheekbones) would loosen her clothing, and their eyes would meet briefly and…
‘No, no. I'm not going to go into shock,’ gasped Trudy. ‘At least, I hope not. Quick, get me a pint of water. I might faint, though. Maybe I'd better get away from this stone floor before I keel over?’ There was a scramble as Lily, Jack and Marie filled a pint glass apiece, and they gathered round Trudy and rubbed her back in sympathy as she drank all three.
‘Is it not bad for you? To drink so much fluid in one go?’ asked Jack.
‘My father once drank sixteen pints of lager in an afternoon and he still won at darts,’ offered Bridget. And then she became very quiet and looked extremely embarrassed. ‘Only joking,’ she added in a small voice. ‘He's teetotal. Never touches the stuff.’
‘It feels like Alice in Wonderland, doesn't it?’ said Daisy in a worried voice as they all waited for Trudy to collapse. ‘Is she going to get bigger and bigger, or smaller and smaller?’
‘Come on upstairs with me, pet,’ said Lily to her beetroot-faced barmaid, ‘and lie down for a while. You've only had a teeny wee drop of lemon juice, and the soup was simmered for two hours anyway, and probably all the juice had evaporated by the time you ate it.’ She put her arm round Trudy's waist and guided her up the stairs. They went into Lily and Jack's bedroom and Trudy lowered herself gently onto the big brass bed.
‘It's lovely in here,’ Trudy said, taking in the pale pink walls and the glass doorknobs on the bureau. ‘Did you decorate this room yourself, Mrs Beaumont?’
‘Yes, I did. I'm glad you like it. Now, would you like a cup of tea with some sugar in it for the shock? Or will I phone your mother? Or will I fetch a basin in case you need to be sick?’
‘My parents live in Birmingham these days, Mrs Beaumont. They're both theatre nurses. They wouldn't be able to visit me at short notice.’
‘Trudy, you poor pet. Is there anything at all I can do to help?’
‘I think I'll just have a little nap, now. If you don't mind, Mrs Beaumont. I feel very woozy.’
‘That's fine,’ said Lily. ‘You sleep as long as you like.’ She puffed up some pillows and covered Trudy's shoulders with the satin eiderdown. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and talked gently to the trembling girl until she calmed down and felt sleepy. Within minutes Trudy was dead to the world. Lily stayed on in the room for fifteen minutes to make sure that Trudy didn't swell up and explode or develop green blisters on her eyes. Then she crept out and left the door slightly ajar. She wrote a big notice for the fridge door in red marker, saying ‘Trudy is allergic to lemons’, before going downstairs to tell the others that Trudy had pulled through. Privately, Lily thought there was nothing at all wrong with Trudy, and that all she needed was some love and attention. But she decided to be a lot more careful in the kitchen, just in case.
*
Liam Bradley arrived later that afternoon and took up position in a booth near the door. His table was soon covered with loose pages of notes and five thick history books on the nineteenth century. He kept the door of the booth closed and he covered the pages with his arms when Lily came to take his order. As she served him his usual pint and sandwich she asked him if he was working on his second novel, and he told her that he was, but he wouldn't be drawn on the plot. It was top secret, he said. Lily had the most peculiar feeling that he was studying her face too closely when she was telling him about the new staffing arrangements. In particular, he seemed fascinated with her eyes. But she dismissed the notion as ridiculous. What would he be interested in her for, she thought, when his own wife was both younger and sexier? She'd once seen a picture of Betsy, yawning, in the newspaper. (At a book-fair in Bangor.) Just to be on the safe side, though, she asked Jack to serve him for the rest of his visit, claiming she was busy counting mixers for the stocktaking. Jack made three trips to Liam's booth that day but Liam wouldn't tell him anything about the new novel either.
Bridget was kept busy showing Daisy and Marie how to make elaborate cocktails with crushed ice and chilled glasses. Daisy was given the important task of filling a foodbag with ice cubes and smashing them up with a rolling pin. Then Bridget demonstrated how to use the chrome shaker and how to pour with grace and poise. That was the whole point of cocktails, she told them. It wasn't the few drops of alcohol and the fruity flavour of the drink that were important. It was the idea of it: it was the glamour and the lifestyle choice of being a cocktail drinker that mattered. Daisy was unimpressed but Marie nodded wisely and said Bridget was very clever.
