by Lucy Diamond
‘Oops,’ Saffron said wickedly, eyes glittering as she turned her sharp little face towards mine. ‘That icing’s going to be a bugger to get off the lino.’
Seb looked as if he might cry too. He must have apologized at least fifteen times. I wouldn’t have minded so much if the cake had been almost finished, or at least sampled by somebody, but it was the first slice he’d been asked to cut all day.
Don’t even ask how many cream teas we sold.
‘Well, that was a total fucking nightmare,’ I said bitterly as we cleared up at the end of the day. ‘Tell me it’s not always like that.’
‘It’s always like that,’ Saffron replied, just as Seb said, ‘It isn’t usually that bad.’
‘It’s not good, though, is it?’ I asked, pausing in the middle of wiping a table. ‘I mean, we just about scraped through by the skin of our teeth, but I don’t think Jo would have been too thrilled if she could have seen us.’
Seb, who was sweeping up, looked as if he’d been slapped, whereas Saffron stuck her pointy nose in the air. ‘If Jo had been here, things wouldn’t have got so bad,’ she countered. ‘She’d have made us all laugh, made it fun, rather than stamp about looking pissed off all day.’
The cow, I thought. I’d give her stamping about, looking pissed off. ‘What I mean,’ I said, deliberately ignoring her jibe, ‘is that if this is going to work, we’ve all got to pull together. Be a team.’
Seb nodded meekly, but Saffron looked so scornful that I felt like throwing the spray gun at her. ‘A team. Pull together,’ she scoffed. ‘How can you say that to our faces, when we all know you’re planning to sell this place?’
I sighed. ‘Oh, not you as well,’ I said.
She put her hands on her hips triumphantly. ‘Yeah, we’re not stupid. Word gets around, you know. Lindsay at the pub heard you all talking about it after the funeral. Then we’ve had some prat from the estate agent’s poking around – you recognized him, Seb, didn’t you?’
‘He sold my nan’s house for her,’ Seb explained. ‘Spotted him straight off, I did.’
‘Cheeky so-and-so, did he really come in here?’ I asked, table-wiping forgotten. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t just dropping in for a pasty?’
‘No,’ Seb said shyly. ‘He had a bloke with him, and I heard him telling the bloke how easy it would be to convert the café into a big, fancy house.’
I shook my head. The nerve of the man! ‘Great,’ I muttered. ‘You know, you could just have asked me, instead of jumping to conclusions—’
‘Well, we’re asking now,’ Saffron interrupted. She was very brazen, it had to be said. ‘Are you selling this place or not? Cos we need to know.’
There was silence as she and Seb stared at me. It had all gone quiet in the kitchen too, where Carl was no doubt eavesdropping.
‘Well, I’m . . .’ I began. My heart was thumping. This felt like a really big moment. Should I be honest – tell them I hadn’t a bloody clue what I was doing? Or would that make them all down tools and walk out? ‘No,’ I said finally. ‘I’m not selling. Got that?’
Chapter Seven
Sunday was another busy day in the café. I was up with the lark – or rather the gulls – trying to make a vegetable soup that would warm up anyone mad enough to go swimming in the still-icy waves. How hard could a soup be, after all?
I chopped and cooked the veggies, added some herbs, then whizzed the whole lot up in a blender, but the resulting mixture looked like – well, the contents of a baby’s nappy, if I was honest. Sludgy, sloppy and brown, and not at all the sort of thing you’d want to put anywhere near your mouth.
I put a lid on the soup and went to open up, but when I stepped out onto the deck, something gave me a start. Lying curled up, pressed against the café wall, was a girl in a sleeping bag, her eyes shut. I must have made some kind of exclamation, because her eyes suddenly flicked open and, when she saw me, she was up on her feet, yanking the sleeping bag under one arm and hurrying away down the steps to the beach.
‘Hey!’ I called. ‘Are you okay? Come back!’ She paid no attention, just scuttled off up the sand, her long blonde hair flying out behind her. She only looked about sixteen, poor kid. Where had she come from, and how had she ended up sleeping on my deck? Maybe she was on holiday here and had been to a beach party the night before? I wrinkled my nose doubtfully. No, surely I would have heard a beach party if it had gone on right under my nose.
