The Bluebird Café

by Rebecca Smith

  ‘That’s Chris Packham! Look!’

  ‘Who?’ Lucy asked, staring at the wrong person.

  ‘Chris Packham from the Really Wild Show!’

  ‘Oh, is he famous?’

  ‘There’s Paul, showing him something. Birds or something.’

  ‘He’s quite good-looking, isn’t he?’

  ‘Who, Paul? I’ve always thought so.’

  ‘Chris Packham! Paul too, of course … Let’s go and see what they’re looking at.’

  ‘And get his autograph.’

  There were waxwings in the trees along Bevois Valley, blown in by a north-easterly. They were up in the sycamore trees speaking Swedish and maybe thinking of home where their name was Silky Tail. Paul and Chris Packham stood side by side staring at them intently through binoculars. Paul’s binoculars had been borrowed eight years ago from his parents’ neighbours, Jackie and Tim Gibson-Down. Sometimes he remembered this and thought about giving them back the next time he visited his parents, but then he always forgot again. Paul wasn’t thinking about this, he was wondering how the birds knew to come to Bevois Valley, Southampton. How did they know that behind the closed-down army surplus store, the down-at-heel cobbler, the catering equipment company where nobody could ever possibly buy anything, was an avenue of rowans hung with green orbs of mistletoe?

  After three days all of the rowan and mistletoe berries were gone. Chris Packham left too, but gave the café a signed Really Wild Show Poster. Paul discovered that they had somehow managed to exchange binoculars. He must tell the Gibson-Downs. Perhaps they’d think it was funny.

  Chapter 23

  Is there a moment of falling in love? A tipping of the balance? A stepping across the stream? A switching on of a light? For Abigail there was.

  They’d been on the same courses. She’d sneered at his name – Teague – honestly! She’d thought him a bit of a poseur and a know-all. He swotted for tutorials. He’d spent two years digging in northern Germany; he’d gone for his gap year and they’d asked him to stay. He hobnobbed with the junior lecturers. He was potentially quite hateful, but also good-looking. He was tall and dark and wore a piratical bandanna around his wiry curls. He wore very long shorts, short longs as she came to think of them, from May to October, and never any socks. He had greeny-brown eyes, a very wide smiley mouth, long limbs. Unlike most of the boys on the course, he didn’t look medieval, he looked rakish. So Abigail, as a matter of principle, decided not to be charmed by him, or at least not to appear to be charmed by him.

  Then one day they were digging in one of the city vaults, excavating a medieval wine cellar, when Teague found a buckle. It was verdigris green, about two inches square with a tiny pin. It lay in his palm, and he ran his finger around its edges, cupped his hand and cradled it, safe, safe, safe. It was the look of pure pleasure at his find that did it. She was bowled over, smitten.

  * * *

  Lucy was washing up and thinking, ‘At what point do you give up? At what point do you capitulate and decide that you are going to be ordinary? At what point do you settle for things and think, “No, it hasn’t got to be perfect”?’

  That song was always punching out its melody in her head in time to eggs being beaten, tables wiped, her feet crossing and recrossing the kitchen floor, the rhythm of driving. ‘It’s got to be e e ee ee perfect.’

  At what point did a person say to themselves: ‘The creature who is my destiny will be hunched and porky …’ Now, that was bigoted. But she couldn’t give up yet. She was still waiting for the band to strike up, and to find herself whirling in silhouette, cheek to cheek. Was that special someone Paul? Well, yes, probably, most of the time. If she could disregard the dirty socks on the floor, the smell of mice on his clothes. Aha! So that was it, the first slip on the slippery slope.

  Chapter 24

  The thick creamy envelope was decorated with a spray of lilac roses; a colour which Lucy had always hated and which Paul pointed out was quite unnatural for roses.

  ‘But then roses today …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Spitting on the streets, elbowing past old folks to get to the front of bus queues. Too much money and freedom. Don’t know the value of anything, especially good manners,’ Lucy added.

