by Jenny Colgan
Alatawuané icas imani’u’
the woman sang, immediately enraptured by Jamie, who, surprised to find himself in a stranger’s arms, had momentarily fallen silent and was gazing at her with his great blue eyes. The woman gently kissed the top of his head.
‘Maybe she’s a witch,’ hissed Des to Issy.
‘Sssh!’ Issy said, fascinated by what the woman was doing. Jamie opened his mouth to prepare himself for another yell, and calmly and confidently the woman flipped the baby over on to just one arm, until he was lying there on his tummy, his tiny arms and legs flopping towards the floor. He wriggled and squirmed there for a second, Des instinctively moving forwards – it looked like he would fall, balanced so precariously on a single limb – and then the impossible happened. Jamie blinked his huge, glass-blue eyes once, twice, then somehow his tiny rosebud mouth found his thumb and he settled. Within seconds, and with all of them watching, as clearly and humorously as in a cartoon, his eyes grew heavy, heavier … and he was fast asleep.
Des shook his head.
‘What … what … Have you just slipped him something?’
The woman fortunately didn’t understand.
‘He is very tired.’ She looked at Des. ‘You too are very tired,’ she said, kindly.
Suddenly, and very uncharacteristically, Des thought he was about to burst into tears. He hadn’t even cried when Jamie was born; not since his father had died. But somehow …
‘I am … a little tired,’ he said suddenly, slumping down next to her on the sofa.
‘What did you do?’ asked Issy, amazed. It had been like magic.
‘Um …’ said the woman, clearly searching for the English words. ‘Hmm. Let me see. It is like the tiger in the tree.’
They both looked at her.
‘When little babies have sore tummies … then they like to lie like the tiger in the tree. It helps their tummies.’
And sure enough, Jamie did look like a sleepy cat drooping happily over a branch. Expertly, the woman transferred him to his pram on his tummy.
‘Uh,’ said Des, anxious to show that he did, at least, know the first thing about parenting, ‘you’re not meant to put them on their stomachs.’
The woman fixed him with a strict look.
‘Babies with sore tummies sleep better on tummies. You watch him. He not die.’
It had to be said that Jamie looked as utterly blissful as only a tiny baby fast asleep can look. His pale pink pillowing lips were open and only a gentle, tiny lifting of his narrow back could be seen. The woman took the blanket and tucked him in fiercely and tight so he could barely move. Des, used to watching Jamie wrestle and squirm in his sleep like he was fighting an invisible enemy, could only stare.
‘I think I’ll have another cup of coffee,’ he said in a disbelieving tone. ‘And … er … do you think … would you mind passing,’ he gulped with amazement, ‘the newspaper?’
Issy smiled at the memory. Of course in the end it had netted her about four quid, but Des and the woman, whose name turned out to be Mira, had talked and got along rather well, and for a while at least there was a little hum of conversation in the café; the sound she’d been longing to hear. Then the ironmonger from next door had come up and studied the menu in the window for ages – agonizingly long – before heading off again. Issy had called a hello but he hadn’t answered. She was starting to hate the hideously slow beat of the clock. Two teenage girls had come in at lunchtime and carefully counted out enough for one chocolate and ginger cake between them and two glasses of water, but they’d gone by the time the door dinged at half past three. It was Helena.
‘That bad, huh?’ said Helena.
Issy was amazed to find herself slightly irritated. She was never normally irritated by Helena, they’d been friends for so long. But for her to turn up now, just as she was feeling her most unsuccessful, seemed almost cruel.
‘Hey,’ said Helena. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Would you like an unsold cupcake?’ said Issy, slightly more sharply than she’d intended.
‘Yes,’ said Helena, and took out her wallet.
‘Put your wallet away,’ said Issy. ‘I have to throw them out at the end of the day anyway, for health and safety.’
Helena raised her eyebrows. ‘Be quiet. I won’t hear of it. I shouldn’t really be eating these anyway. Although I did go up another cup size, so there’s a bonus.’
