by G. R. Gemin
She smiled at Joe. “You know when you cooked that pasta the other night…”
“Puttanesca.”
“Yeah… I was jealous.”
“Jealous, of me?”
“Yes, in a way,” said Mam. “I watched you cooking. You were concentrating so hard, I was worried for you.”
“Wanted it to taste good.”
“It did. I used to watch my mam cook, but I didn’t have the confidence to ask her to show me how, not properly. Then when Mam died Nonno took over the cooking. He seemed to enjoy it, so I let him. I was embarrassed to try and cook anything in front of Mimi.”
“But you can cook, Mam.”
“Oh, yeah – fish fingers is about my limit.”
“I love your fish fingers.”
“Yeah.”
“I do! It’s my favourite meal.”
Mam’s lips went tight. “Thanks, love.” She kissed him. “But I tell you what worries me…”
“What?”
“It’s not how much this idea of yours will cost…” She stared him in the eye. “What worries me … is that when this cafe is sold you’ll feel resentful towards me.”
“No, Mam,” said Joe. “Nonno sees that the cafe’s finished. He doesn’t blame you or anyone. If it’s over, it’s over. I see that now.”
Mam held his hand. “We’ll do this thing,” she said. “It’s a lovely idea.”
“Thanks, Mam,” said Joe. He was pleased. “Let’s listen to some opera together.”
“Oh, nothing depressing, mind.”
Joe got up and went to the CD player. “I’ll put on this Verdi chorus Nonno likes, from Nabucco. Lovely, it is. Oh, and I’m gonna write to Jamie, Mam.”
“Jamie who?”
“Jamie Oliver.”
“What for?”
“Advice, Mam.”
“Right, fine,” she said. “Whatever, Joe.”
The Va pensiero chorus began.
“Oh, I know this,” said Mam. “It’s lovely, but don’t tell me they’re all about to die?”
“No, Mam – they’re singing about home.”
Joe held Mam’s hand and they listened to the beautiful music.
“I’m glad you can stay to help us, Mimi,” said Joe as they walked along an alleyway.
“I want to,” she said. “Is a great idea.”
Joe stopped in front of a back doorway. “This is it.”
“Are you sure this will work, Joe?”
“If he agrees, I’ll do the rest.”
They crept into the backyard. There were the remains of various heating boilers, as well as a few pipes strewn about. Joe could see a light on in an upstairs room. He picked up a stone and threw it at the window, then he hid behind two wheelie bins. Nothing happened.
Joe tried again. This time the curtain parted and Combi opened the window, grinning like he’d won the lottery. “Mimi!”
“Hello, Combi,” she said.
“Why didn’t you come round the front?”
Mimi hesitated.
“It’s private,” Joe whispered.
“Is private,” Mimi repeated. “About Joe.”
“Oh,” said Combi. “Not talking to him.”
“I know,” said Mimi. “He tell me what he say to you. Is very bad, Combi.”
“Yeah. He’s so uncool – uncool-issimo!”
Joe clenched his jaw.
“He’s very, very sorry, Combi,” said Mimi.
“So he should be,” he said. “I mean, what my gramps did has nothing to do with me, does it?”
“No.”
“Giving it large he was – well out of order.”
“Combi! Who you talking to?” someone called from within.
“A beautiful girl in the backyard, Mam!” He grinned at Mimi.
Joe moaned.
“What was that?” Combi asked.
“A cat, I think,” said Mimi.
“Sounded more like a dog,” said Combi. “Did Joe tell you I can cook?”
Joe’s mouth dropped open.
“No,” said Mimi. “You cook?”
“Oh, aye, big-time cook, me,” said Combi. “Always watching cookery programmes. See, I’m Welsh-Afro-Caribbean, so I like Cajun chicken, plantain … and … and Welsh cakes. You’ll have to come round for dinner one evening. Just you though.”
“I will,” said Mimi. “If you forgive Joe.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Not even for me, Combi?”
