by G. R. Gemin
“And I’d like a herbal tea, please, Joe,” said Mrs Patel.
“Peppermint?”
She nodded and rubbed her stomach. “Not been right for days.”
“Coming up.”
Mr Conway sniffed the air. “Lovely smell of coffee.”
“It’s fresh,” said Joe.
“I’ll take one,” said Mr Conway. “Test my ticker.”
“Oh, go on. Me too,” said Mr James.
“Right you are,” said Joe with a satisfied grin at Mam.
“Mrs Evora to Dr Dhital, room two, please.”
“Oh, but I haven’t had my tea,” said Mrs Evora.
“Tell you what,” said Joe. “You can take it with you or come back after your appointment and have another, free of charge.”
Mrs Evora’s face lit up. “Thank you, Joe. I’ll be back.”
“Giving it away now,” said Mam.
“No. Building community relations, actually,” said Joe. “And now I’m going to put out the menus for lunch.”
He went round the cafe placing on the tables the menus he’d designed on his computer.
“This is our lunchtime menu for today,” he said to the customers. “Specially prepared by our relative from Italy – proper Italian cooking. Serving from twelve thirty onwards.” There were mutterings among the customers, just as Vaughan came in.
“Morning, all.”
“Morning, Vaughan,” said Joe. “Usual?”
“Espresso, please – made a new man of me, it has. Mimi around?”
Mimi came to the doorway of the kitchen. “Oh, hello, Vaughan.”
“Buon giorno, Mimi,” he said with a smile. “Brought you some parsnips from my allotment.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Joe made the coffee and took it to Vaughan, who had settled in a booth. Joe wiped the table, and out of the corner of his mouth whispered, “You still on for later?”
“Aye,” said Vaughan. “Looking forward to it. Who wouldn’t? A free lunch…”
Joe kicked him under the table. “Sorry,” they both said to each other.
“Twelve thirty on the dot,” said Vaughan. “Shall we synchronise watches?”
“No need.”
Joe checked that Mimi had everything she needed for the lunch serving and then left for school.
On his way a hand slapped on to his shoulder. He winced, knowing who it was.
“How’s Mimi?” said Bonner. “Asking after me, was she?”
Joe felt the beginning of acid indigestion, then a thought came to him. “She was, actually.”
Bonner stopped. His permanent smile dropped. “She was?”
Joe nodded.
“What she say?”
“She goes, ‘Bonner’s a big man,’ and I goes, ‘Yes … he is.’”
Bonner stared into the distance. “Big man,” he said to himself.
“And she liked your mam,” said Joe.
“She liked Mam,” Bonner repeated, and Joe saw his eyes well up.
“Mimi’s cooking a special lunch in the cafe today,” said Joe.
“Is she?”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “I tell you, Bon, food is important to us Italians, you know? Really important, and Mimi’s well into it.”
They walked to school and Joe felt Bonner’s arm slip over his shoulder.
“Y’all right, you, Joe.”
Joe raced back to the cafe at lunchtime. He was nervous as he approached, but when he saw the healthy number of customers in the booths he punched the air. “Yes!”
He entered the cafe and went straight behind the counter. “Hi, Mam,” he said. “Taken any lunch orders?”
“No.”
The customers chatted over their drinks as they waited.
“Have you noticed,” said Joe, “there’s a nicer atmosphere in here than in the doctor’s waiting room?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Look at them, Mam. Chatting, they are. People are nervous waiting to see the doctor – in case it’s bad news – but the cafe is a safe place, see. They’re happier in here than over there. Deffo.”
“Mrs Shaw to Dr Dhital, room two, please.”
Joe went through to the kitchen where Mimi was preparing the food. “Smelling lovely, as usual,” said Joe. He opened the door and began to waft a large tea towel in the direction of the cafe.
“What you doing?” asked Mam.
“They need to smell before they buy,” he whispered.
Mam sighed.
Joe wandered between the tables and adjusted the condiments and menus.