‘A cupcake size!’ said Issy. ‘Ha ha. I am, at least, still hilarious.’
‘Why don’t you close up early, we’ll go home and watch Grosse Pointe Blank and then phone all our old friends who don’t phone us any more and tell them we’re having a lie-in tomorrow when they have to get up at five am and heat bottles?’
‘That is tempting,’ said Issy regretfully. ‘But I can’t. We’re open till four thirty today.’
‘So what about the “I am master of my own destiny and can do what I like” thing? I thought that was the point of running your own business.’
‘And,’ said Issy, ‘I have to cash up and go through my weekly accounts.’
‘Well, that’s not going to take long, is it?’
‘Helena?’
‘Too harsh?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll buy the wine.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’ Just then the bell dinged again.
Austin looked round the shop warily. He knew they were just starting out, but nonetheless it would have been nice to see a few people here, and Issy maybe moving her butt a bit to get things done rather than sitting up at the counter mooning with her girlfriend.
Darny was at jungle gym, and Austin was having one of those realizations he had with wearying predictability, when he got the horrible feeling he’d forgotten something important and had to struggle to remember what it was. After their parents died, Austin had been advised by the social worker handling the guardianship that he should talk to a therapist. The therapist had suggested that being disorganized was at some level a cry for help for his parents to come back and sort him out, and recommended he didn’t look for a life partner to do the same. Austin suspected this was total bollocks, but that still didn’t help when, as had happened half an hour ago, he realized that he’d lost his copy of the shop rental agreement and if he didn’t get it for the files Janet was going to have his guts for garters.
‘Uh, hi there,’ he said.
Issy jumped up guiltily. What would be nice, she figured, would be if people involved with her business would come along when there were lots of people in. She wished obscurely that Helena wasn’t there, it didn’t look very professional. Especially with Helena nudging her and raising her eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Would you like a cake for Darny?’
‘Giving away cakes?’ said Austin with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I’m sure that’s not in the business plan.’
‘You can’t have read it right,’ said Issy, suddenly feeling flustered. It was that grin of his. It was distractingly un-bank-like.
‘That’s right, I didn’t,’ agreed Austin. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Well, this is our soft launch,’ said Issy. ‘You know, obviously, it’s going to take a while to build up.’
‘I have full confidence in the business plan,’ he said swiftly.
‘The one you haven’t read,’ said Issy.
Austin would have smiled more if he had actually read it, but he had totally followed his gut as he always did when lending. It usually worked in his favour. If it was a good enough method for murder detectives, he liked to think, it was good enough for him.
‘You know, I know someone who does a marketing workshop,’ he said, and wrote the details down for Issy. She pored over them carefully and asked some questions; it felt like he was genuinely taking an interest. Well, protecting his investment, obviously, she realized.
‘Thanks,’ said Issy to Austin. It was odd to hear him talk so much sense when he was wearing his stripy jumper in
side out. ‘Your jumper’s inside out.’
Austin glanced at it.
‘Oh, yes, I know. Darny decided that all clothes should have their labels sticking out, that’s how you know you’re wearing the right clothes. And I couldn’t seem to convince him logically otherwise, so I decided to just, you know, play along till he figures it out. He should probably have grown out of that now, huh?’
‘And how’s he going to figure it out if you’ve got it all wrong?’ asked Issy, smiling.
‘That is a very good point,’ said Austin, and in one gesture he pulled off the sweater. Inadvertently he pulled up some of his forest-green shirt with it, exposing a trim tummy. Issy caught herself staring at it, then realized Helena was staring at her, muted mirth in her eyes. Her old habit came back: she felt her cheeks flushing a deep, horrifying red.
‘I don’t know,’ said Austin, who hadn’t stopped talking. ‘I was just trying to get him to jungle gym on time. I assume the other kids will call him horrible names and make him cry till he eventually falls into line, stamps out his individuality and conforms like a sheep.’
He pulled his jumper back on properly and looked for Issy, but she’d disappeared downstairs.