I wrapped my arms around myself as a cool breeze blew straight off the sea, making goosebumps prickle up on my bare skin. The girl had vanished from sight now, off who knew where. I hoped she had a home to go to.
Once again my first customers that day were Ed and his dog, Lola, who curled up in the same corner of the deck as she’d done previously. ‘Hi there,’ I said, feeling pleased to see him as he strode in.
‘Morning,’ he said, smiling at me. He had a dimple in one cheek, I noticed. Then his smile vanished. ‘God, what’s that awful smell?’
I must have looked dismayed because he immediately apologized. ‘Sorry. That was a bit rude.’ His mouth twitched as if he was amused. ‘But, if you don’t mind me asking, what is that smell?’
‘That awful smell,’ I replied, unable to stop a certain haughtiness in my voice, ‘is the Soup of the Day actually.’ Then I gave up on haughtiness and sighed. ‘It didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted it to,’ I admitted. ‘In fact, it looks as revolting as it smells. My advice is: don’t have it. We’ve got scones, though, still very nice, just baked yesterday – well, the day before that, I suppose . . . ?’ My voice trailed away and hot colour surged into my cheeks. ‘No, okay. Bit early for scones. What can I get you?’
‘A coffee and a bacon roll, please,’ he said. ‘The scones do look good, though,’ he added kindly. He leaned a tanned arm on the countertop as I reached for a clean coffee mug. ‘Are you doing the cooking now here, then?’ he asked. ‘Have you given that Carl bloke the boot?’
‘I wish,’ I said without thinking, then slapped a hand to my mouth. ‘Oops. I didn’t say that. And I don’t wish I was doing the cooking at all. It’s not exactly my strongest point.’ I explained the situation to him while I made his coffee. ‘So you see,’ I said, stirring in the frothed milk, ‘it’s all rather up in the air. I haven’t a clue what’s going to happen next.’ I slid his coffee over to him. ‘Right. One bacon roll coming up.’
‘Could you toast the roll for thirty seconds or so, and could I have it with a scrape of butter, please,’ he said. ‘Oh, and the bacon should be crispy. I’ll do the ketchup myself.’
I stared at him.
‘If that’s okay,’ he added quickly. ‘Please.’
I blinked. ‘Sure,’ I said, trying to recover myself. ‘You’re very precise with your bacon-roll preferences.’
He shrugged. ‘I just know what tastes best,’ he replied mildly.
I went into the kitchen and bunged a roll under the grill and slapped a couple of rashers in the frying pan. Then I realized he was peering through the door at me. ‘The bacon’s better if you grill it,’ he said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
I tried not to show my exasperation. He was like the male Sally from When Harry Met Sally. In a minute he was going to criticize the way I buttered the roll, and I would have to throw it at him in a fit of pique. Deep breaths, I told myself. Deep, calming breaths.
I took the bacon from the pan and put it under the grill instead. ‘No problem,’ I said evenly. ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring it over when it’s ready?’
He had the grace to look sheepish at least. ‘In other words, stop interfering and shut up,’ he translated, and laughed. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit of a perfectionist about food.’
You’re not kidding, I thought, but gave him a serene smile. Then I did some more deep, calming breaths – so deep and calming, in fact, that my nostrils began to vibrate. Even though he was now sitting down, I still felt stressed out. How long had that roll been under the grill? Yikes, one side
was slightly scorched. He would definitely notice if I didn’t slice the offending black bits off. Bloody hell! It was like having Egon Ronay in for his brunch.
Then I stiffened. Oh God, what if he was a food critic, taking notes about the place? Was that why he was so pernickety?
My fingers seemed to be all thumbs as I took my knife to the charred bits of roll, then buttered it. A ‘scrape’ of butter, he’d asked for, like he was some kind of supermodel on a diet. Still, the customer was king, et cetera, et cetera. A scrape of butter was what he’d get.
The bacon was sizzling and crispy-looking by now, so I gingerly removed it from the grill and laid the rashers reverently on the roll. Yum – it smelled amazing, at least. I put the whole thing on a plate and carried it through to him, feeling like a lowly minion serving a prince. As I approached, I saw him scribbling something down on a piece of paper and then stuffing it in his jacket pocket when he saw me. Oh, my goodness. He was a restaurant critic. Suddenly this bacon roll seemed like the most important thing in the world.
