“It was something Meg said a few weeks ago. I wondered if it would work if I opened a little cafe. At the back of the shop. Just serving lunches and coffee and cake. As well as the delicatessen at the front, of course. I’ve looked at lots of places here in Melbourne, and I think it could be done. I mean, I know there’d be lots of work. Building approval, I suppose. And renovations, of course. I pictured it in the back left-hand corner of the shop—”
“No,” Ambrose interrupted.
Eva’s heart sank. “No? That wouldn’t work?”
“I don’t think so, Evie.”
She should have guessed it was a mad idea. Ambrose had realized straight away. She should have checked with him before she started running around, doing all her research, imagining it—
Ambrose spoke again. “I think it would work better in the right-hand corner. That’s where the water damage is, so we’d have to rebuild there anyway. And you’d need to set up a small kitchen, wouldn’t you? The gas pipes are on that side, so that would be more efficient. How much room would you need, did you think? And what about the storeroom? You could move that out into the yard, there’s enough room out there, I think.”
Eva felt her spirits fly again. Her skin tingled. “You think so? You really think it would work?”
Ambrose was very matter-of-fact. “Evie, I think it would all work. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“Ambrose, have you got a pen and paper handy, if I was to describe to you what I had in mind? It’s early days, I know, but I was thinking we could…”
In Dublin, Ambrose was smiling as, directed by Eva, he drew a sketch of her proposed new floorplan. This was even better than he’d imagined. He even laughed out loud at her suggested name, Ambrosia. He said it aloud a few times. He’d think about it, he said. He certainly didn’t dismiss it out of hand.
He settled back in his chair and looked down at the sketched plan again. “Right, now, go on. So where did you propose to put the tables?”
CHAPTER 22
Joseph came into the kitchen with a pile of dirty plates. He was about to tip all the leftovers into the bin when Bill the kitchen hand came up behind, saw what he was doing and stopped him with a sudden yell. “Mate, don’t throw them out.”
Joseph was puzzled. “But they’re leftovers.”
Bill peered at the contents of the plate and picked out several uneaten prawns. “Just give them a quick wash and put them back in the fridge.”
Joseph was appalled. “What?”
“You’ve heard of recycling, haven’t you? That’s what we do here. The boss insists.”
A shout from the head chef interrupted them. “Bill, three new prawn salads and make it snappy.”
“No need to be so crabby, you shellfish old bastard,” Bill whispered under his breath. “You do them, Joe, would you? Use those recycled prawns.”
“But that’s disgusting.” Joseph couldn’t believe this.
Bill shrugged. “You want to work here, you work the way Greg wants you to work.”
“But people could get sick.”
Bill just shrugged again. “So? How do they prove something from here caused it? They can’t. People get food poisoning the whole time and have no idea that’s what it is.” He noticed Joseph’s expression and laughed. “Joe, come on, mate. It’s not that bad. Isn’t there too much waste in the world as it is?”
By the end of the day Joseph had resolved never to eat out again. He’d never seen such penny-pinching in his life. The British government should hire Greg as a consultant, he thought. The budget would be in surplus within months.
Greg’s cafe used every cost-saving trick in the book. The supposedly high-quality extra-virgin olive oil on the tables was in fact cheap oil poured into new bottles. The chicken described on the menu as free-range and corn-fed had arrived in a carton clearly labeled as factory-processed. The bread apparently freshly baked on the premises was day-old leftovers from the bakery three streets away, sprinkled with water and revived in the oven. As for the prawns—Joseph was practically on speaking terms with one of them. It had now appeared on three different plates. He felt like adopting it and taking it back to his hotel. Or at the very least wrapping it in a serviette. It would catch its death going in and out of the fridge like this.
Out in the cafe collecting some more dirty dishes, he glanced around at the crowded tables. He felt sorry for the people who had eaten everything on their plates. Greg should be giving away free antacid tablets rather than peppermints at the reception desk, he thought.