  The envelope was lined with tissue paper in a contrasting blue. ‘Ouch,’ said Lucy, as it gave her a vicious cut. ‘Damn.’ She sucked her finger and tasted blood, Body Shop cocoa butter lotion and onions.

  Mr and Mrs Michael Pennington

  Request the pleasure of your company

  At the marriage of their daughter

  Victoria Jane

  to

  Mr Angus Lennox Keen

  At St Mary’s Church, Reigate

  On Saturday 19 June at 3.30 p.m.

  And afterwards at

  The Tythe Barn, Oxlease Lane

  RSVP

  ‘Oh God. Vicks is getting married to Angus Keen. How could she?’

  Paul looked blank. ‘What, that rugby player? Have we got to go?’

  ‘Of course we’ve got to bloody go. She’s one of my best friends.’

  ‘You haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘So? We’re very close. Well, we were once. And every one will be there.’

  ‘Who?’

  Lucy ignored him. ‘But most importantly, what can I wear? … I wonder who the bridesmaids are.’ She was relieved that she wasn’t one, but wondered if she should feel hurt.

  ‘Some small cousins, I expect,’ said Paul. Vicks had been one of Lucy’s best friends during their first year at university, but they’d drifted apart.

  ‘Where’s that Next Directory? I’ll need a hat too.’

  ‘Do I have to wear a special hat too?’ Paul asked, aghast.

  ‘You can wear your twitcher’s hat.’

  Paul laughed. It was a tweed cap that had been his grandfather’s. It was so filthy that it provided excellent camouflage in bushes or muddy places.

  ‘I wonder if she’s pregnant or something. It’s only six weeks away.’

  ‘Ring her up,’ said Paul.

  ‘OK. Well, maybe I’ll wait till after six. Everybody will be ringing now. I might go into town if you’ll look after the café for me this afternoon. Tuesdays are never very busy. Just to look. I can always wear that blue dress.’

  ‘You always look nice in that,’ said Paul. Lucy had worn that blue dress to their graduation and to every smart occasion they’d been to since.

  ‘Or maybe I could get something in Portswood Scope Shop,’ she said.

  Even Paul could see that a new dress was required. ‘Here,’ he said, taking £100, three days’ profit, out of the till. ‘Go and buy yourself something pretty.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted someone to say that to me.’

  ‘And I’ve always wanted to say it.’

  ‘My God!’ What was this? How could people be so blatantly acquisitive? It was Vicks and Angus Keen’s wedding list from Peter Jones, Sloane Square.

  ‘I think it must be what they call a Pay Party,’ said Lucy. The wedding list had arrived by return of post when they RSVPed. ‘Lime-and-turquoise madras check cushion covers. Gross. A Dualit toaster. Three sets of napkins. A £120 picnic hamper. I didn’t know they went on picnics.’

  ‘Have we got to buy something off this then?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Yes. You have to ring up and then post a cheque or something … plates, plates, plates. Platters, bowls, cereal bowls, pasta bowls, avocado bowls. Seven, eight, nine, ten- and twelve-inch cake tins. She doesn’t even like cooking. Blue Denby mugs. I think those are compulsory.’

  Paul didn’t seem that interested, but she carried on anyway.

  ‘Five Le Creuset saucepans. Five! A Le Creuset gratin dish, £38! Glasses … glasses. A £58 laundry basket … £34.95 bathroom scales. £38 kitchen clock. Four different chopping boards. Six sheets, three quilt covers, twelve pillow cases. Honestly!’ She passed it to Paul.

  ‘Here’s ours,’ he said. ‘Strawberry huller. £2.85. Or eg
g cups, £8 for three. Do you think you can buy them separately? They can’t really need all of this stuff.’

  ‘Well, they are lawyers,’ said Lucy.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, that might mean they need it all … or that they are rich enough to buy it themselves, I suppose.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘We could get something together with Abigail and Teague,’ Lucy suggested.

  ‘Are they going?’

  ‘I assume so. I hope so or we won’t have anyone to talk to.’

  ‘There’s garden stuff too, Lucy. How about a terracotta planter? £8.99 to £34.99. We could get one of those. At that price they must be big.’

