Vinegar Soup

by Miles Gibson

  ‘Is she the new waitress?’ whispered Frank as they watched her stagger to the door.

  ‘No,’ Gilbert said gloomily.

  The third girl was called Veronica Yardley. She was hard and lean and luminous. Her face was white, her eyes were grey and her hair, which was blonde and badly cut, stood out from her head in frayed spikes. She was wearing an army greatcoat and a pair of worn-out high-heeled shoes. She said she was seventeen and working at the Heavy Hamburger. She didn’t like it. She grinned. The slope of her nose and the curious curve of her eyes made her look like a hungry cat.

  Gilbert was enchanted. He bragged about the cafe, praised the kitchen, blessed the customers and apologised for Olive, who was glaring at them from a corner of the counter.

  ‘Do you think she’ll like me?’ the girl asked doubtfully.

  ‘She’ll love you. There’s only one thing wrong with her: she’s slow, she’s clumsy, she can’t cook, she can’t carry and she’s not quite right in the head. Apart from that she’s fine,’ said Gilbert. ‘Look, she’s smiling,’ he said as Olive bared her teeth.

  ‘Does he belong to you?’ asked Veronica, nodding at Frank who was watching her from the kitchen door. He was wearing his necklace and a tea-towel turban.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gilbert. ‘We found him under one of the tables.’ He liked to tell the truth because he knew that no one believed him.

  Veronica winked at Frank who grinned and blushed and walked backwards into the kitchen.

  ‘Is she the new waitress?’ he asked hopefully when the girl had gone.

  Gilbert nodded. His big, moon face was shining. ‘She starts on Monday,’ he said and combed his hair with his hand.

  5

  Veronica arrived at the Hercules Cafe with a canvas satchel, a shaving mirror and a doughnut. Gilbert took her up to her room while Frank and Olive waited anxiously downstairs at the counter.

  ‘It’s rather small,’ he observed as he opened the door. He stared critically around the room at the flaking walls, the simple wardrobe, desk and bed, as if he were looking at it for the first time.

  ‘There’s a funny smell,’ Veronica said as she swept past him and walked to the window. She turned around and wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Disinfectant. I cleaned the place out and washed the floor and there’s no lock on the door because I haven’t had time to fix it. The bathroom is at the end of the corridor.’

  Veronica pushed the satchel under the bed, placed the mirror on the desk, sat down and ate the doughnut.

  ‘You’ll need an apron,’ said Gilbert, glancing down at the shine on his shoes. He was wearing a fresh apron, with plenty of starch, a clean blue shirt and Brylcreem. Olive had been cruel about this extra spit and polish but appearances were important. He wanted to make a good impression.

  ‘I never wear aprons,’ said Veronica. ‘I brought my Heavy Hamburger uniform. I thought I could wear it here…’

  ‘Fine,’ said Gilbert. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’m wearing it,’ she said. She stood up and pulled off her coat.

  ‘That’s a uniform?’ whispered Gilbert. She was wearing a white shirt with a black elastic bowtie, a cheap red skirt and black stockings. Her legs were as thin and glossy as liquorice sticks.

  ‘Yeah. Well, there’s supposed to be a red jacket and a white paper hat but I didn’t like ’em. Anyway, the jacket had Heavy Hamburger written all over the front of it.’ She bent down suddenly, narrowed her eyes at the shaving mirror and ruffled her hair. The tissue-paper skirt gave a shiver and floated out in the draught. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Is it warm enough?’ said Gilbert.

  ‘I keep moving.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Gilbert. He took her downstairs and gave her to Olive. ‘If you have a problem you’ll find me in the kitchen. Olive will take care of you,’ he said hopefully and disappeared to the safety of his stove.

  Veronica stood behind the counter and patiently waited for her instructions.

  ‘I don’t know what he wants me to do with you,’ grumbled Olive. ‘There’s no work.’ She glanced sideways at the elastic bowtie, blinked and then continued staring morosely over the counter at the empty dining room. In one corner an old man sat nursing a mug of Bovril.

  ‘I’ll clean the tables,’ volunteered Veronica.

  ‘Waste of time.’

  ‘Why?’ said Veronica.

