by Claire Peate
I was desperate to talk but I could still hear the milkshake covered child crying and I could see the mother looking at me desperately. So I had to resist the urge to tell Beth about Da Notorious Baron and my stencils and we quickly arranged a date. It was too big a news item to blurt out in a café when holding a mop and bucket, like some domestic Britannia.
“It’s you who’s too busy to talk to me, now!” Beth wiped away more tears when we’d arranged to see each other. “Oh, bloody hormones!” and she gave me a peck on the cheek and shuffled out.
At a quarter past five the last customer left the café: and not of his own volition if I had to be completely honest. I had hounded the poor man: he’d looked like he wanted to stay longer, settling into what used to be mine and Beth’s sofa to enjoy a large cappuccino and the weekend papers but I shot him I hate you, I hate you looks from across the empty café and mercifully he took the hint. The second he’d walked out with me right behind him, like his shadow, I flipped the sign on the door and then I collapsed at a table, head in hands. I was tired beyond belief, everything ached and I felt horribly down because Guy hadn’t turned up. And I really had thought he would turn up. I’d pinned a note for him to my front door just before I’d left, for when he dropped off the phone Guy – at V-2 come see me.
Neil, steamed out and exhausted, came over to me, pulling up a chair opposite. “Cigarette?”
“Are we allowed to?”
“And who will stop us?” he said, peering out of the window, through the neverending rain to Fox Estates opposite. Was he also convinced that Eustace was as omniscient as God and Babs?
I took a fag.
“So … did you enjoy your first ever day in a café then?” he said, lighting the cigarette for me. “Be honest now.”
“Yes. But I am bloody tired.”
“Bet Guy didn’t let you get much sleep last night, did he?” Neil managed a grin despite his exhaustion, “Everyone saw you two sneak off early together.”
“Bugger. Anyway, where’s Anja, I haven’t seen her all day? Is she really exhausted?”
Neil shifted on his seat and then, leaning forward, “Oh man! Don’t tell anyone will you – least of all Eust,” he said, laughing nervously and looking across the road to Fox Estates again, “But she’s gone back to Pembrokeshire. Just to – you know – scout around. Talk to a few contacts back there. You know...”
I contemplated him for a moment from above my leftover chocolate croissant. “You’re thinking of going back to Pembrokeshire? You’re thinking of leaving London?”
“Shh!” Neil looked behind him, as though spies might be lurking behind the blackboard. “Nothing definite. Just to take a look.” He sat back and yawned. “Man, I miss the sea and surf. And the grit of sand between my toes. I can’t remember the feel of it any more, Edda: it’s all pavement and road here. There’s no escape in London, is there?” He was drumming his fingers on the wooden table. “Some days I feel like a zoo animal? You know what I mean, like I’m trapped and can only walk round and round the same small area. Man it’s depressing.”
I decided to ask the question that was on my lips, “I’m sorry, but why is it all hush-hush about you thinking you might go back? You don’t have shareholders do you? You’re not obliged to anyone are you? You could just sell up and— ”
“I can’t sell up,” he said. “It’s not mine to sell. I have a backer. Someone with a financial interest in the business and I’m contracted to work here for five years.” He gave a sharp laugh. “I was stupid and fell in love with the apartment that came with the shop. Ridiculous I know, such a daft thing. But there are big penalties if we leave … big penalties.”
“But couldn’t you appoint someone else to take over from you?”
“Ha! No one would be as stupid as me and sign their life away to such a bad contract. It’s a crap contract, man. A sentence really – seven days a week for five long years – and … well … I’ve said too much. Look, please, Edda, not a word, OK? Not one. I shouldn’t have said what I said. Now, let’s see … cakes! Do you want cakes? Everyone wants cakes! And I’ll pay you for the work you’ve done today, thank you so much, man! You’re such a star.”