  Lucy and Paul, Abigail and Teague were an hour early. They decided to wait in the Squirrel and Firkin which had once been the King’s Head and was just around the corner from the church.

  ‘I think we’re among fellow guests,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Either that or it’s a hats theme pub,’ said Teague.

  ‘Well, I hope we don’t meet anyone we know,’ said Paul.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit of the point of coming?’ said Abigail.

  ‘Surely we don’t have to be sociable till after the ceremony?’ he continued. ‘I’ll get the drinks. Two dry white wine and sodas, and two pints of Flowers,’ he told the barman.

  ‘Spritzers,’ the barman corrected him.

  ‘People wouldn’t know what we meant if we asked for spritzers where we come from,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Southampton,’ said Paul.

  ‘You’re not in Southampton now though, are you?’ the barman replied with a menacing glint. They turned away.

  ‘Are you allowed to drink beer at weddings, before the ceremony?’ Lucy asked Paul, hoping that he wouldn’t smell of it in the church, but then she saw him reach for the bowl of complimentary peanuts on the bar. All was lost. What with the perpetually crumpled knees of his trousers, even though that suit had just been dry-cleaned, and them not asking for ‘spritzers’ and her flat shoes and the ancient tapestry knitting bag that had seemed such a stylish alternative to a handbag back home in Southampton, and arriving in the café van, wondering if they’d be mistaken for the caterers, they were a pair of frumps, freaks, country bumpkins. A Couple of Swells. It made her smile into her glass. She felt in her bag for cough sweets to mask the peanuts, beer and wine.

  ‘Lucy! You do look sweet!’ Some bright red lips darted at her. ‘And Paul!’

  ‘Sara. Hi! We didn’t know you were coming. I didn’t know you were still in touch with Vicks.’ (And I didn’t think she liked you, Lucy thought.)

  ‘Oh, look,’ said Sara. ‘There’s Abigail and Teal. Are they still together?’

  ‘Very much. They might go on a three-year dig in Yorkshire together.’

  ‘Hi, Sara, how are you?’ said Abigail. Sara, Abigail and Lucy had been in the same block of their hall of residence, but Sara and Abigail hadn’t ever really hit it off. Sara was too keen on early-morning tennis for Abigail’s liking; also her boyfriends gratuitously stole other people’s food from the communal fridge.

  ‘And this is Toby. Toby du Bois,’ said Sara. They obviously should have heard of him. The men nodded at each other, all still silent.

  ‘Toby and I met while I was still just a sub.’

  ‘Subaltern, submarine, subwhat?’ thought Paul.

  ‘Oh. Have you managed to break into journalism then?’ said Abigail, all innocence.

  ‘I’m a staff reporter on the Indie. So’s Toby.’

  ‘Sports,’ said Toby.

  ‘You look sporty,’ said Lucy, hoping he would take it as an insult.

  ‘I row. And run, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lucy.

  ‘He’s really fit,’ said Sara.

  ‘And what do you do?’ Toby du Bois asked them all and nobody in particular. Silence.

  ‘These three are finishing PhDs,’ said Lucy. ‘I run a café.’

  ‘Whereabouts? Would I have been there?’

  ‘It’s in Southampton,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I once caught a boat from Southampton. I was seven.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We could go over to the church now. It’s ten past three.’

  ‘I’m just going to the loo,’ said Abigail.

  The bride wore a long ivory tulip, or perhaps an Easter lily, but with too much make-up. It looked like stage make-up in daylight, bright orange panstick with outlined eyes. She would look hot and startled in the photos. Would it ruin her day if someone suggested that she clean some of it off, or just ruin it retrospectively if they didn’t and she found out when she saw the video? Lucy and Abigail decided to keep quiet. Paul didn’t notice, he was watching a spider spinning a web across a stained-glass window of St Francis.