“Mimi!” he called through to the kitchen. “The minestrone soup – it’s tomatoes, beans, celery, carrots, potatoes, basil and lashings of Parmesan cheese, right?”
“Yes. Right,” she shouted back.
A moment later Vaughan entered. He was smiling. “Mmm. What’s that lovely smell?” he asked, just as Mam called out, “Bus to Aber arriving!”
Several people got up to leave, pushing past Vaughan.
Joe went up to him and whispered, “D’you think you could go out and come back in – they didn’t catch that.”
“Oh, OK,” he said, and left. Joe went back behind the counter.
“Was that Vaughan who just came in and went straight back out?” Mam asked.
“Didn’t notice,” said Joe as Vaughan re-entered and walked up to the counter. He winked at Joe.
“Mmm. Something smells nice,” he said out loud.
Some of the customers looked up.
“That’s the soup of the day, Vaughan,” said Joe. “Minestrone.”
“Is it really?” he said loudly, looking around at the customers. “Well, I’ll be having some of that, make no mistake.”
Joe leaned forward and whispered, “Tone it down a bit, Vaughan.”
“Sorry.”
“One soup of the day!” Joe called through to the kitchen as Vaughan took a seat.
“What are you up to?” Mam asked.
“Nothing,” said Joe.
The doorbell rang as Gwen entered. “Hello, Lucia, Joe.”
“Hello, Gwen. Usual, is it?” Mam asked.
Joe thought Gwen seemed nervous. She held tightly to her handbag and glanced at him. “Well, I was going to have my usual,” she said. “But … what’s that I can smell?”
“It’s the soup of the day, Gwen,” said Joe, out loud.
Mam groaned. “I don’t believe this.”
“I’m having it,” Vaughan called out.
“Oh, go on,” said Gwen. “You only live once.”
She took a seat just as Bonner and his gang came in with Combi.
Mimi came out of the kitchen with the bowl of soup for Vaughan.
“Hello, Mimi,” said Bonner with an extra-wide grin and a wink.
“Hello,” she said as she grated Parmesan cheese on Vaughan’s soup.
“What can I do for you?” Joe asked Bonner.
“We come for lunch, haven’t we.”
“Have you booked?” Joe asked.
“Eh?” said Mam.
Joe gently pressed his foot on to hers.
“Booked?” said Combi.
“Didn’t know we had to,” said Bonner.
Joe scanned the cafe. “Well, let’s see… I can squeeze in you two, but the others will have to wait, I’m afraid.”
“That table’s empty,” said Bonner, pointing.
“It’s reserved,” Joe said as he came around the counter. “Follow me.”
He escorted Bonner and Combi to a shared table and handed them each a menu. On his way back to the counter a customer stopped him. “What’s the pasta dish?”
“It’s spicy Italian sausage with rigatoni pasta,” said Joe. “It’s recommended by the chef.”
“Thing is,” said the customer, “I’m waiting for the doctor to call me through.”
“We’re serving until half two, sir,” said Joe. “I’ll reserve a place for you.”
He went back behind the counter, and no
ticed Mam was holding her forehead. “We’ll have trading standards on to us!” she muttered.
Joe gave Vaughan a nod, and Vaughan groaned loudly.
The customers turned to look at him. “That’s gorgeous,” he said holding another spoonful of soup to his mouth. “I can feel it doing me good with every mouthful! Vitamins scurrying around my body.”
“Could I have a portion?” one customer asked.
“Me too,” said another.
“Mr Collins to Dr Foster, room three.”
“That’s me,” said Mr Collins. “But I’ll be back and have the pasta.”
“Certainly,” said Joe. “Two soups!” he called to the kitchen.
“Coming up!” said Mimi.
Joe winked at Mam. “Yeah. Coming up roses!”
Joe kept popping to the top of the stairs, curious to look down into the kitchen. Mr Malewski and his son, Dariusz, worked at the cooker, stirring large pots and frying meat. The smells were strong and rustic.
“Strangers in the house,” Mam said as she watched TV in the lounge with Dad. “I’m not comfortable.”
