Sure it’s not like the people working here are right in the head, her friend says. Wouldn’t that be the case?
Well—Andy is about to contradict her, but he decides, no.
It’s not the usual type of place, he concedes.
No, she says. Sure God help them.
He gives them both loyalty cards and stamps them seven times. That means that next time our coffees are free! the friend points out. And he gives them the first slices of the new pavlova to take away. I just love getting the first slice, the friend says. Do you not just love getting the first slice?
When they’re gone Andy finds Jake out the back of the cafe, smoking a cigarette. I can’t believe this situation, says Andy. It’s outrageous. It’s a total disgrace. I mean, what were you thinking of?
Jake stares at the ground.
Could you not have waited till the end of the day? Would it have been beyond you to get a room somewhere? Could you even have done it out in the alley?
Sorry, says Jake.
That conversation I’ve just had to have with those two women, says Andy.
Sorry.
Well that’s easy to say, isn’t it? And you’re only sorry because you got caught. I see your partner in crime didn’t hang around too long.
He shrugs.
Well, I don’t need to tell you that you’ll be cleaning the toilet tonight.
He nods. Okay.
I hope you realise that this is actually a pretty big deal, Jake. It’s not good.
I know, he says. You going to tell Ronnie and Michelle?
Andy had met Jake’s foster parents once. Grinning faces in a dirty old estate car, three other kids and two dogs in the back.
Andy sighs.
No, I’m probably not going to tell Ronnie and Michelle.
They sanitise the surfaces. They steep the cups in the tannin solution. Andy rings off the till, Xs and Zs it, checks the takings with the balance and sets up a new float, puts the money in the safe. The takings, such as they are. He lodges the invoices and Jake cleans the toilet. JD mops the floor but he stops to lift up the duct tape Andy has left sitting on one of the tables. Here, he says, what do you wrap a hamster in, so that it doesn’t explode when you shag it?
Dunno, says Rosaleen.
Duct tape.
How’s that funny? says Rosaleen. It’s just not funny.
Rosaleen had made potato salad a couple of days ago. There is a vat of it. She looks at the use until date.
This is going to have to go in the bin now, she says sadly. What a waste.
Sure give me a good few scoops of it and I’ll take it home, JD says.
But it’s off, Rosaleen says.
And you think the ones I live with will be noticing that?
JD shares, with an assortment of people, a once grand and elegant house on the other side of town, long subdivided into little cold rooms.
If you think they’ll eat it, Rosaleen says.
Oh they will, says JD. I’ll probably end up eating it myself.
Just don’t like throwing stuff away, she says.
The religious experience which had brought Andy to the church and then the cafe had happened on the second night of his brother’s stag. The first night had involved dry ice shots which had made him puke luminous bile. On the second, although she was meant to be the highlight, he hadn’t enjoyed the stripper. Andy had seen her sitting in the bar earlier on, talking to somebody, sad line of a mouth, eating crisps. Later on, when she’d appeared in the back room, he could see in the white light the indentations on her legs where her socks had been. The whole place was clapping and whooping, but he had gone back to the hotel room with the tiny kettle and the UHT stix in an old ashtray.
He lay on the bed watching the telly for a while. Some of the buttons were missing on the remote. Andy had looked in the embossed folder of services available in the hotel and saw that someone had drawn a dick on the writing paper. Who was ever going to write a letter from this place anyway? Might do for a suicide note, he supposed. Someone had also drawn three swastikas in the bottom left hand corner. The folder said that the hotel had been a family concern for twenty-five years. Andy had looked in the bedside drawer and seen a tube of toothpaste and a sock with a few condoms stuffed inside it. Someone had been feeling optimistic about the trip. And there was a small Gideon’s Bible that was even more plastic than the hotel menu of services. The paper was almost translucent and the print miniscule. He had to peer to see it. Rocky Raccoon, he thought. Andy opened a couple of random pages and tried to remember what happened to Rocky Raccoon, did he shoot somebody or did someone shoot him, and he didn’t know if he’d been reading for two minutes or two hours because time seemed to stretch and bend and collapse and fleeting things that he had never been able to articulate before started to take form in a way more substantial than words. When he looked at the ceiling of the shabby room, the damp patch over in the corner and the crack around the lighting surround, and the repeated crescent stains where somebody had bounced a dirty ball on the ceiling the fragility of it all was overwhelming and the beauty too, because there was Marty’s sweatshirt lying in illuminated folds like a sleeve from one of those old paintings, and there were the towels, brilliant white on the floor: centuries of people had cleaned away the dirt from sheets and towels, pummelling at the stains and the grime, rinsing it all away, the water circling down the drain, and endless lines of washing, high in the sky, billowing in a hard wind.
