The Beach Café

by Lucy Diamond

  She nodded again. Bless her, she seemed broken – all the fight had gone from her.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I think we both felt a bit weird and awkward about the situation. ‘Come upstairs then, I’ll run you a bath and show you where everything is.’

  It struck me again as I led her through to the flat that, yes, I was taking a risk here, asking this girl in when I didn’t know a thing about her. For all I knew, I could wake up the next day and find that all my worldly possessions had been stolen, and I would never see her again. But my gut instinct was that it would be fine, and she wouldn’t do any such thing. And she was only a kid. How could I do anything else, other than take her in? It wasn’t as if I had anything worth pinching really anyway. If she was after jewels and solid silver cutlery, she’d been camping outside the wrong place.

  I set the bath running, poured in a splosh of bubbles and found her some clean towels and pyjamas, as well as a dressing gown that had once belonged to Jo. ‘There,’ I said. ‘You have a good old soak. I’ll make you something to eat once you’re out, okay?’

  She nodded shyly. ‘Thank you,’ she said again.

  ‘No problem,’ I said, leaving her to it.

  I had a sudden memory of being that sort of age myself, when I’d had a massive row with my parents about going to Glastonbury with my mates. In the end, I’d stormed off to the festival in a rage, ignoring the fact that they’d forbidden me to go. (They were worried I would get in with the so-called ‘wrong crowd’. Ha! Too late. I was already part of the so-called wrong crowd, and having a whale of a time with them.) After the festival weekend was over, I couldn’t face going back to Oxford and had hitched down to Cornwall instead, seeking refuge at Jo’s. I’d turned up knackered, smelly and practically penniless, and she’d simply taken me in, without any judgement or questions. The next morning she’d been on my case about phoning home, yes, but I was always grateful thereafter for that one night of pure acceptance, when she’d opened her doors to me without any hassle.

  While Phoebe was in the bath, I called Amber for a chat, which involved a moan about Matthew, a rant about Ruth and some pondering about Ed. She promised she’d accidentally-on-purpose spill a drink on Matthew and Jasmine if she ever saw them in town together, which made me feel better. Then she made me laugh, telling me about her new audition for an advert promoting indigestion tablets and the anguished faces she’d had to pull in front of the casting team. ‘Could have been worse,’ she said. ‘My agent wanted to put me forward for the haemorrhoid-cream ad too, but they clashed, so I got to choose. Don’t LAUGH!’ she scolded, as I couldn’t help a splutter of amusement. ‘You wait, this will pay off one day, when I get snapped up for stardom.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Absolutely. Any day now.’

  When we’d finished chatting it was still quiet in the bathroom, so I grudgingly opened the CVs I’d received for the chef ’s job and flicked through them: Mark Albury, aged fifty-five, previous catering experience: chef for some pub in Devon. Catherine Walcott, aged twenty-two, previous catering experience: none, but she’d been a waitress and she was a quick learner (smiley face and exclamation mark). Jason Grimshaw, aged thirty, previous catering experience: working in a chippy in Wadebridge. Vicki Groves, aged forty-two, previous catering experience: cooking for her four children and baking for the school PTA on numerous occasions.

  I put my head in my hands, not feeling enthused about any of them. Mark Albury did have good experience, admittedly, but he seemed to have worked in about ten different places over the last decade. That wasn’t a good sign, surely? Catherine Walcott had irritated me without even having met her, and would need complete training from scratch, which I didn’t have the time or experience for. Then there was the chip-meister, and mumsy Vicki, neither of whom filled me with any kind of excitement. Hopefully some stronger applications would come through the post over the next week or so. Or maybe Ed would reconsider and . . .

  I heard the bathroom door opening and light footsteps padding out. ‘I’m down in the café,’ I shouted, stuffing the letters into a folder.