  They mouthed the words to ‘Love Divine, All Love Excelling’, ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘How Great Thou Art’. Odd choices, really. The vicar’s address was innocuous. Lucy studied hats. How odd, she thought, that supposedly sane and sensible women would choose to put these expensive concoctions of straw, paper, feathers, net, ribbons and fripperies on their heads and then go out wearing them. Upturned baskets, disembowelled Easter eggs, how ridiculous and how touching that this collection of quite ordinary women should think their heads worthy of such adornment. Lucy’s hat was blue silk with a wide brim, pinned up at the front with a creamy silk rose. By far the best, she thought, and not bad for £19.99. Abigail’s was bright yellow straw with some papery poppies, daisies and cornflowers. The sort of hat that a donkey in a picture would wear.

  The spider was now filling in the web with hexagons, no, duodecagons, what was the name for a shape with that many sides, Paul wondered. Then Lucy nudged him and everyone stood up and the grinning bride and groom were exiting to ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’. Lucy seemed to be wiping her eyes. Paul put an arm around her and they waited to shuffle out into the churchyard for the photographs.

  Bride and Groom. Bride and Groom and Bridesmaids. Bride and Groom and Bridesmaids and Best Man. Bride and Bride’s mother. Bride’s mother and grandparents and Bride and Groom. All Bride’s family. All Groom’s family. Bride and Groom and Groom’s family. Friends from University Days. All the grandparents. All the children.

  ‘What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?’ hissed Abigail to Lucy. Lucy wished that she smoked and envied people who were flicking ash on to the eighteenth-century tombs which provided such convenient props. Even the bride’s mother was getting impatient. A forty-eight-seater coach was running its engine, waiting to take the guests to the reception in a converted tythe barn twenty miles away.

  ‘So this is how love and passion are meant to end up,’ said Abigail as they piled on to the coach. ‘Quick! Get the back seat!’

  ‘But the service was lovely,’ said Lucy. She saw that Teague was wearing muddy desert boots. Paul looked pretty smart in comparison.

  ‘We should have brought a hip flask,’ said Paul.

  ‘I did. Here.’ Teague had it inside his jacket.

  ‘They assured me that the pigeons would be out of here!’ The bride’s mother was fuming. The tythe barn’s resident pigeons had guanoed on the top table’s tablecloth and flown off with some devils on horseback. It took three hours to get from the church to the watercress soup (conveniently served cold). Lucy realised that she had used the wrong spoon for her soup. She surreptitiously wiped it on her napkin and put it back with her pudding fork. It was all downhill from there.

  ‘Did you know that seventy per cent of married couples met at other people’s weddings?’ Teague told her.

  ‘Seventy per cent – no way!’

  ‘Studies have been done.’

  ‘No, that’s ridiculous. Seventy per cent have been to weddings maybe.’ They looked around the room and then at each other and then at Abigail and Paul who were laughing at something. The pigeons probably.

  Finally, pretty little net bags of sugared almonds arrived on their plates.

  ‘What the h
ell are these?’ Teague picked his up as though it was an artefact, a find, and examined it.

  ‘Sugared almonds,’ Lucy told him. ‘You’re meant to keep it, or take it home anyway. Men don’t always get them. A sort of going-home present, sort of good luck. They’re called Bridal Flavours.’

  ‘An amulet against getting hitched like this,’ said Teague. ‘Or a fertility symbol or offering, perhaps.’

  Abigail looked sad. ‘Well, some of it’s lovely,’ she said.

  ‘This pink nylon net of sweets?’ Teague was incredulous. ‘Think of the waste of the world’s resources. The unnecessary squandering. The petrol burned to get all of these people here. The money they’ve wasted on all of these never-to-be-worn-again hats and clothes, that stack of presents. That white dress she’s wearing must have cost a few grand. And what for?’

  ‘Actually, it was made by a Women’s Fair Trade Cooperative in Central America and provided a year’s income for a whole village,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Seventy per cent of the country’s economy pivots on weddings,’ said Lucy. ‘Studies have been done. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘I don’t suppose Teague and I’ll be getting married like this,’ Abigail’s reflection told Lucy’s as they washed their hands. There were little baskets of pot-pourri, peach and apricot, and dispensers of M&S hand lotion between each sink. Nobody nicked them. The speeches were over and the dancing had begun.