When everyone else has left and the cafe is silent, Andy gets out the admin folder with the various protocols relating to misconduct; it is clear that the correct thing to do is contact someone from the charity and someone from the church. But he closes the file and puts it back again. He stays late in the place. A couple of people think it’s still open and try the door. Could they not have come during the day when they actually needed the business? We thought it was maybe BYO in the evening mate, they say.
There’s been a few problems with the lights, the way they flicker at times and although he’s no expert in electrics Andy stands on one of the tables to take a look. The place could look better. Before being Jesters it was Café Society, and before that it was Olive’s. Olive, now an agent for industrial fridges, had once come in; she had expressed surprise that the décor was still the same. And I don’t remember it being this small, she kept saying. They’d never met anyone from Café Society, but regularly there were debt collection letters from places in Bolton. Andy lifts everything out of the fridge to clean it and then moves on to the grill. The floor has already been mopped by JD, but Andy does it again. They got the five star sticker on the door when Environment Health came. Food Hygiene and Safety: Very Good. Structural Compliance: Good. Confidence in Management: High. He’d been very happy about it. Andy cuts the duct tape carefully and smoothes it on the sofa; in this light it is hard to discriminate between the black tape and the brown sofa but anyway, he moves a cushion on top of it. It’ll hold up for a while. The man from the church had been right, he didn’t know his Bible, he didn’t know the names of all the books and the order they came in, he didn’t know what happened in all of the stories, he didn’t know what Jesus said next. But trying to be decent, that’s it, and what more is there to say really? What more is there to know? Decent way of being. On the way home from the stag, Marty had asked him where he’d got to the night before. Big grumpy face on ye, nothing for it but to slip you a pill—but then didn’t you just clear off? But Marty, he thought, had been only joking about that. He had been. He gives the coffee machine another polish.
Rosaleen is already waiting for him as usual in the morning, leaning against the shutters, the bread order and the containers of milk at her feet. Morning Andy, she says, blowing white air. Cold one, she says. Let’s get that heat on quick, he says. Inside he turns on the lights, the dishwasher, the cooker and the oven, the grill and the hot plate, the bain-marie and the gantry lights. He checks the phone; there’s a muffled message from Rebekah. She’s not well and
won’t be in today. Then there’s the hot water boiler, the coffee machine and the radio. Andy cleans the food probe again, files the dockets from the deliveries in the in tray. He puts the food hygiene sheets in the right place. Then JD arrives. Christ, it’s cold out there, he says. I’ve been freezing my balls off for twenty minutes waiting for that bus.
Get a cup of tea sure, Andy says.
Rosaleen has started making the vegetable soup. Maybe don’t overdo the salt in that, Andy says.
Why, was it too salty the other day?
Well, I didn’t really think so to be honest, Andy says. But a couple of people did say they thought it was salty.
Sure, she says. I’ll put no salt in at all.
No, put in salt but just not that much of it, says Andy.
Maybe what we should be using is sea salt, Rosaleen says. It’s meant to be a gentler taste.
Look, says JD. He’s just saying to you, don’t be putting in so much of the fucking salt. That’s all. Sea salt or whatever kind of salt, don’t put in so much of it. And don’t be taking things thick.
Jake arrives with the hood of his sweatshirt up.