They picked out four elegant-sounding drinks from Bridget's lengthy repertoire, and decided that would be enough for the Christmas programme. Champagne Cocktails were the first choice, followed by Sea Breezes made with cranberry juice, vodka and grapefruit juice. Also on the list were Peach Bellinis and Brandy Alexanders. They had a Sea Breeze each to sample for taste and quality, and then another one to use up the last of the ingredients. Marie had two Peach Bellinis after that and she declared they were delicious. She said it was a dreadful pity Michael Devaney had gone home because she felt in the mood for a bit of romance. It was the first time they'd heard her speak above a whisper all day.
Jack and Lily were both delighted that Bridget was as handy with the cocktail shaker as she'd claimed because she was costing them a fortune to keep. There was hardly a scrap of food left in the kitchen. She'd eaten all the jam, biscuits, pancakes, cereal and chocolate in the cupboard. Lily was thinking of adding a food supplement to her rent.
Lily told the girls that there were several Christmas parties lined up, mostly for the students of the city, and that was why they were having a crash-course in cocktails that day. Lily had made a few inquiries as to what the other venues were charging and she had slightly undercut them. They could fit only a hundred and twenty people comfortably in the tavern at any one time but some of the college departments were considering holding separate events, so that wasn't a problem.
Daisy and Marie were working well together behind the bar. The two of them seemed to have bonded right away. Daisy offered to give Marie a fashion makeover. She was very handy with a sewing machine and a bag of rags, she said. Yesterday she'd been wearing a long tube dress made of lime and turquoise velvet patches; today it was the love-heart trousers. Marie, on the other hand, dressed very simply in jeans and T-shirts and she didn't fancy being togged out like a witch, but she said she'd be happy to hear some of Daisy's ideas. Say, after Christmas, when things were quieter.
At five that evening, Trudy reappeared and apologized profusely for scaring the life out of them all.
‘That's all right,’ said Lily automatically. ‘These things happen.’
‘I can't think why I didn't have a more severe reaction this time,’ said Trudy. ‘Usually I have a temperature if I eat anything with lemon juice in it. Maybe it was the parsnips or the coriander that acted as an antidote?’
‘That must be it,’ said Jack. ‘Thank God for parsnips and coriander.’
They told her about the cocktail lessons and the upcoming parties. Trudy made it clear that she couldn't serve any drink that required a slice of lemon in it. Lemons usually brought her out in a hot rash on her hands if she touched them, she said. So she was definitely
off Peach Bellini duty. Lily said that was okay. Trudy could man the beer pumps instead. They couldn't all be stuck around the cocktail tray anyway, she added. There wouldn't be enough room.
Then Lily and Jack went upstairs for a much-needed tea break.
‘Now, let me get this straight. Bridget doesn't clean or cook,’ said Jack. ‘She spends half the night on the phone to a guy she claims is her ex-boyfriend. Note the word, ex! She eats more grub than a herd of elephants. Thank God she doesn't drink alcohol or we'd be ruined altogether.’
‘I know.’
‘Trudy can't go near lemons so she's off cocktail duty. Although we've seen no evidence of an allergic reaction, and I think the whole thing is in her head. And she doesn't seem to care for buttons either, you mentioned?’
‘Pearly buttons, mainly.’
‘Right. Marie is too shy to chat to the male customers. And Daisy's hair is falling out.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Lily, filling the kettle under the tap.
‘Haven't you noticed? There're long red hairs all over the floor downstairs.’
‘Oh, Jack. What'll happen if a customer finds a hair in their slice of pie?’
‘We'll say to them, don't tell the others or they'll all want one!’
‘What?’
‘Hair. Hare. Rabbit. Rabbit-pie? Lily, that joke went out with the ark.’
‘I'm getting too old for all this. What have I done?’ She set the kettle on the stove and covered her face with her hands in a gesture of despair.
‘I told you so. I told you so,’ he sang softly, pointing at his wife with both index fingers. ‘I told you there'd be something wrong with the lot of them. Available, as they were, at such short notice. I bet the job centre was glad to be rid of them.’
‘Don't gloat, Jack, I'm warning you. I couldn't bear it.’
‘I'm only teasing. Come on, Lily. It's not so bad. You can't have staff without staffing problems. Haven't we always known that? They're nice girls despite the odd eccentricity. I like them.’