‘Uh, I’ll get those rental agreement papers you need!’ she shouted up the stairwell. Helena gave him a knowing smile.
‘Stay for coffee,’ she said.
Issy threw cold water on her face from the catering sink downstairs. This was absolutely ridiculous. She had to pull herself together; she had to work with him. She wasn’t twelve.
‘Here.’ She reappeared, only mildly flushed. ‘A cupcake for Darny. I insist. It’s … what would your marketing people call it? A sample.’
‘Giving samples to people who get a pound a week pocket money probably wouldn’t pass a cost/benefit analysis,’ said Austin, ‘but thank you.’ He took the cake and found his fingers holding on to it just a second too long, as if reluctant to give up the traces of her touch.
‘And then,’ said Helena, pouring the last of the wine, ‘then you dragged him downstairs into your store cupboard and—’
Issy bit her lip. ‘Shut up!’ she said.
‘He pulled you into his manly, calculator-wielding arms and—’
‘Stop it!’ said Issy. ‘I will throw cushions.’
‘Throw all the cushions you like,’ said Helena. ‘I already like him nine thousand per cent more than Graeme.’
As usual, at the mention of Graeme’s name Issy went a little quiet.
‘Oh, come on, Iss, I’m only teasing. Don’t be so sensitive.’
‘I know, I know. Anyway, Austin came in to get those rental papers signed. And to give me a telling-off for slacking, you could see it on his face when he walked in the door.’
‘On a Saturday?’
‘He’s local. He lives round here. Knows the area inside out.’
‘That’s because he’s so clever and wonderful. Smooch smooch smooch.’
‘Shut up!’ Issy hurled her pillow direct at Helena’s head. ‘And I need an early night. I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow.’
‘Is it smooching?’
‘Goodnight, Helena. You need a hobby.’
‘You’re it!’
The Sunday train was absolutely packed with weekend travellers; lots of men coming back from the match yesterday, loudly spilling cans of beer and hollering at their friends across the aisles. Issy found a quiet corner seat with her book and half gazed at her tired-looking reflection in the window, thinking back over her visit to Grampa Joe.
‘Well, you didn’t half perk him up with that party,’ Keavie had said when she arrived. ‘He’s been tired since though. And maybe a little … distracted.’
‘It’s starting again, isn’t it?’ Issy had said, stricken. ‘It’s taking hold.’
Keavie looked pained, and touched Issy briefly on the arm.
‘You know … I mean, this is why he’s here, you know that,’ she said.
Issy nodded. ‘I know. I know. It’s just … he’s seemed so well.’
‘Yes, well, often just the security of being looked after can help people for a few months.’
Issy looked down. ‘But not for ever.’
Keavie looked sad too. ‘Issy …’
‘I know, I know. It’s incurable. It’s progressive.’
‘He has his moments,’ said Keavie. ‘He’s had a good few days actually, you might be lucky. And he always likes it when you visit.’
Issy rearranged her face by an effort of will, for the second time in as many days, and marched into the room.
‘Hello, Gramps!’ she said loudly. Joe half opened his eyes.
‘Catherine!’ he said. ‘Margaret! Carmen! Issy!’
‘Issy,’ said Issy gratefully, wondering briefly who Carmen was. She gave him a hug, felt the whiskery skin that seemed to droop off his bones even more every time she came. ‘How are you doing, Gramps? Been outside much? They feeding you all right?’
Joe waved his hands.
‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘No. Not that.’
He leaned forward as far as he could towards Issy. The effort made his chest rattle.
‘Sometimes,’ he said, slowly. ‘Sometimes I don’t always get things right these days, my Issy.’
‘I know, Grampa,’ said Issy, clasping his hand. ‘Nobody does really.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. But it’s not that …’
He seemed to lose his train of thought and stared out of the window. Then he came back to himself.
‘I … I was thinking, Issy, but sometimes I get things wrong, sometimes I just dream things …’
‘Go on.’
‘Have you … has my little Issy got a bakery?’