“D’you want another cushion?” asked Joe.
Mam rolled her eyes. “Don’t wind me up, Joe.”
“But, Mam,” he said. “You might be selling the cafe to Mr Malewski.”
“Not yet.”
Joe went downstairs. He saw Dariusz explaining to Mimi what they were cooking. She seemed very interested, which made Joe feel jealous. He could hear laughter and chatter coming from the cafe. He glanced inside and saw the customers drinking and talking as they waited for food. It was lovely but he felt left out, so he decided to go outside.
Joe walked along the back alley and out on to the High Street. From the other side of the road he could see the cafe all lit up. People sat in booths chatting, eating and drinking, like it was their last night on earth. He saw Dariusz and Mimi bringing through plates of food and the customers tucking in. It was fantastic. A restaurant, bright and shining in the dark; somewhere to eat good food and be welcomed – “somewhere to be”, as Nonno had said. Joe imagined it was what it must have been like when Nonno was his age.
“Hey, Joe!”
He turned and looked up. Marta was leaning out of an upstairs window over Malewski’s shop. “Good business, eh?” she said, with a nod towards the cafe. “One day it will be mine.”
“You haven’t bought it yet,” said Joe, feeling irked.
“I wanted to help tonight but Dad said no. Not fair.” She pointed at the cafe. “People happy, and eating, and spending money.” She chuckled and clapped her hands. “And I hear your lunches are good business too!”
“Not bad,” said Joe.
“You should offer international menu,” she said. “So you increase your customers. Think about it, Joe… International menu.”
Joe shrugged and began to walk back across the road.
“Hey, Joe!” Marta called again.
“What!”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen. Why?”
She shrugged. “Thought you were older.”
Joe was flattered, then he stopped and glanced back.
Marta waved at him and laughed.
“Papà sat at the fireside and told us what happened the morning of the sinking.
He was asleep when the explosion woke him. He said he first thought the ship had come into port and crashed into the dock. Mario was sitting bolt upright in his bunk. He seemed to know straight away that they’d been hit by a torpedo. It was quiet, and then they heard shouting and footsteps rushing along the corridor. Papà and Mario joined the crowd making their way up to the deck.
I remember Papà staring into space for a moment, and in a whisper he said, ‘I never want to see panic like that again.’
Men thinking just for themselves; pushing people aside. On deck people were fighting for a place in a lifeboat. There were men in the water; some were swimming and some were floating on debris, or clinging to each other. The ship was leaning. Time was running out. They knew they’d have to swim.
‘There was a man, another Italian,’ Papà told us. ‘I’ll never forget the look of terror on his face. “I can’t swim!” he said. “Come with us,” I said as I clambered on to the rail, but he wouldn’t. Then me and Mario jumped.’
He described the shock of the cold water, and sucking in air as he came to the surface. He looked around and saw Mario, but a second later something fell on him. Someone had jumped from the ship and landed right on top of him, pushing Mario back under the water. The man came up gasping for breath and swam away.
Papà called out, ‘Mario! Mario!’ He heard metal ripping and groaning and saw the ship lifting out of the sea. He saw the man who couldn’t swim, still clinging on to the rail as the ship began to sink. There was a huge eruption of water and the ship disappeared.
Papà never saw Mario again.
He sat there and burst into tears. It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry. Mamma had her arm around him. Zia was crying. She already knew that her husband had died, but now, at least, she knew how it had happened.”
Joe stopped the tape. It was one bad thing after another – the decision to intern Italians, the decision to send them to Canada and the decision by the German submarine to torpedo a ship full of innocent men, including Germans. It was like the plot of an opera, except it was real life. Joe was about to continue the tape when he heard music.
The windows were vibrating.
Joe went downstairs and peered into the cafe. Dariusz was playing an accordion, which was perched on his knee. The customers sang along.
Mimi was clapping in time to the music and laughing. It was the first time Joe had seen her really happy. Mr Malewski and Mr Kempski, the breakfast customer, were arm-in-arm and singing with tears in their eyes.