The instant I was out of the café I was soaked: the rain was horizontal and coming across hard. No wonder everyone had spent the day sheltering indoors. I hurtled across the road, pastry and muffin-filled carrier bags banging against my wet legs.
“Edda! Edda! Over here!” I turned and through the grey rain I could make out Eustace, standing in the shelter of the doorway of Fox Estates, holding the door open. “I have something for you!” he shouted over the rain.
I changed direction and ran into the shop, dripping guiltily on his plush burgundy carpet.
“Terrible weather, don’t you think, Edda?” Eustace said as he closed the door behind me and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of brass polish. “Still, it’s very good for the gardens, so we might as well grin and bear it. Here – I thought you might like this,” he handed me a red golfing umbrella. “It says Fox Estates on it but I’m sure you’ll appreciate the shelter!”
“Oh,” I said and took it from him. It weighed about the same as a Viking broad sword. “Thank you! But I only live a few doors down. As you know.” I added. Of course he knew: I now realised that Eustace knew everything. Eustace Fox was the male, suited, fagless equivalent of Babs. Between the two of them they must know just about everything and everyone in the area. He was the Nouveau Brockley, she the Old.
And then it hit me: what did that make me then? I gardened for Eustace Fox and I cut graffiti stencils for Babs. Was I was Nouveau Brockley or was I Old Brockley? I had become caught between the two…
“Well, take the umbrella for another time, then,” Eustace said, with an expansive gesture. “I’ve just had them made and I’m delighted with them. Waxed canvas with titanium spokes: top of the range, but then so is Fox Estates, so if one is going to promote one’s business then one should do it well don’t you think? So, anyway, tell me Edda, how was your day at the café?”
Eustace was Babs: he did know everything.
“It was fine.” I said. “Tiring. You know – after the dig last night.”
“Which I’m delighted with, by the by!” Eustace clapped me on the back. “Couldn’t be better, it really couldn’t. The bench you and Rog renovated just shines. Well done, top hole! I hear, by the way, that Roger was his usual complaining self, is that true? Did he moan all evening to you?”
How did he know? Had I mentioned Roger’s moaning to Guy? I didn’t think I had: Guy and I hadn’t spent a great deal of the night in conversation…
“Oh, Roger was OK,” I said, generously. It wouldn’t do to make any enemies amongst the Spades. After all, Eustace might really rate Roger, whatever he thought about the man’s pessimistic outlook.
“Rog tends to feel rather superior to the rest of us, I’m afraid.” Eustace sat on a mahogany desk and leant back. “Journalists, eh? Think their job gives them the right to look down on the rest of us mere mortals.”
“I think he was frustrated at the task we had. It wasn’t pure guerrilla gardening, was it? But it was fine,” I hastily added, not wanting to cause offence to Eustace. Being polite and tactful was nigh on impossible when I was so physically and mentally exhausted.
“Well, between you and me, Roger owes me one or two favours,” Eustace said with a confidential tone. “I gave Roger the heads up on a rather magnificent property down on Breakspears Road and we got it valued – well – lets just say Roger got a very, very good deal on it. But you see Edda you need good people on your side don’t you? And journalists can be so very useful…”
I nodded, biting my lip nervously. Had Eustace just told me that he had sold an undervalued property to “buy” Roger Wendell’s services as a journalist? Had I been bought too? Was my price the knot garden and the sundial? Is that how he had “bought” my co-operation?
I shivered.
“But of course, you’re
cold and wet!” Eustace stood up and clasped his hands together. “Whatever am I doing keeping you talking, you must be exhausted too! My dear, forgive me. I was so very keen to have a little conversation with you that I forgot all about propriety. What must you think of me?”
I smiled politely. “Thank you so much for the umbrella.”
“Of course. I actually wanted to ask you if you were enjoying being part of the Spades.”
I assured him I was, with all the gusto I could manage after what felt like a lifetime of manual labour.
“Superb.” He seemed satisfied. “And tell me, before I let you go, I’m always on the look-out for how we can improve what we’re doing. And of course I bow to your excellent experience vis-à-vis the skip.”