  Phoebe emerged, swamped in Jo’s big red dressing gown, with her hair twisted up in a towel turban. ‘That was so nice,’ she said gratefully. ‘Thank you.’ Her face was pink and shiny, and she looked wholesome and healthy, as if she’d just showered after a stint of horseriding or gymnastics, rather than having been out on the streets for days on end.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘Um . . .’ It was odd, being hostess to a complete stranger. What would Jo have done? Well, she’d have fed her for a start. ‘What can I get you to eat?’ I asked, prompted by this thought. ‘Cheese toastie? Scrambled egg? Pasty?’

  ‘Scrambled egg, please,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to help?’

  ‘All right then,’ I said, surprised at being asked. ‘Come through to the kitchen and we’ll do it together.’

  I got her whisking the eggs while I slotted some bread in the toaster and melted butter in a pan. Then she poured in the eggs and I handed her a wooden spoon to stir them, while I buttered her toast. ‘Scrambled eggs on toast is always easier with two people,’ she said chattily while she stirred. ‘It’s kind of a rush, doing it all on your own.’

  ‘It is,’ I agreed, holding back from asking whom she usually made scrambled eggs with. Her mum, her dad, a sister? ‘That looks perfect,’ was all I said, eyeing the pan. ‘Do you want to dish it onto the toast?’

  I poured her some juice and we went back through to the seating area, where she dug into the food with gusto. There was colour in her cheeks now, and she looked a different creature from the bedraggled, pitiful girl who’d been outside with her sleeping bag. It still felt strange, sitting there with her, but at the same time I was sure I was doing the right thing, doing what Jo would have done.

  ‘Nice?’ I asked, watching her eat.

  She nodded. ‘Really nice,’ she replied. ‘Thank you for this, and for the bath. It’s really kind of you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I told her.

  I hesitated, wanting to tackle the big, unspoken subject of why she had been on the streets for God-knows-how-long and what her plans were, but I wasn’t sure how best to go about it. I was pretty certain she wasn’t going to make a bolt for the door like last time, especially now that she was in a dressing gown, but all the same I didn’t want to make her feel backed into a corner and wary of me all over again.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but . . . what happened? How come you’ve been sleeping rough?’

  She stopped chewing immediately and tensed up. Oh no. Had I blown it again?

  She put down her knife and fork. ‘Because I hate my mum,’ she said sullenly after a moment. ‘And I just . . .’ Her eyes glittered with emotion, and a hard, defensive look came over her face. ‘I’d just had enough.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, deliberately not asking anything else just yet. I was hoping she’d fill in the blanks for me.

  ‘It’s just – she’s such a fucking snob,’ she burst out. ‘Sorry,’ she added in a mutter. ‘But she is. She has no idea.’

  ‘So, what, you just walked out, did you? Had a row or something?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She scooped some more egg into her mouth and I thought that was all she was going to say, but then she carried on. ‘We had a massive row because she didn’t like the girls I’ve been hanging around with. She doesn’t think they’re good enough for me, or some crap like that. Well, they are. They’re my friends. So . . .’ She shrugged. ‘We had a fight, and I just . . . ran away.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘So I take it you’re not from Cornwall, then.’ I already knew she wouldn’t be. There was a toughness about her, an edge, which made it clear she was a city girl.

  She shook her head. ‘London,’ she said, still glowering.

  ‘It’s a long way to come,’ I said. There was a moment’s silence as if she was too polite to tell me I was stating the bleeding obvious. ‘Have you spoken to
your mum since you walked out?’ I asked gently.

  ‘No way,’ she spat.

  ‘So she doesn’t know where you are?’

  ‘Nope. Not a clue.’ She seemed proud of the fact. Her chin was up, she was bristling, on the defensive.

  I bit back all my other questions, not wanting to interrogate her too much. Not yet anyway. She looked as if she was on the verge of flouncing back out into the rain, dressing gown and all. ‘Want anything else to eat?’ I asked instead.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you came here,’ I said, getting up and taking her empty plate. ‘This café is a special place, you know. My aunt used to run it, and back when I was a teenager, and having all sorts of problems with my mum, and my so-called perfect big sisters, she took me under her wing and let me stay.’