“I will if I can have a free lunch in the cafe with you, Mimi – just you, and if Joe’s really sorry.”
“Oh, he is,” said Mimi. “And yes, I cook you lunch, but I must go now.”
Combi kissed his fingers and fluttered them at Mimi, and she blew him a kiss in return. Joe followed her out. He wanted to scream, but he waited until he was at a safe distance.
Joe, Combi and Bonner stood before the receptionist.
“Councillor Morgan is a very busy man,” she said.
Joe thought she was being a bit snooty. “It’s important.”
“Important,” repeated Bonner.
“Important-issimo,” said Combi. “That’s Italian for very important.”
Joe pointed at him and nodded. “It is.”
“He’s in conference at the moment,” she said.
“We can wait,” said Joe. He turned and sat in a seat opposite the receptionist’s desk. Combi and Bonner sat either side of him.
“What’s her problem-o?” whispered Combi. “Like we’re a bad smell.”
Joe glanced at him. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “You know … after what happened…”
“Don’t want to talk about it,” said Combi. “I’m here and that’s that.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” said Joe.
“So you should be.”
“I am.”
“Bad-issimo, you were.”
“I thought you didn’t wanna talk about it?” said Joe.
“Correct-issmo,” said Combi.
Bonner turned to Joe. “Did Mimi tell you I’m only here cos she asked me?”
“She did.”
“Future Mrs Bonner there, I tell you.”
Joe shuddered at the idea.
Combi leaned close to him. “What did he say about Mimi?”
“He was asking after her.”
“If he only knew,” said Combi.
“Knew what?” asked Joe.
“About Mimi and me… Looking forward to my free lunch with her.”
Joe nodded stiffly.
“Oh, and by the way,” said Combi. “Next time you hide in my backyard try not to wear dayglo trainers.”
“Right,” said Joe. He wanted to change the subject so he said to the receptionist, “Cafe Merelli is serving lunches now.”
“Really?” she said without looking up.
“Lovely food,” said Bonner.
“Lovely,” said Combi. “Better than the Chicken Box, even.”
“Thanks,” said Joe.
The receptionist huffed and picked up the phone. “They haven’t gone,” she whispered. “No… Three boys…” Then she put the phone down and said to them, “He’ll see you now.”
Councillor Rhys Morgan stood up as the boys entered his oak-panelled office.
“Always a pleasure to meet the youth of today,” he said as he stretched a hand out to each boy. He was smiling until Bonner clasped his hand, making him wince.
“Now, what can I do for you young men?”
“The High Street is dying,” said Joe.
“Dying,” repeated Combi.
“Yes, it’s a sad reflection of our times,” the councillor said as he glanced at his watch. “And, of course, our shopping habits are evolving – online retailers, online supermarkets…”
“Right,” Joe said. “But people need a centre, otherwise there’s no need for a town, is there? We might as well all live in pods and just open the door for deliveries only. No interaction, no community…”
Out of the corner of his eye Joe could see Combi pointing at him and nodding. The councillor looked perplexed. “The reason we came to see you,” said Joe, “is to try and do something about it.”
“Very good,” Councillor Morgan said. “You’ll go far.”
“It’s the anniversary of VE day soon.”
“Yes!” he said.
“D’you know when it is?” asked Bonner.
“Of course,” said the councillor.
Joe, Combi and Bonner waited. The councillor’s fixed grin began to show signs of strain. “Remind me.”
“May the eighth.”
“That’s it,” he said. “Knew it was early May.”
“I was thinking,” said Joe. “We should do something to mark the occasion.”
“I hear you,” said Councillor Morgan. “A parade of cadets and Scouts – that sort of thing?”
Joe was disappointed. “No. Not at all.”
Bonner shook his head. “Dull.”
“Dull-issimo,” said Combi.
“I was thinking more like a celebration,” said Joe. “A food festival of the many cultures here in Bryn Mawr – to celebrate freedom and the end of oppression.”