I laughed it off. “Oh. Well. I’ll have a think then.”
“Yes, do. I like the slightly off-the-wall approach you had. I’m more of a traditional man myself,” he explained, as if the surrounding oils paintings, brass lights and mahogany furniture hadn’t spelled that out already. “But I think a mix of both would be good. After all, Brockley’s about vibrancy too. Well, well, I must let you get off.” He opened the door for me and looked out into the rain before adding, “Next dig’s bordering the A2: something that is going to push the boundaries just a little. Check it out on the website, but I can tell you it’s in three weeks. Ciao bella!”
The rain hissed on the enormous Fox Estates umbrella as I sped home. It was deafening but, as I turned into my knot garden, it didn’t drown out the, “Oh aye, darlin’, what’s that then?” from across the garden wall. I turned to see Babs, sheltering in her doorway with a damp fag on, looking straight at the umbrella.
Damn. Now she really would think I’d gone over to the other side. I was, quite literally, wearing Eustace Fox’s colours.
“Babs!” I shouted above the torrential rain. “It was forced on me! What could I do?”
“It’s nice!” she shouted back. “Posh! Would be though, wouldn’t it, darlin’? You enjoy it!”
Seventeen
Safely installed in my hallway with the front door closed to the bad weather outside I fought to close the unwanted umbrella. And then, walking into the house, there were two items on the kitchen counter that caught my attention.
One made me smile, the other did not.
“Hello, Edda!” Robert handed me a beer. “Bad day?”
“Hi.” I hurled the offending umbrella into the utility room and plonked the two wet bags of pastries down on the counter. “I’m exhausted. But it’s all done now.”
“I see you’ve noticed it,” Robert gestured proudly to the Valhalla plate. “I rescued every single one of the pieces from the bin. I think I got all of them. There were two hundred and eight of them.”
I walked over to the counter and ran a finger over its bumpy mended surface. Stupidly, I was near to tears to see my old plate again. “It’s great.” I said with a lump in my throat. “It’s sort of distressed looking.”
He laughed and then, looking suddenly solemn, “I am really sorry that I broke it. Really.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Accidents happen. Especially when you’re pissed out of your skull.”
“I was that man,” Robert conceded, and then added: “cheers,” and he touched his bottle against mine. “Hair of the dog.”
I reached over and picked up my mobile phone. It was the second item I had seen on the kitchen counter and the one that had not made me smile.
“Oh yes, and that is from your boyfriend. He dropped it off this afternoon.”
I flipped it open. There were no messages for me.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh. Right. I thought he—”
“No. He’s not. Did he say anything when he dropped it off? Was there a message?”
“Nope. I told him you were working at the café. And he saw the note on the door. But he asked me to give it to you.”
“Right.” The lump was back in my throat. Guy had not even bothered to cross the road to personally deliver my phone to me. What had I been thinking when I’d fantasised about the day Guy and I would spend in Greenwich getting to know each other? How stupid was that? We’d shagged. That was it. He’d flirted and I let him and we shagged – twice (well, more than twice, but on two separate occasions). Everyone did it. So what? It was de rigueur wasn’t it?
“Almond croissant! Pain au chocolat!” Robert had his head in the pastry bags. “Who are these for? For us? Really? All of them? Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!” he rubbed his hands together and went to get plates.
“Is your girlfriend not here, then?” I said, as lightly as I could manage. Since I’d got back from the café I’d been shooting quick glances up the staircase, to see if the petite blonde thing would emerge in another pair of colourful pyjamas.
“Oh … Greta? No. She’s not my girlfriend. Well, you know,” he broke off, “early days. I’m going to Greenwich with her next weekend. She’s a friend of a friend. Oh lovely, lovely, jammy doughnuts! Oh, Edda, well done girl!”
I sank down onto a chair and drank my beer, smiling despite my disappointment. It was good to be home.