Oh look who it is, the last of the red hot lovers, says JD. I was just thinking last night, you know the way there’s the mile-high club, is there an equivalent for a coffee shop?
JD, says Andy. Enough.
Jake, when you’re ready, he says, would you mix up the scones this morning? All the stuff’s already sitting out for you.
Andy always buys a couple of papers to put in the rack, but the workers only look at the front page so they don’t get messed up. Pointless, because even after the first couple of people reading them there’s buttery thumb smears in the corners, pastry flakes in the folds. Sometimes people take the papers with them, as a free gift. If anything was said to them it would be, jeez, you’ve got your priorities right, making all that fuss over a tatty old paper?
Rebekah decided not to turn up today? Rosaleen says. Her ladyship decided not to face the world today?
She’s not well. She left a message.
Right, says Rosaleen. Not well. Sure.
Jake stares down at the bowl.
That’s not going to mix itself, Rosaleen says.
Come on, son, JD says. So fucking what. There was a mate of mine, okay we’re going back a few years here, but there was a mate of mine had sex in a concentration camp.
Well, says Rosaleen, I think that takes disrespect to a whole new level.
It does, says Andy.
Well what he said was, was that—wait a minute here, hold on till I get this right—was that it was an affirmation of life in a place of death.
Not very convincing, says Rosaleen.
No, says Andy.
Well, mate, says JD, don’t worry about it, you had sex in a toilet in a cafe, not Belsen.
Well we’ll need to talk about it later on, says Andy. It’s not Belsen, but it is a workplace. What I need you to do after the scone mix is sort out that cutlery, that okay? And then I need you to go to the bank for a few coins.
Andy wonders about the effectiveness of the extractor fan. He’ll have a look at it himself because getting somebody out is bound to be expensive. A couple of people come in for breakfast, regulars. The woman always wants a coffee with a jug of warm milk so that she can pour it in herself. Andy looks at the toilet door. There used to be a sign, for customers only, because people would come in off the street to use the toilet. But the sign kept falling off the door. You would say that it’s for customers only, did you not see the sign, and they would say, what sign?—and then you would see it lying on the floor.
Mid-morning a man comes in wearing a suit and a shirt with the top button undone, no tie. He sits at the desk and gets out some plastic wallets and a laptop. When Andy goes over, the man greets him warmly. Andy! he says. How’s it going?
Andy looks at his name badge which doesn’t pin properly so it’s always on the diagonal. Sometimes people do this: they see the name and use it repeatedly for a laugh. You have any red sauce there, Andy? Thanks, Andy. Wanna take that plate away, Andy? What time you close, Andy? Some people get a lot of fun out of doing that. JD refuses to wear the badge.
It’s going fine, says Andy. How’s it going with you?
You haven’t forgotten, have you? the man says.
Forgotten what?
The six-month review?
Andy looks at the man and then what’s on the desk. Looks at the heading on the paper that is sitting on the table, the heading in letters all friendly and small case. He’s from the charity. How could he have forgotten about today? It’s circled on the calendar in an orange loop. He can visualise it. The pen didn’t work at first so there’s a further orange scribble next to it.
Not sure we’ve met. I’m Aidan, he says. Good to meet you, fella.
He shakes his hand.
Andy says that that’s right, he doesn’t think they have met before. When it was Rosaleen’s six-month review a woman came.
Yes, Aidan says. That would have been Carole. I’m her line manager. I’m Deputy Head of Services.
Right okay, says Andy.
Aidan looks around the cafe. So I take it Rebekah’s joining us?
No, says Andy. She phoned in sick this morning.
When?
First thing.
Right, he says. No biggie, Andy, but it would have been good if you’d let me know that. This is difficult to do without Rebekah actually here.
Maybe you want to come back another day?
No, Andy, it’s fine. No hassle whatsoever, but I think we’d be better just working on through. Get down to business.
Sure, says Andy. Can I get you a coffee?
No thanks, mate, he says. I don’t really do coffee.