“Joe!” said Mr Kempski. “I miss my village – just outside Gdansk.”
Mam appeared at the doorway. She looked far from happy. “Mr Malewski!” she shouted, but was drowned out by the music. She turned and went back upstairs.
It was very late when Mam insisted that the customers left.
Joe watched the diners make their way home, singing at the top of their voices. The rain was glistening in the light of the streetlamps, and he was envious that Mr Malewski had cooked for them.
“Was good, eh, Joe?” Mr Malewski said as he wiped down a table. “Polish people work hard, play hard and eat well. We make this town live.” He raised his glass. “Na zdrowie!”
“Teaching him to drink now, are you, Mr Malewski?” said Mam.
“We celebrate. He’s great, your boy,” said Mr Malewski, patting Joe on the head.
“Yes he is, but now, if you don’t mind, it’s very late.”
Mr Malewski pulled out a wad of bank notes. “I owe you fifty per cent of money.”
“It was forty per cent,” said Joe.
Mr Malewski flapped a hand at him. “Fifty, forty. Tonight, I don’t care.” He counted out the notes on the table. “Good night, Mrs Davis.”
Joe put on a CD and opera music played as he helped Mam clear up with Mimi and Dad. He watched Mr Malewski stagger across the road to his shop, singing as he went.
“It was fantastic!” said Mimi. “People eat and sing and are ’appy!”
“Yeah,” said Joe.
“I’m not sure it was worth it,” said Mam. “I mean, look at the mess in here.”
Joe was straightening one of the photos on the wall. “Why d’you hate the cafe so much, Mam?”
He saw the shock in her eyes.
“He’s right!” said Mimi to Mam. “I hear Nonno’s tapes – this cafe has a heart, but you no care any more.”
“I don’t think this is any of your business,” said Mam.
“Not my business, no, but my great-grandmother come here in nineteen thirty-nine – she ’elp Nonno when his papà was taken away. Nonno ask me to come here. He pay for my ticket. He ask me to ’elp, one last time before is finished, but now I s
ee you give up. You don’t care…”
“Oh, that’s right, I don’t care,” Mam said, almost smoking with anger. “I’ve only worked ninety-six thousand hours between these walls – I know because I got a calculator one day and worked it out. From the time I was eighteen – seven days a week, in those days – ninety-six thousand hours and counting.” She had tears in her eyes as Madam Butterfly was singing in the background. “And you come along with your cooking and you think you can go back in time and make it like it was – just like that!”
She turned to Joe. “I know what you want, Joe – I get it, but I’m talking about what I want.” She prodded her chest as the orchestra was crashing to a climax. “My dad earned his rest, but this is me now. My turn. D’you understand?”
“But if you didn’t want to work in here why didn’t you just say?” Joe said. “Nonno would have understood, but instead you blame these four walls.” His heart was going like the timpani in the opera. He pointed to the picture. “This is ours – our family business, Mam. Now I’m listening to Nonno’s story, and his Papà’s story, and I love it all the more. I don’t want it to die.”
A tear rolled down his cheek.
“It’s late, Joe,” said Mam. “I’d like to go to bed.” She turned to Mimi. “And you … you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
Mam went upstairs. Mimi opened the cafe door and went out into the night.
“You were out of order, Joe,” said Dad.
They cleared the rest of the tables together in silence.
Joe sat on his own and listened to the rest of Nonno’s tape.
“Papà had to keep hidden, and for a while he stayed in the attic, but we were always frightened of another visit from the army or the police.
Rationing was going on, and Papà continued to preserve all sorts of food to keep himself busy, but having to stay in the attic every day drove him crazy. I think being held prisoner, even for that short time, had done something to him. So now and again he would dress up as a miner and go out in the evenings. You can imagine how much me and Mamma worried, but he said he needed to get out.
One evening he came back in. ‘Come with me, Beppe.’ He led me up to the attic. We stood there looking at all the jars of preserved food. ‘Use them,’ he said. ‘People are hungry.’