“Are you even looking out of the car window, Eds?” Beth shouted at me and woke me from my daydream. I sat up straighter in the passenger seat of her car.
“Of course I am.” I said.
“What’s wrong with you today?” Beth pulled over and turned off the engine. “You’ve hardly said a word since I picked you up. Have you changed your mind about looking for a place to open a café?”
“Well, I had a bit of a late night last night,” I mumbled, a flashback of an entire table covered in cakes and biscuits, beer bottles and the hazy memory of a bottle of whisky…
“Was it your gardening activity?” Beth said. “Or working at the café?”
“No. That was the night before. Last night was just spent at home with my lodger.”
“goddamn it, Eds, you don’t need to rub in just how mundane my life is: gadding about with one man and then another.”
“I didn’t gad about,” I said. “I stayed at home. Robert was at home too. There was no gadding. There were just lots of doughnuts and much too much alcohol…” Even saying the word made me feel ill. “Look Beth shall we go into that café. I think I ought to eat something. And I really do appreciate you driving me around the place.”
“Much good it did.”
“No it did. I was looking out of the window.”
“Well let’s hope you perk up when you eat something,” Beth said crossly. “Did you mean you want us to go into this café? Are you sure you want to go here?”
“You slept with Robert?” Beth yelped.
“Beth! Shush!”
We were in the Greasy Finger café, on Catford High Street, and it was the nearest to Hell I ever wanted to get. The grease wasn’t restricted to the finger: the table and chairs were greasy, the people serving were greasy and even the customers were greasy. And, right now, all of them were looking in our direction and not in a friendly way. I sipped my greasy tea and tried to look nonchalant. “You slept with your lodger and you’re seeing Guy on the side! Edda! What kind of a dissolute life are you leading? You complete and utter slapper!” she said. Then added, “Mind you, I don’t blame you. My sex life is over for ever. At twenty-eight. Urgh.”
“Shhhhh!” I hissed, “And to be correct I slept near him! Not with him!” I hoped she’d take the hint on the volume. The pregnancy thing had been really affecting her on the occasional times that I’d actually seen her in the last few weeks. Now she reminded me of a character in an eighties drama that only operated on exaggerated moods of Tearful, Appalled and Thrilled. And all three emotional states were conducted at high volume.
“So, what does ‘near him’ mean?” Beth leant in, dutifully dropping her voice. “Does that mean you didn’t go all the way? Did you share a bed? Were you naked?”
Almost imperceptibly the greasy Sarf Londoners leant in towards us, putting down their mugs of m
ilky tea and five sugars.
“Yes it means I didn’t go all the way!” I hissed back. “You have completely got the wrong end of the stick. I was saying that I fell asleep beside him. Beside.”
“Dressed?”
“Yes! Look, Beth, the point I was trying to make was that we’re getting on really well and talked so late that we fell asleep. And when I woke up he’d got a blanket and covered me up. That was the point. He’s sweet. He’s nice.”
“’k.” Beth stirred her water. “So what does Guy think of Mr Sweet? Is your loverboy jealous?”
“Of Robert? Of course not. He’s only met him once and he didn’t see him as any kind of threat. Why should he?”
“But do you talk about Robert to Guy? Does Guy get at all suspicious by how much you talk about Robert? You talk about Robert all the time to me: you’ve hardly mentioned the Romeo lover today: it’s been Robert, Robert, Robert.”
“That’s silly. I just see more of Robert because he lives with me,” I said. “And besides, he’s got a girlfriend.”
“Oh-ho.” Beth looked up from her water stirring. “And the girlfriend is…?”
“A complete ditzy blonde.” I chewed my fried bread. “Actually that’s not fair. She’s probably really nice.”
“So you don’t like Robert’s girlfriend. Interesting … very interesting.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean,” Beth said, “I mean you’re in love with Robert, Edda!”
“Oh, come on!”
She looked at me pointedly.