‘Cheers,’ he said as I set it down on the table. He opened the roll, squirted a circle of ketchup onto the bacon, then closed it, bit into it and chewed.
I realized I was holding my breath. Ridiculous. Get a grip, Evie!
‘Bloody delicious,’ he pronounced, sticking a thumb up. ‘Perfect.’
My breath rushed out in relief. ‘Good,’ I said, trying to sound casual, as if this wasn’t at all surprising to me. Put that in your review and smoke it, I thought, with a secret smile.
The door opened just then, and in came a Japanese family, all with sun visors and raincoats, who went on to make the most convoluted and complicated order I’d ever taken, full of changed minds and crossings-out. They were followed swiftly by a couple who’d quite clearly just emerged from a shag-fest, all tousled hair, hand-holding and soft-focus dreamy smiles. And then, by the time I’d served them, Ed had gone, before I could say anything else to him. I just caught sight of him leaving with his dog, and felt intrigued. He probably wasn’t a restaurant critic, on reflection, but I couldn’t help wondering what he was doing down in the village, and how he’d been able to come here for two months’ dog-sitting. Did he not have a job?
There was no time to dwell on it, though, as more customers were turning up, with breakfast orders coming in thick and fast. Surprise, surprise – all my staff were late again.
Saffron burst in last of all, stinking of patchouli, with thick kohl rimming her green eyes, and a phone in her pocket that kept ringing and ringing. Yet did she think, Oh yes, I’m at work now, better not answer this? Or even, Oh yes, I’m at work now, better switch it off altogether? No, she did not.
‘Saffron!’ I cried in the end, exasperated, as I returned from wiping tables and clearing crockery, only to find her once again leaning against the wall, deep in conversation and completely ignoring our queuing customers. ‘Can you turn your phone off, please. You’re meant to be working, not yacking all day.’
Her eyes narrowed to slits and the usual hardness came over her face. With a scowl of displeasure, she stuffed her phone into her pocket. ‘Yes?’ she snapped at the luckless customer who happened to be next.
She really wasn’t the greatest waitress to have working for you, I thought, noticing her deftly palm a five-pound note that she was clearly intending to slip straight into her jeans pocket. I went and stood next to her pointedly, until I saw with my own eyes that she’d put it into the till.
Mind you, she wasn’t the only problem. Seb was as big a klutz as ever, spilling a pot of coffee down himself and scalding his leg. Tears glistened in his eyes as if he wanted his mummy to comfort him. As for Carl . . . I was still smarting from his rude comments about my soup.
‘We can’t serve that slop,’ he’d jeered. ‘Evie, thanks, love, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but leave the cooking to me for God’s sake.’
‘I just thought—’
‘Yeah, well, don’t,’ he’d interrupted. ‘Just don’t. I’m the chef, all right? I’m the man in the big hat. You do your thing and I’ll do mine.’
My cheeks had flamed as I’d stormed out of the kitchen on the pretext of needing to serve someone. The man with the big hat had a big blooming ego too, I thought, gritting my teeth. He was so bloody patronizing! So horrible. How had Jo ever stood working with him for so long?
At four o’clock, just as the café was quietening down and I was starting to think about closing up for the day, Annie came in. Annie was Jo’s best friend in Carrawen Bay and I’d known her for years. She was a cuddly, squashy sort of person, with the kindest smile you could imagine. I’d been meaning to get in touch with her ever since I’d come down, but with one thing and another, I hadn’t managed to pick up the phone yet.
‘Hello!’ I exclaimed, swerving out from behind the counter and rushing over to hug her. Her hair was henna-bright, with big, springy curls framing her round face.
‘Hello there, stranger,’ she said, giving me a squeeze. ‘How’s it going? I heard you were down here, looking after the place. Is everything okay?’
‘Well – ’ I began, then stopped abruptly. I didn’t want to launch into a moan about how badly things were going right in front of my staff. ‘I’m getting there,’ I said after a moment. ‘Bit of a steep learning curve, but I’m getting there.’