  Phoebe was staring at me anxiously, and I couldn’t tell if she’d even listened to a word of my little speech. ‘Evie, you’re not going to . . . phone the police about me or anything, are you?’

  I paused. ‘No,’ I said finally. ‘I’m not going to phone the police. But I do think it would be the right thing for you to phone your mum. You don’t have to tell her where you are, but just let her know that you’re safe, and that you’re okay. She must be going out of her mind with worry. Don’t you think?’

  There was a silence. She was studying her nails with fierce concentration as if all the solutions to the world’s problems had been encrypted on them, and she was the only person who could decipher the code.

  ‘Think about it,’ I urged. ‘You don’t have to do anything now, but just think about it, at least. Yeah?’

  She nodded, still not looking at me. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  The following morning when I woke up, Phoebe had vanished again. I’d kind of expected it, to be honest; she was like the cat who walked by himself, not the sort to get too comfortable in a place and let her guard down. She’d left a paper napkin on the table with ‘THANK YOU’ written on it and some kisses. She’d also washed up and dried the dirty dishes from last night’s scrambled egg, and left them tidily on the worktop. However much she loathed her mum, the woman had certainly brought her up to have good manners.

  It wasn’t raining now, so wherever she’d gone she wouldn’t be getting cold and wet at least. I wondered if she’d be back again tonight, or if my nagging about her mum had put her off.

  Still, I’d done my best. She’d been fed and watered, and she’d slept the night in a bed, with a roof over her head. I hoped the reminder of creature comforts might be enough for her to stop being so stubborn and patch things up with her family.

  Martha came in at around eleven that morning, holding hands with Jamie, and I couldn’t help comparing the two girls. Martha seemed so happy and chilled in contrast to prickly, vulnerable Phoebe. ‘Hi there,’ I said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. How’s half-term going?’

  Martha pulled a face. ‘I’ve been revising for my exams all week, but Jamie persuaded me to STEP AWAY from the textbooks and get some fresh air.’

  ‘I’ve got a day off from the pub,’ he said, ‘so I thought we’d hit the beach. Looks a good day for surfing – the waves are huge.’

  ‘I noticed,’ Rachel said longingly, butting in. Then she looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry, that was really nosy of me, eavesdropping.’ She smiled at them. ‘I’m Rachel. Frustrated surfer. Jealous!’

  ‘This is Martha and Jamie,’ I said. ‘Martha’s Annie’s daughter – you know, our cake lady? And Jamie’s a fantastic artist who also works in the pub.’

  ‘Ah, that’s where I recognize you from,’ Rachel said. ‘The Fleece, right?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ he said.

  I made their coffees while the three of them chatted. ‘What sort of art do you do?’ Rachel asked, and Jamie started telling her about his paintings, his expression a mixture of enthusiasm for what he did and a ‘been crushed’ look about his eyes. He was still nursing his disappointment about the exhibition being dropped, I thought sympathetically.

  As I turned to set the coffees on the counter, I noticed – for what seemed like the hundredth time – the flaking paint on the nearest wall, and Amber’s words came back to me. You should do the place up. A lick of paint, some pictures on the walls . . .

  And in the very next moment an idea burst into my head. Such a good idea, and such a blindingly obvious solution, that I almost dropped the cup I was holding in excitement.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘I’ve just thought.’ The words bubbled out of me in my enthusiasm to speak. ‘Why don’t we put up some of your work here in the café, Jamie? I’ve been thinking for ages that it needs brightening up, and I reckon your paintings would look wonderful in here. And if people want to buy them – even better!’

  His mouth dropped open in surprise, and then he did a quick, sweeping glance around the room, as if imagining his artwork on the walls. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Of course I’m serious,’ I said. ‘It’s a no-brainer! The café will look fab for having some cool paintings up. The customers will love it. And it’ll be like you having your own private exhibition – for as long as you want.’

  He didn’t speak for a moment. He looked stunned, as if I’d just whopped him in the face with a menu.