As he looked over at the desk, he gave Niamh a smile and received a dazzling one in return. What was it about her smile? he wondered, going back into the kitchen laden with dirty dishes. It was the contrast, he decided, after giving it some thought. She could look so solemn and then the sudden smile would light up her whole face. It was a lovely effect.
At the end of her shift Eva came into the kitchen to pick up her bag from the staff locker-room. Joe was there, as she’d hoped he would be. She’d caught herself looking out for him all day. “Hello again. How are you enjoying it here, Joe? Not too drastic a change from industrial design, I hope?”
She’d remembered what he did. “No,” he said. “This is much more straightforward. Someone dirties their plate, you wash it and then it’s clean again. Simple.”
“So what sort of designing do you do? Bridges? Buildings?”
He didn’t want to talk about his work. He wanted to forget that life for a little while. He decided to keep it uncomplicated. “Smaller scale. Furniture, that sort of thing. Very boring.”
She was about to ask more when Greg came in. He ignored Joseph.
“Niamh, there you are. I’m really sorry, I won’t be able to take you to Phillip Island tonight after all. I’ve got a major problem with the architect at the other premises, could be an all-nighter the way things are going.”
“That’s fine,” Eva said, hiding her disappointment.
“I’ll go another time. Thanks for the offer anyway.”
Greg’s mobile rang. He snapped out his name then started barking into it. “Okay, okay, I said I’m on my way.”
“Good-bye, Greg,” Eva said, looking after him as he went striding out of the kitchen.
“You were going to go to Phillip Island tonight, to the fairy penguin parade?” Joseph asked. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“We were. Never mind. As I said, there’s always another time.”
Joseph made a sudden decision. “I was actually thinking about going to see the fairy penguins tonight myself. The backpacker hostel runs tours. Would you like to come with me instead?”
She didn’t even have to think about it. She looked up at him and smiled again. “I’d love to go with you, Joe.”
The Phillip Island bus was parked in front of the hostel when she met Joe at six o’clock that night.
“Are you staying in this one now?” she asked, looking up at the brightly colored building.
“No, I’m over that way,” he said, pointing toward the Esplanade.
The driver arrived, collected their money and waved them all into the bus. “It’s like a school excursion, isn’t it?” Eva said as they took their seats at the back, very conscious of how close they were to each other. Except she’d never felt like this on any school excursions. Nervous, but oddly excited as well. It was a strange combination. Like being filled with helium gas and having lead weights on your feet, all at the same time.
“It is,” he agreed. “Are you thinking about leading a sing-along?”
“Of Enya songs?” she said, trying not to laugh at the mental image that produced. “Well, yes, I will if you promise to do your John Travolta routine again.”
“It’s a deal.”
The bus was crowded, the other travelers of all ages speaking in lots of different languages, only half-listening to the driver who told them they were heading to see one of the top five tourist attractions in Australia.
Joseph spoke in a low voice. “Austr
alia does a very good line in wildlife, doesn’t it? I think it’s the first country I’ve been to where you can visit the national emblem in a zoo in the afternoon and then eat it for dinner that night.”
“You ate kangaroo?”
“Actually, no I didn’t. I drew the line at that. And crocodile. And emu. I’m keen to try a fairy penguin burger tonight, though.”
She tried to look appalled and then laughed. “And have you done a lot of this sort of tourist thing?”
“No, this is the first, really. But it’s growing on me.”
“It’d be a pleasant way to live, wouldn’t it? Being ferried around all day, told where you’re going, what you’re looking at. Like being a baby in a pram all over again.”
“But you’d have to make sure there was something special, like these swimming penguins, at the end of each trip, wouldn’t you?” he said in a thoughtful voice.
“Perhaps Buckingham Palace should follow this example. It would certainly get British tourism up and running again.”
“What, get your royal princes and princesses to swim home up the Thames each night?”