  ‘Customers mess them,’ sniffed Olive.

  ‘Fill the sugar bowls?’

  ‘Customers steal them.’

  ‘Fold the napkins?’

  ‘Don’t use them.’

  ‘Anything?’ said Veronica.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Olive.

  But it wasn’t true. At lunch time the cafe was crowded and Olive, bewildered and belligerent, soon retired wounded and set Veronica to work. The girl danced among the tables with her arms full of trays and her red skirt spinning. She worked fast and without mistakes. She was careful with the food and clever with the customers. Gilbert watched from the kitchen door and clapped his hands with pleasure.

  It was evening before Frank found an opportunity to introduce himself. The cafe door was locked and Gilbert had gone to put Olive to sleep. The dining room was quiet and dark. Veronica was cleaning the counter so Frank found a broom and pretended to sweep the floor.

  ‘I heard they found you under one of the tables,’ Veronica said as she slapped the crumbs from her rag.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank.

  ‘Which one?’ she said, leaving the counter and walking out to him.

  ‘I think it was that one,’ said Frank, leaning on his broom and blushing as he nodded at a near-by table.

  Veronica smiled. Her blonde hair shone in the gloom. ‘I suppose that’s why you’re so small,’ she said. She bent down and searched among the table legs.

  ‘I’m very tall for my age,’ murmured Frank as he followed the flutter of her skirt.

  ‘Yeah, but you’re all skin and bone. You look like you need feeding. Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich.’

  She led him into the kitchen and fried him a rasher of purple bacon. ‘Eat your crusts and I’ll give you a kiss,’ she said as she pushed the sandwich into his hands.

  Warm fat leaked through his fingers. The rasher peeped from the slices of bread like a fat and drooling tongue. Frank stared at the bacon. He stared at Veronica. He ate the sandwich.

  Olive remained cantankerous but by the end of the week even she was eating from Veronica’s hand. The girl worked so hard it made Olive feel tired and she went to bed in the afternoons. The little cafe looked prosperous. The windows shone, the counter gleamed and customers, once driven away by Olive’s clumsy table manners, crept back again.

  ‘Where did you find that one?’ said Horace, squinting at the waitress through greasy spectacles. He’d repaired a cracked lens with Elastoplast.

  ‘Advertised,’ said Gilbert proudly.

  Horace nodded and sucked on his sandwich. ‘Is she still infectious?’ he said at last, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘What are you talking about, you daft bugger?’

  ‘They cut your hair like that in hospital,’ sniffed Horace.

  Gilbert ignored him. The girls from the beauty parlour arrived, giggling, shrieking, hungry for gossip and doughnuts. The Greek grocer brought his family down for lunch. The cafe was crowded.

  But among the old, familiar faces he began to see strangers: young men with cunning eyes who sat and gloated at his waitress. They would arrive, two or three at a time, and sprawl at a centre table. Sometimes they bought coffee. Sometimes they bought nothing. They would smoke and brag and whistle at Veronica when she tried to serve them.

  ‘They don’t eat,’ brooded Gilbert one night while the family were gathered for supper. He had baked an enormous pie stuffed with onions, mushrooms and chicken. Potatoes clustered against its flanks, soft, plump and sweaty with butter. ‘They sit around but they don’t eat.’ He punctured the pie and glowered at a wisp of esc
aping steam.

  Veronica shrugged. ‘I’m not going to coax them with a spoon,’ she said quietly.

  Frank sucked a mushroom and grinned.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ growled Gilbert. ‘They’re watching you.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Sell tickets,’ snapped Olive.

  ‘We’re not running a damn circus.’

  ‘Mind your language.’

  Gilbert grunted and poked at his pie. He wasn’t happy. She’s only a child. Doesn’t understand. Wear an apron. That’s the answer. Hide those lovely liquorice legs.

  ‘You should wear an apron,’ he said quickly, hunched at his plate, mashing potatoes with his fork.

  ‘Why?’ said Veronica. She stopped chewing. Her cheeks bulged. She lifted her head and stared at him.

  ‘Why?’ said Olive suspiciously. She turned to Gilbert and peered at him.

  ‘Why?’ said Frank. He looked at Gilbert and frowned.