‘Good,’ she said warmly. ‘It’s lovely to have you here, especially now that Jo – ’ She broke off and I saw tears appear in her eyes. ‘It’s what she would have wanted,’ she said eventually. ‘But anyway. I was just popping in to invite you round for dinner one evening. When are you free?’
I smiled. ‘That would be really nice,’ I said gratefully. Much as I loved staying in Jo’s flat, it was kind of lonely, being there on my own. ‘I’m free . . . well, every night, to be honest. Whenever’s best for you.’
‘How about tonight, then?’ she asked. ‘We’re still at the same place – number ten Silver Street. Why don’t you come over at six? We can have some food and a good old catch-up.’
‘Thanks, Annie,’ I said. ‘That would be great. I’ll see you at six.’
Annie lived in a small terraced house along a quiet road. Long plumes of feathery pampas grass swayed in one corner of her tiny front garden, and there was a collection of bone-white seashells by the front door. I rapped the brass knocker twice and waited.
‘Hello, come on in,’ Annie said, beaming as she pulled the door wide. There were glorious cooking smells wafting through from the kitchen: roast chicken, lemon, garlic. ‘Perfect timing,’ she said. ‘I’ve just put the peas on.’
‘Lovely,’ I said, following her down the narrow white-painted hall. I could hear music playing somewhere upstairs, a cheerful bass throb through the ceiling. She led me into the kitchen, which was small and unfussy, with a couple of pans boiling merrily on the gas stove, and a chicken cooling under foil on the worktop.
I passed her a bottle of wine. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘This is really kind of you, having me round.’
‘Oh, it’s my pleasure,’ she said. ‘I know how much Jo adored you, so it’s nice for me, too, feeling as if I’ve still got some connection with her by inviting you.’ Tears filled her eyes and I clutched her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, making a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. ‘I still really miss her. I just can’t believe she’s gone, Evie, I really can’t.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Me too. It was such a horrible shock.’
Annie nodded. ‘She played a big part in this community,’ she said. ‘It’s not the same without her. Everyone misses her.’ She took a big breath. ‘Still,’ she went on, ‘it’s lovely that you’re here, taking over the place. I think people will be happy about that.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Not everyone,’ I replied, and told her what had happened with Betty. ‘I haven’t dared go back in there since,’ I admitted.
Annie opened the wine and poured us each a glass. ‘Betty is . . . Betty,’ she said gnomically. ‘She’s a law unto her
self. But honestly, Evie, her bark’s worse than her bite. She was just worried you were going to flog the place to a developer, that’s all.’ She passed me a glass of wine. ‘Cheers. We’re not too good at change around here, I’m afraid.’
I clinked my glass against hers. ‘Cheers,’ I echoed. ‘Here’s to Jo. I wish more than anything that she could be here with us right now, but we’ll never forget her.’
‘I’ll second that,’ Annie said. ‘Although – ’ she glanced heavenwards briefly, then went over to her cooker, ‘if she was here right now, she’d probably be reminding me to get the roast potatoes out of the oven and stop gassing, and bloody well carve the chicken.’
I laughed, because I knew she was right, and Jo would indeed have said just that. She was never one to forget about something as important as food. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I said.
I hadn’t had such an enjoyable evening for ages. Martha, Annie’s seventeen-year-old, who was willowy and doe-eyed, all legs and long blonde hair, was sweet and giggly. The food was delicious, Annie was a great host, and we talked about everything and nothing – Annie’s job (she worked in a health-food shop in Wadebridge, although she was feeling the pinch ever since her hours had been cut), Martha’s upcoming exams (she was particularly dreading French) and her boyfriend, Jamie, whom she went gooey-eyed over whenever his name was mentioned. ‘He’s an artist,’ she said, with the same reverence in her voice as if she were talking about Picasso. ‘He’s really good.’
‘Wow,’ I said, exchanging a secret smile with Annie. Bless her, she seemed besotted. ‘Is that what he does to earn a living?’
Her face fell slightly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He works in the pub too. It’s really hard to make it in the art world, though,’ she added defensively.
‘Oh, I know,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been there myself, tried to be a photographer for a while, but . . .’ I shrugged. ‘Like you say, it’s hard. You need a lucky break, but that’s not always possible.’