He said bakery like he might have said Kingdom of Gold.
‘Yes, Grampa! You’ve seen it, remember? You came to a party there.’
Joe shook his head.
‘The nurses read those letters out to me every morning,’ he said, ‘but I never remember a thing.’
‘I do have a bakery,’ said Issy. ‘Yes. Well, more a patisserie really. Cakes and things. I don’t make bread.’
‘Making bread is a fine profession too,’ said Joe.
‘I know. I know it is. This is more like a café.’
Issy noticed her gramps’s eyes go watery. This wasn’t ideal, it didn’t do to get him too emotional.
‘My little Issy. A baker!’
‘I know! Well, you taught me everything I know.’
The old man clasped her hand hard.
‘And is it doing well? Is it making a living?’
‘Hmm,’ said Issy. ‘Well, it’s early days. I’m finding it … well, I’m finding it all a little tricky, to be honest.’
‘That’s because you’re a businesswoman now, Issy. It’s all on your shoulders … Do you have children?’
‘No, Gramps. Not yet,’ said Issy, a little sadly. ‘No. I don’t have any children.’
‘Oh. So you only have to provide for yourself. Well, that’s good.’
‘Hmm,’ said Issy. ‘But you know, I still have to get people through the door.’
‘Well, that’s easy,’ said Joe. ‘People just have to smell a bakery and they’re there.’
‘That’s the problem,’ mused Issy. ‘They can’t smell us. We’re too far away, tucked away.’
‘That is a problem,’ said Joe. ‘Well, are you taking your products to the people? Getting out on the street? Showing people what you have?’
‘Not really,’ said Issy. ‘Mostly I’m busy in the kitchen. It would feel a bit … desperate, don’t you think, to shove food at people in the street? I’m sure I wouldn’t take anything people offered me in the street.’
Joe’s face grew perturbed.
‘Have you learned nothing from me?’ he said. ‘It’s not all cream horns and French cakes, you know.’
‘I thought if the cakes were big enough …’
‘When I started in Manchester, it were 1938. Right before the war. E
veryone terrified and not a spare penny in their pockets for fancy cakes.’
Issy had heard this story before but was always happy to hear it again. She settled back in her chair, like she was a little girl and Gramps was tucking her up in bed rather than vice versa.
‘And my father had died in the first war, and the bakeries in those days, they were fierce places. Black bread and mice droppings and who knew what, as long as you could get what you were after for a farthing, and feed your mites. People didn’t care. There weren’t no market for fancy cakes in that part of the world, no. But I started young, and there weren’t no one hungrier than me. I were up at four, sweeping floors, sifting flour, kneading; kneading? I had biceps like a boxer’s, no joke, my Isabel. People used to remark on it. The ladies especially.’
Joe looked like he was about to fall asleep, so Issy leaned closer.
‘Course there was one good thing about working there, with the early starts and the big bags of flour … when it was that cold in the winter. And I mean proper cold.’ Joe looked around. ‘It’s never cold in here. They always stuff you up with scarves and dressing gowns till you think you’re going to pop like a sausage.
‘But on those cold mornings, when you came in – and the ovens never went out, you know, they ran all night so the bread was always fresh, aye. So you’d wake up and man, my ma’s house – your great-grandma Mabel – oh, it was absolutely cold. Ice on the blankets, ice on the windows. You couldn’t dry a thing in the winter time, so you just kept it on. I’d build the fire up in the morning and I wouldn’t be able to light the kindling without trembling. We had some harsh winters then. But you stepped into that bakery and suddenly you could feel the warmth in your bones; feel it through your wet clothes and your damp wool and your chapped hands. The kiddies used to come in, Isabel, and you could see it in their faces; they loved the warm and the smell of it. There were real poor folks then, Issy, not like now when they’ve all got flatscreen TVs.’
Issy let this pass and patted his hand.
‘Kind of like the pub is for me, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Warm and friendly and something to sup. That’s how you’ve got to be. Welcoming like.’ He leaned forward.