“Lovely idea,” said the councillor. “In the school playground, yeah? I can arrange for a couple of bobbies to lend a hand.”
Joe shook his head, followed by Combi and Bonner. “No. A food festival on the High Street, at night, with bunting, lights, fireworks and free food.”
“Nice,” said Bonner.
“Free food,” said Combi. “Mmm.”
“Free food?” asked the councillor. “Who would pay?”
“Well … you – the Bryn Mawr Council,” said Joe.
The councillor’s eyes seemed to glaze over.
“Oh, and I think we’d need to stop the traffic,” said Joe. “You can’t have cars and buses going by when people are sampling delicacies from around the world.”
“No,” said Combi. “No cars.”
“I like the idea of bunting and fireworks,” said Bonner. Joe pointed at him and nodded.
“Fascinating,” the councillor said. “You’ll go far, Joe.” He glanced at his watch again. “I’ll take this into the Council Chamber for consideration … but, of course, what with the cutbacks…” He stood up and led them out into the reception area. “Lovely meeting you boys, and… Yes, lovely indeed.”
He left them standing and walked off down the corridor.
Joe felt glum – defeated at the first hurdle.
“He’s a plank,” said Combi.
“You should have made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” said Bonner.
“Yeah. I should’ve,” said Joe, and then he was struck by an idea.
“Councillor Morgan!” he called as he ran up to him.
The councillor turned. “I really must be going.”
“But it’s about your dad, Councillor Morgan,” said Joe. “I found out something really interesting about your dad.”
The councillor’s eye twitched.
“What d’you mean, you don’t want our usual chicken?” said Mr Patel.
“We want delicacies from your rich Indian culture.”
Mr Patel shook his head. “Not interested.”
“Hang on,” said Combi. “What about all the money we’ve spent in the Chicken Box? Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Yes,” said Mr Patel with a smirk. “Thanks for the business.”
Bonner turned to the children waiting in line. “Right! Everybody out!”
The children turned and left the shop.
“Wait. Wait!” said Mr Patel in a panic. “What do I have to do?”
“Everyone back!” shouted Bonner.
The children filed back in.
“It must be cooked from fresh,” said Joe to Mr Ling.
“Fresh? My food is fresh!”
Joe smiled. “Really?”
“Look, I’m not interested,” said Mr Ling.
“Oh,” said Joe. “Well, you won’t mind if Mr Patel puts his food out in front, here.”
“Patel?” said Mr Ling. “Why can’t he have his food in front of his place?”
“It’s too far up the street,” said Combi.
“OK,” said Mr Ling. “If Patel’s doing it I’ll do it.”
“Give my food free?” said Mr Sadik. “Why?”
“Celebrating VE day,” said Joe. “You don’t want the Turkish community to get bad press, do you?”
Combi shook his head.
“Mr Malewski’s going to lay out three tables. Three!” said Bonner.
“OK. If Malewski’s doing it, I’ll do it. Three tables… Huh!”
“Not just kebabs,” said Joe. “Some baklava would be nice, to go with the coffee.”
Mr Sadik frowned.
“This a joke?” said Mr Malewski.
“No,” said Joe. “VE day – marking the end of World War Two in Europe. Didn’t your dad fight in the war?”
“No. Too young.”
“What about his dad?” asked Bonner.
“Free food! Crazy.”
“Wait!” said Marta to her dad. “Listen.”
“I’m disappointed, Mr Malewski,” said Joe. “Have you forgotten the Polish night so soon?”
“This is business, Joe. You can’t give food free.”
“What if other people got to like Eastern European products?” said Joe. “Think about it. More interest. More sales.”
“Yes!” said Marta. “Good business!”
“I got plenty customers.”
Marta growled.
“If you don’t get involved, Mr Malewski,” said Joe. “You’ll just draw attention to yourself in a bad way.”
“What you mean ‘bad way’?”
“Trading standards,” said Combi. “They’ll go, ‘Why’s Malewski not involved in this food festival?’ and they’ll think, ‘Maybe he’s got something to hide.’ You get me?”