“Exactly. Wouldn’t that do them good? They could pick out the rubbish along the way, really earn their keep.”
“Just as well we don’t have an Irish royal family then. They wouldn’t last an hour in the Liffey, especially the stretch near my house. Too busy dodging all the shopping trolleys in there.”
“The Liffey? I thought that was in Dublin.”
“It is.”
“But you live near Galway, don’t you?”
She gazed at him. This was it. This was the time to confess all. No, she didn’t live in Galway. She lived in Dublin. And her name was actually Eva, not Niamh. And just by the way, she wasn’t actually a sculptor, she was a very ordinary shop assistant.
But at that moment she realized she didn’t want to tell him the truth. She liked the way he called her Niamh. She liked how interested he was in her sculpture. How curious he was about where her ideas came from. How he really listened to her when she answered his questions. She was liking lots of other things about him too. His clever, kind face. His great smile. It seemed to start in his eyes before it reached his lips.
And she felt she had lots to talk to him about. As Niamh, that was. Ordinary old Eva would have found it much harder, she was sure of it. She would have felt awkward. Tongue-tied. But pretending to be Niamh made her feel different. It was like slipping on a confidence cloak, an invisible shield between her and the rest of the world. If she told him the truth now it would only change things, wouldn’t it? Spoil their trip? She didn’t want to do that.
He was still waiting on her answer. She made her decision. “Sorry, I meant to say when I used to live in Dublin. Years ago. I went to art school there.”
As the bus drove through Melbourne’s suburbs she started to relax. She really didn’t have to keep up the Niamh charade all the time, she discovered with relief. There were plenty of safe subjects. They talked about their impressions of Australia. He talked about London. She talked about Ireland. She told him about her parents and much older sister. He told her he was an only child, that his parents had divorced years before. He talked about university, she talked about art school. They talked about the sort of music they listened to, books they’d read. He wanted to read a book of Australian short stories that she had and she offered to lend it to him. She wanted to read the Bill Bryson book he had, so he offered to lend her that.
“You like reading, Niamh?”
“I love it,” she said. Truthfully again. “I keep picking books up at markets and things, thinking, Oh, I must read that one, oh here’s a classic I haven’t read. I’m hoping for a long retirement, I think, a chance to catch up on them all. Or a broken leg, even. Something that keeps me bedbound for a few months. It’s my only hope of catching up on my reading.” She was surprised at the sudden smile he gave her.
The more they talked, the more he listened, the more confident she became. He asked her lots of questions, listening closely as she described her childhood and her adventures with her friend Lainey. She told him that Lainey had emigrated to Australia, that she was staying with her now.
“You’re not staying with Greg then?”
“With Greg?” she said, puzzled. “No. Why would I stay with him?”
“Isn’t he your boyfriend?”
“Oh, no,” she said firmly.
She thought she felt a sudden, subtle change in the mood between them.
They reached Phillip Island just as the sun was setting. Their bus group joined many other groups of people strolling along the beachside boardwalk to a kind of open grandstand facing the ocean. As the sun disappeared into the horizon, sending bright pink and orange light into the sky, the seats filled completely. There were hundreds of people sitting there.
Eva shivered, the cardigan she was wearing not much protection against the sea breeze.
“Are you cold?” Joseph asked.
She turned toward him and shook her head. “No, it’s not too bad, really. I’ll be grand.”
He had taken off his coat before she had time to protest. “Please, wear this.”
“But you…”
He gave her that slow smile again, the one that did odd things to her heartbeat. “I’m fine. Please, you wear it.”
He helped her put it on. It was still warm from his body. She could smell the subtle aftershave he wore. Then someone called out from behind them. “Look, here they come!”
Eva was glad of the distraction. Completely conscious of Joe sitting close beside her, of the feel of his coat around her, she gazed out to sea, trying to sight any penguins in the water. There were just a few at first, all under two feet high, surfing the waves into the beach and waddling up the sand, past the grandstand packed with people and up to their burrows in the sandhills behind.