  Gilbert blushed to his ears. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He raised his fork and banged it down against his plate. ‘I don’t like it,’ he muttered.

  ‘They don’t worry me,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Good,’ said Olive. ‘Ignore them.’

  ‘You shout if they try to interfere with you,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘You know – interfere with you,’ hissed Gilbert. He glanced nervously at Frank.

  ‘I can look after myself,’ said Veronica.

  Gilbert finished the supper in silence. Women don’t know. Parade about in the next to nothing. Men turn nasty. Trust your instincts. Say nothing. Wait for trouble.

  It happened on Saturday afternoon.

  The cafe was quiet. Olive was asleep. Frank had gone to the library. Gilbert was sitting in the warmth of the kitchen filling tomato ketchup bottles. He had a gallon drum of the sweet, red glue and was carefully pouring it into the bottles. He was so absorbed in his work that he paid no attention to the drone of voices from the dining room. And then someone laughed. It was an ugly, barking laugh that made Gilbert slip with his bottle. He swore beneath his breath. They were back again. He tried to concentrate but his hand trembled and covered his knuckles with ketchup. He reached for the towel. Someone hooted and whistled. Gilbert tortured the towel in his fists. Ignore them. Say nothing.

  Veronica screamed.

  Gilbert bellowed and jumped from his chair. He blundered through the open door, smacked the counter with his belly, bounced and staggered across the dining room.

  Two young men were sprawled at a table. One was small, sharp, bright as a weasel. He was wearing a long, leather coat and cracked army boots. The other was tall and slow with a stupid, flat face. They stared at Gilbert and grinned.

  ‘What’s happening out here?’ he demanded, turning to Veronica.

  His waitress was standing a little distance from the table, anxiously stroking her legs. Her hair stood out in electric spikes and the bowtie hung by a thread. ‘He put his hand up my skirt,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That one,’ sniffed Veronica, pointing at the tallest of the two intruders.

  ‘You love it,’ he jeered and raised one finger in salute.

  ‘Stupid tart,’ growled the small one.

  ‘Get out,’ said Gilbert softly.

  The little one twisted in his chair and stared at Gilbert in silence. Then he swung out his legs and kicked the table with his boots. ‘Cheeseburger!’ he shouted. He looked at his companion. ‘You want a cheeseburger, Charlie?’

  ‘Get out,’ repeated Gilbert.

  ‘Fuck off and get the cheeseburgers,’ ordered Charlie. The blood drained from Gilbert’s face. He raised his fist and stuck out his stomach. He was holding a loaded bottle of ketchup.

  ‘The old fart’s got a bottle,’ said the one in the leather coat. He snatched something from the table, leapt forward and waved a knife across Gilbert’s stomach.

  ‘Push it up his fucking arse,’ suggested Charlie. He leaned forward and caught Veronica by the wrists.

  Veronica shrieked. Gilbert bared his teeth. The killer grinned as he plunged with the knife.

  ‘No one argues with Harry Nutter,’ he hissed as he struck the old man’s stomach.

  Gilbert gasped. The blade bent against his apron. Harry Nutter grunted, stared at Gilbert and frowned at the knife. The blade had buckled like cardboard.

  ‘Made in Korea,’ said Gilbert mildly. Polished alloy. One twenty a dozen. It had always been his opinion that people who ate Porkies and Burgers could not be trusted with real knives and forks.

  ‘Pick a window – you’re leaving,’ snarled Nutter. He threw away the knife and grabbed Gilbert by the apron strings.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ screamed Veronica. She struggled from Charlie’s grasp and threw herself at Harry Nutter. She knocked him down, held him firmly between her knees and began to uproot his hair.

  Charlie tried to push past Gilbert and rescue his friend. But Gilbert caught him by the collar, swung the bottle and cracked his skull. He stumbled forward a few paces and sank to his knees. His mouth hung open. His hair was oozing a thick, red pulp. He wiped his face and stared at the gore on his hands. He couldn’t tell the difference between the blood and the ketchup. He tried to taste it, pushed his fingers into his mouth, rolled his eyes and croaked. He was sucking broken glass. He started to cough and spit on the floor. A string of red bubbles dangled loosely from his chin.