Aidan opens the laptop and takes out a couple of documents from a wallet. Alright, he says, here we are. Rebekah. General impression?
Yeah.
General impression yeah?
Oh right. General impression, fine.
So, timekeeping for example, generally good?
Well yes, says Andy.
Attendance, today excepted obviously, generally good?
Fine, says Andy.
Alright.
Now here’s when we’re going to look at Rebekah’s organisational abilities. How would you rate them?
Fine.
Higher order organisational abilities?
She’s alright. It’s not like she has to, you know, organise a lot of stuff here.
I see from the submitted data that we have here that Rebekah is actually very well qualified. Quite a few exams.
Right.
She’ll be going on to bigger and better things eventually, says Aidan.
Suppose so, says Andy.
Now how is her social interaction with both the public and with other members of the team? says Aidan. Pretty good?
Andy glances at the toilet door. Fine, he says. She’s alright. Everybody has their moments, in any workplace.
Meaning?
There’s obviously a range of personalities here. Different people, different—
Sure, says Aidan. I maybe should have made it clear to you earlier on Andy, that in terms of this review, we are strictly interested in your perception, and our client’s perception, although she’s not actually here of course, of the satisfactory nature or otherwise of the working environment, for the client. Unless you are a clinician, which with the very greatest of respect I don’t believe you are, unless you are a mental health practitioner it would be inappropriate for us to enter into that kind of discourse.
I’ve no desire to.
Just so we’re clear on that, Andy.
We are.
Andy thinks of big flowers on a tired carpet bursting into bloom and running his hand over red plastic, poetry held in a damp stain on a ceiling.
Alright, Andy. So in general terms you’ve had no problems whatsoever with Rebekah?
There are thirty-eight bullet-pointed misdemeano
urs listed under gross misconduct in the handbook but this misdemeanour is not there because no one thought to include it. It couldn’t be downgraded to just major because major includes things like ‘physical horseplay when working’ and ‘wilful wastage of time’.
No, Andy says, all going more or less fine. As you’d expect. Same goes for JD and Jake and Rosaleen.
In the absence of Rebekah then, Aidan says, that is us almost done. It normally takes longer because there should be a dialogue, involving the client. What we are aiming for is—he pauses—is a dialectic.
The other woman never got passionate and intense about a dialectic. The other woman, Andy remembers, wanted to know if there was somewhere on the road where you could get alterations done.
So do you want to reflect on the process?
What process?
The process that has just happened.
Andy looks around at Rosaleen down on her hands and knees scrubbing at a spot on the floor, and the menu propped up against the window with its coloured-in playing cards.
Not really, says Andy.
Well all that remains, Aidan says, is for you to sign this off. I need your signature just there, and then there. Just to verify everything. That’s it. And sign that one too. Good.
And then he puts away the laptop and the papers. As he’s going out he asks Andy, You ever been to Slim’s Kitchen? No? Great place Slim’s Kitchen. Andy watches Aidan head up the road until he cannot see him anymore.
Tutti! a woman shouts. Tutti Frutti! A large dog passes by, trailing its lead. Tutti Frutti! the woman shouts again, but the dog pays no heed. Andy attempts to catch the lead but it slips through his fingers. He follows the dog. It’s always just a couple of feet in front of him until outside Shop Kwik it stops and begins gyring about, sending the lead flailing. A gang of young fellas now surround it, laughing. Get it! It’s going mental! Get its lead, get it, here, I got it! but then the dog breaks loose again and the boys chase after it while the woman is still way down the road, calling its name in vain.
Andy goes into Shop Kwik. He sees the bank of sweets in front of him, the garden ornaments to one side, scales and sandwich makers to the left. There’s the polyphonic sound of a row of animatronic fish, flexing as they sing. Somebody’s gone down the aisle pressing all of the buttons. There’s a spangled sign saying that raspberry cava (non-alcoholic) is on offer. He lifts a bottle. There’s a range of cakes, discounted, that the label says have been baked in a country kitchen. He’ll buy one, a Battenberg cake.
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