As the minutes went by, there were dozens more, each one funnier than the last. There were small darting penguins, in a big rush to get back to their burrows. Slow-moving, plump ones, their tiny wings outstretched as though they were carrying invisible and very heavy suitcases. Several indecisive ones, coming halfway up the beach before changing their minds and starting to head back to sea. There was a very round, comical one that Joe pointed out to her. She indicated a tall, thin one. “Ally McBeak,” she whispered. He gave a quick, low laugh, an amused look in his eyes.
Soon there seemed to be hundreds of penguins, the sea alive with them, the beach crowded with small waddling bodies. As another few dozen birds ambled by, so close they could have leaned over and touched them, Joseph leaned over and spoke in a quiet voice. “Do you suppose there’s a penguin tourist industry operating at the bottom of the sea as well?”
She was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“You know, maybe word’s got around among the penguins. ‘Come on, let’s all go to this beach, just on the edge of this little island near Melbourne. It’s incredible. Night after night, there are hundreds of humans just sitting there, looking out to sea. It’s really worth a look.’”
Eva’s sudden burst of laughter brought a sharp glance from the guide.
Their bus was back at the hostel by ten o’clock. Stepping off it, they stood side by side. Eva felt a little awkward. She didn’t want the night to end yet. Summoning her courage, she was about to ask if he’d like to have a drink when he beat her to it.
They walked along the Esplanade, coming to a big white hotel, crowded with people. A blackboard out front advertised several bands. A poster on the door read: “Cabaret tonight in The Gershwin Room.” “Would you like to try that?” he asked. “Not too noisy?”
“Oh, I do like to come in out of the Celtic mists now and then.”
They walked into a back room, dodging the crowds, the carpet sticky under their feet. At the door a young woman was packing away a tray of money. She waved them in. “The band’s doing their final set, you’re just in time.”
The room was like an intimate club, darkly
lit, a colored mirror ball throwing drops of light onto the walls. On stage a five-piece band was doing cover versions of classic songs. The male singer, dressed in a beige lounge suit and rollneck jumper, was crooning into the microphone like a young Dean Martin. The small dance floor was crowded.
They found a vacant table at the side of the room. “Can I get you a drink, Niamh? Wine? Beer?”
“Red wine. But let me.”
He stood up. “No, I’ll get it.”
She watched him as he went over to the bar. He was tall enough that she could see him over the crowd, talking to the barmaid. He had such beautiful manners, she thought. Greg should take some lessons.
He came back with their two glasses of wine just as the band finished a funny, extravagant version of “What’s New Pussycat.” The band was very slick, three guitars, a keyboard, drums. The singer was young but with a strong, pure voice, taking the microphone from the stand and moving out into the crowd, speaking in a patently fake American accent, playing up to the audience. He moved smoothly into Frank Sinatra mode with “Night And Day” and “Fly Me To The Moon.”
Then he introduced the final number. “Last chance for the dance floor, ladies and gentlemen. Last chance to dance.” The band started the distinctive introduction to Burt Bacharach’s “Anyone Who Had A Heart.” The singer went down on one knee, his voice low and sexy. Eva smiled. It could have been Luther Vandross himself singing. She felt a touch on her arm. She turned. It was Joe, looking very serious.
“Our last chance to dance. Will you, Niamh?” He held out his hand.
The color rushed to her face. She hoped the low light hid it. “Dance?”
The singer used a break in the lyrics to repeat his words. “Your very last chance, ladies and gentlemen. The dance floor awaits.”
Around them several other couples got up, smiling at the singer’s patter.
Joe was waiting, the amused look still in his eyes. “Our last chance, Niamh,” he repeated.
She stood up then. The wine and the dim lights and the music seemed to be having a strange effect on her heartbeat. It was racing. She followed Joe to the dance floor. They stood still for a moment, just inches from each other.
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