Combi, Joe and Bonner nodded in perfect synchronisation.
“We’ll do it,” said Marta.
Joe read the notes he’d made. “The meal is going to be in three courses.”
“Yes, Joe,” said Mam, sitting beside him and Mimi in the cafe.
“The first course is going to be tastes from around the world – Indian, Turkish, Chinese, Polish, Russian, and loads more – supplied by the takeaways and Mr Malewski. The second course will be Nonno’s lasagne.”
“Nonno’s lasagne?”
“Yeah. Everyone likes lasagne,” said Joe. “Got the recipe off him at the hospital, but we’re going to do one with asparagus and one with minced beef and pork, which I found out is what proper Italians use.” Mimi nodded. “Oh, and I want to cook it myself.”
“You?” said Mimi.
“Yeah, with you two helping me, of course.”
“Good on you, Joe,” said Mam.
“So that means you and Mimi serving. Is that all right?”
Mimi and Mam glanced at each other. “Yes, Joe.”
“And I think we should wear white shirts and black trousers.”
“Uniforms?” said Mam.
“Dress code,” said Joe. “It’ll be smart. Professional, we’ll be.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Mam!”
“YES, Joe. Fine.”
“Dessert will be sweet pizza and home-made gelato.”
“Sweet pizza?” said Mimi. “What is it?”
“Combi gave me the idea – sort of. It’s pizza with sweet toppings,” said Joe. “We’ll need to try it out – I found a recipe for a normal pizza base, but I’d add sugar and then toppings of sliced apple, banana and coconut.”
“Sounds nice,” said Mam.
Mimi pulled a face. “Why not have tiramisu or panna cotta?”
“Cos this’ll be different,” said Joe. “I’m going to dig out the old ice-cream machine for the gelato – Nonno says it’s in the attic.”
“If it still works,” said Mam as she picked up Joe’s guest lis
t.
“Vaughan said he’d check it over for me,” said Joe. “And, Mam, I’d like to get all the rips in the seating repaired. I got an estimate from a furniture repair man.” He turned to his notes and pointed out the cost. “Please, Mam – be good to get it all done nice.”
“OK,” she said as she glanced down the guest list. “I can’t believe Councillor Morgan’s on here.”
“It’s amazing what you find out with a bit of digging around,” said Joe.
“And he’s coming?”
“Well … I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“You what?”
“Lights and bunting are going up now, but he couldn’t promise fireworks,” said Joe. “Oh, and he said he’s bringing someone from the South Wales Echo. Good publicity, Mam. I’ll start on the list and phone round.”
Joe got up, but then remembered something. “Oh, and we need to clean the walls.”
“The walls!”
“Yes, Mam. They are dirty. We can clean them ourselves, can’t we?”
Mam glanced at Mimi.
“Yes, Joe,” they said.
“It looks like normal pizza,” said Mam hovering in the doorway to the cafe.
“That’s the idea,” said Joe as he placed the sliced apples and banana in a regular pattern on the pizza base. He glanced at Mimi who still had the corners of her mouth pulled down. “But taste is more important than the look.”
Finally, Joe sprinkled desiccated coconut over the top. “It looks like grated Parmesan!”
Mimi smiled and they placed the sweet pizza in the oven.
“Joe!” called Mam. “He’s here!”
When Joe went into the cafe he saw a large car parked outside. He grinned. “It worked.”
Councillor Morgan stepped out of the car and posed for the photographer. He entered the cafe with a reporter, who was taking notes.
“Fantastic,” he said. “A classic Welsh-Italian cafe.”
“Italian-Welsh, actually,” said Joe.
Councillor Morgan turned to the reporter. “See, Joe came to me with this idea, and straight away I knew he was on to something.”
“I’m from the South Wales Echo,” said the reporter. “Can I ask you, Joe—”
He was interrupted by an announcement. “Mr Dickens to Dr Foster, room three.”