  ‘That would be amazing,’ Martha said, clutching at his arm. ‘How cool is that, Jay? Your own show, right here in the bay.’

  ‘Awesome,’ Rachel agreed. ‘Local artist, local café – what’s not to love?’

  ‘If you wanted to, we could even open up one evening specially,’ I said, the idea developing in my head as I spoke. ‘Like a little launch party: you could get all your mates to come, your art teacher, whoever you want. We could have some nibbles and wine, make a real night of it. Hopefully sell some pieces, and then have the others on show over the summer. If that’s all right with you, of course,’ I added hastily, suddenly realizing that he still hadn’t said anything.

  He bit his lip and for a second I thought he might actually cry. ‘Would you really do all that?’ he asked in the end. ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course I mean it. I thought the picture at Annie and Martha’s house was fantastic – I’d be honoured to have your work on my walls. And everyone deserves a break. It’s really nice for me to be able to help you. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘Wow,’ he said, and his face split with a broad grin. ‘Oh wow, Evie, that sounds brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say yes,’ Martha prompted helpfully.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, laughing. ‘Yes, yes, yes. And thank you. This could be really cool!’

  I was grinning too. The delight on his face, the surprise and happiness he so clearly felt, made me in turn feel brilliant as well. ‘Fab,’ I said. ‘Then let’s do it. Have a think about what would be the best date for you, and we can make plans.’

  They took their coffees, Jamie still looking rather dazed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a look at my shifts next week and get back to you. Thank you.’

  They wandered away, Martha already flipping through a little diary and both of them leaning in to pore over its pages. I felt excited too: for Jamie, as well as for the future of the café. An evening menu, an art show – what else could I do here? I could hire out the space for local groups, evening classes, children’s parties . . . All of a sudden the possibilities seemed endless. This is only the beginning, I thought happily, before turning to my next customer with a smile. ‘What can I get you?’

  It was another busy day, with lots of customers all wanting food. As ever, this was a double-edged sword – I was thrilled that we were so in demand, and that I was starting to recognize repeat customers who’d returned because they’d enjoyed our pasties, baguettes and cakes (hurrah!), but it was hard work too, and stressful trying to keep on top of the cleaning up as well as the constant stream of orders. I was also cons
cious that, as the employer of Rachel and Ed, I had to make sure they had regular breaks throughout the day. The last thing I wanted was to be running some kind of sweatshop where I worked my staff into the ground.

  So with all that going through my head, when Phoebe walked into the café later that afternoon and began clearing dirty plates and cups from the tables without even being asked, I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised or grateful. ‘Hi,’ I said, with some bemusement as she passed me on her way to the kitchen, her arms full of crockery. ‘Um, what are you doing?’

  She gave me a shy little smile. ‘Just . . . wanted to say thank you,’ she said. ‘For last night. And I’ve got nothing else to do, so I thought I might as well help. Is that okay?’

  ‘Hell, yes,’ I replied. ‘Ed – the chef – will tell you what to do with that lot. There’s a spare apron in the kitchen you can put on, to protect your clothes. Thanks, hon.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

  She was a total godsend that afternoon, Phoebe. She was sweet and polite to the customers, she worked tirelessly, and she even helped behind the counter when Rachel went off for a break. At the end of the day I put an arm around her and hugged her. ‘You’re a superstar,’ I said. ‘Thank you. I think every café deserves a Phoebe.’

  She laughed. ‘I enjoyed it,’ she said.

  ‘Watch it,’ Ed warned, overhearing. ‘She’ll be roping you in every day, if you start talking like that.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.’

  I looked at her consideringly. ‘Well, we could use an extra pair of hands, to be honest,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to take advantage of you, so we’d have to work something out . . .’ I bit my lip, my thoughts a muddle. I didn’t even know how old she was, and whether I’d be breaking any employment laws by having her working for me. ‘Let’s talk about it later. Do you want to stay again, or have you got somewhere else to go?’