  ‘All right! Forget the cheeseburgers!’ shouted Harry Nutter. He had thrown off Veronica and was crouching behind a table, watching Gilbert splash across the floor with the broken bottle in his hand.

  Veronica groaned, hauled herself into a chair and looked around at the damage. One of the tables had been overturned. A chair had suffered a broken leg. The floor sparkled with glass and the windows were spattered with ketchup.

  ‘I think I’m bleeding,’ gasped Charlie, clutching his face in horror.

  ‘You’re lucky we didn’t kill you,’ snarled Veronica.

  ‘Get out,’ sighed Gilbert, leaning, exhausted, against the counter.

  Harry Nutter stood up and grinned, combed his hair, brushed down his coat and swaggered to the safety of the door. Charlie staggered after him. He was bleeding ketchup from his ears.

  ‘Did they hurt you?’ said Gilbert, turning to Veronica.

  ‘No,’ she said. She hung her head and quickly wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  ‘If they touch you again,’ growled Gilbert, ‘I’ll murder them.’ He raised his fist and stared proudly at the broken bottle. He felt huge. He was a dangerous man.

  ‘I’m sorry, it was my fault,’ said Veronica, chewing a ragged fingernail. ‘I should have worn the apron.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ grinned Gilbert. ‘I like the uniform. Are you going to let people push you around?’

  Veronica smiled again. ‘I’ll fetch a bucket and wash down the floor. It looks like we’ve butchered a pig. Olive will go mad if she finds this mess.’

  They found rags and brushes and while Gilbert wiped the windows Veronica scrubbed the floor.

  ‘You looked so fierce,’ she said as she squatted under a table with her chin between her knees. She pushed on the brush. The ketchup frothed around her shoes.

  ‘I was angry,’ admitted Gilbert as he sloshed at the window.

  ‘You nearly knocked his head off,’ she grinned and banged her brush against the bucket.

  ‘I didn’t hurt him,’ Gilbert said carefully. The ketchup had dried into small dark blisters. He picked at them with his fingers.

  ‘I nearly wet myself,’ chortled Veronica. ‘I thought his brains were running out.’

  Gilbert shuddered. Is it true? Blood excites them. Hand up skirt. Rough and tumble. Torn stockings. Rum business. Some girls like it. Olive wouldn’t.

  A woman walked into the cafe and pulled at Gilbert’s sleeve.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she said.

>   ‘Nosebleed,’ he said.

  The woman looked disappointed. She sat down and asked for a coffee.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We’re closed.’ He waved her away and locked the door. ‘Have you finished?’ he said, turning again to search for Veronica.

  She grunted and crawled from under a table. ‘I’m covered in bruises,’ she complained, lifting her skirt and frowning down at her legs.

  ‘That’s bad,’ said Gilbert. He looked at her legs and stroked his chin. ‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll have a proper look at you.’

  She followed him into the kitchen and took off her shoes and stockings.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he said as he washed his hands.

  Veronica sat down and pulled up her skirt. One of her knees was turning blue. Gilbert knelt down, laid his hands upon the knee and blessed it. ‘It’s swollen,’ he whispered, closing his eyes as he measured her leg with his fingers. Her skin was soft and wonderfully hot.

  ‘It’s growing like a balloon,’ she said proudly. She raised her leg and licked the knee with her tongue.

  Gilbert soaked a towel in cold water and wrapped it gently around the bruise. His fingers were shaking. He couldn’t control them. She had lifted her skirt to expose her thighs.

  ‘How does it feel?’ he inquired, pressing the towel with the palms of his hands.

  ‘It hurts,’ she complained, jerking back her knee and trying to look beneath the bandage.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said. He stretched out her leg and clasped the small, white foot in his hands, his thumbs gently working to massage her toes. ‘We’re waiting for the bruise to come out.’

  Veronica sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘How long does it usually take?’ she murmured.

  ‘It’s rum,’ said Gilbert. ‘You never know with a bruise.’ And as he spoke he stroked her leg, pinched her calf, rubbed at her thigh, as if he needed to consider the knee from every angle and direction. His face was glowing with concentration. He clenched his teeth. His nostrils flared.