Читать книгу The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square: A gorgeous summer romance and one of the top holiday reads for women! - Michele Gorman - Страница 8

Talk about putting the cart before the horse. Or the staff before the café, in this case. My glance falls on the stack of boxes leaning precariously beside the bar. One more thing to put away. It looks messy, unfinished and unprofessional. Ditto the half-painted walls, filthy window glass and stripped but yet-to-be refinished tables and chairs. It looks like a building site.

It is a building site. But in four weeks it needs to be a welcoming café. With staff.

So far none of this has seemed altogether real, despite the loan from Daniel’s parents or the official two-year extendable lease from the council. Just paperwork, I’ve convinced myself. If it all goes pear-shaped for some reason, I can always find a way to pay my in-laws back and cancel the lease. No real harm done to anyone but me.

Until now. As soon as I put teenagers into the training positions they’ll be depending on me for the job. And they deserve the chance to do something that could give them a leg-up in life. Lots of charities do after-school programmes and run youth centres and activity groups, not to mention everyone campaigning to get more funding. But training programmes are harder to come by.

I never imagined I’d set one up myself, yet here I am fidgeting over a stack of CVs and notes from Social Services, checking the door every two seconds for my first interviewee.

The lady at the council who has been helping me was uncomfortably vague about the applicants’ details. I know they’ve all had reason to catch the attention of the authorities, which is why they’re being put forward as potential trainees. But when I asked her what they’d done – just to know whether I’d be dealing with someone who’s run red lights or run drugs – she went tight-lipped. And she wasn’t exactly chatting like my BFF to begin with.

‘We can’t disclose any details about the cases,’ she’d said, rapidly clicking the top of her pen. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

I nodded like I did. ‘When you say cases, do you mean their Social Services cases? Or their court cases?’

‘Both,’ she said. ‘Either.’

‘Uh-huh, I see. Would those be criminal cases or civil ones?’

She just stared at me over her reading glasses. ‘Everyone we’re referring has needed intervention by Social Services, and in each situation we feel that the opportunity to work, to get training, will benefit them.’

I felt like such a dick then. Here was this lady, working with troubled kids every day, probably for little pay and little thanks, and I was swanning in sounding like I only wanted the cream off the top of the barrel. ‘Yes, of course, of course, that’s why I’m here,’ I said as my face reddened. ‘To offer them that chance.’ I took home every one of the files she’d prepared for me to consider.

Just the bare bones information I’ve got is enough to break your heart. A catalogue of foster care, school disruption and instability. I wanted to hire them all, so how was I supposed to choose between them to make a shortlist? I’m not exactly opening Starbucks nationwide. I’ve only got room, and money, for two trainees at a time.

I’m not looking for the best candidates, per se, like you would for a regular job. I’m looking for the ones who most need the help, and the ones who most want it. It’s like going into a bakery and asking which cakes taste okay. No, no fancy decoration or mouth-watering icing. Someone else will gladly have those. I’ll take the ones that are irregularly shaped or might have fallen on the floor, please. They’re still perfectly good, just not as obviously appealing as the perfect ones.

A hulking form suddenly blocks most of the light from the open doorway. ‘Yo. This for the interview?’ his deep voice booms.

‘Yes, in here. You must be Martin. Hi.’

He doesn’t look like a Martin. He walks in with a sort of half-skip, half-lumber, as if he’s got a bad limp on one side. ‘Yo, I’m Ice,’ he says, putting his fist in front of me for a bump. I must not do it right because he sucks his teeth at me. The kids are always doing this to me – when I don’t get out of the way fast enough at the Tube station, or dither over the bowls of fruit at the market or hold up the queue in the local Tesco. Basically, whenever they judge me hopeless, which is a lot. ‘Wagwan?’ he asks.

He means what’s going on. ‘Well, we’re renovating the café to get it ready for the opening, as you can see!’

He looks around as I look at him. His file says he’s fifteen, and his face looks babyish, but he’s huge, man-size. There’s a thick metal chain snaking into the front pocket of his jeans, which are so low they’re nearly around his knees, and his mini Afro looks too old for his spot-prone brown face.

I know he’s trying to be intimidating, but it’s so clearly bravado that I just want to say ‘Aww!’ and pinch his babyish cheeks. Though he might break my arm if I did.

He keeps looking around as I explain about the six-month training scheme and what would be expected of him. Eventually he says, ‘Why you making it a café, not a pub? It’d be banging working in a pub.’

‘Aren’t you a minor? You can’t work in a pub.’

He sucks his teeth again. ‘True dat.’

‘Maybe you could tell me why you’d like to work here?’ He shrugs his answer. ‘Can you think of any reason you’d like to work here?’

‘It pays, yeah?’

‘Right, yes. Any reason beyond the money?’ Though at trainee rates he wouldn’t really need that chain on his wallet.

‘Nah, man, my social worker say I got to come.’ He pulls a crumpled paper from his non-chained pocket. ‘She said sign this.’

I take the short, photocopied statement from him and add my signature to the bottom.

Ice snatches it off the table and leaves without a backward glance.

By mid-morning my hand is starting to cramp from signing so many attendance forms. Some of the kids bother to sit down and a few even humour me by answering a question or two. Others turn up with their paper already in hand, waving it for a signature.

I’m in so far over my head that I should be in a submersible. I may have grown up in a tough part of London and be on first-name terms with PC Billy Bramble. I may have seen the fights break out down the market when the gangs kick off. But I’ve never lived that life myself. I like to think I’m street. I’m really just street-light.

Take the kid who rumbled me for gawping at the purplish blood droplet tattooed on his arm. It had a triangle above it, like a gang symbol. ‘You starin’ at my tatt?’ he’d said.

I could feel my face go red. ‘Erm, sorry, I was just interested. Is it supposed to be blood, or a gang sign of some kind?’ I couldn’t sound more lame.

‘Teletubby,’ he said.

I’d never heard of them. The Teletubby Massive? I didn’t want any gang members in my crew.

He pointed to the red blotch beside the drop. ‘Tinky Winky.’

‘You mean it’s an actual Teletubby?!’ I tried to bite down my smile.

‘Joker blud did it to me.’ He shrugged. ‘I wanted a stopwatch.’

Just as I was starting to wonder if this boy with a children’s character on his arm might be worth another look, I asked him why he wanted to do the training programme.

‘Everybody likes coffee, yeah? I can drink that shit all day.’

‘Well, yes, but you’d actually be working, not drinking coffee. And hopefully it won’t be shit.’

‘I can slip it to my bluds though, yeah?’

He really thought I’d pay him to hand out free coffee to his mates all day.

‘I can let you know by next week, okay?’ I said, scribbling my signature on his form.

Mum and Dad would have cuffed him on the side of the head for answers like that. I can hear Dad now. Lazy sod. My parents were working by the time they were teens, and not just making their beds for pocket money, either. Mum cycled all over London to pick up and drop off clothes for my gran’s tailoring customers. ‘Join a Union if you don’t like the deal,’ Gran used to say of the sweatshop wages she paid her daughter, but she bought Mum off by letting her keep any tips. Mum was slightly easier on me, and she’d never let me cycle across the city. She often took me with her to help when she cleaned houses, though. There was less risk to life and limb but the wages were still crap.

On his way out, my latest applicant passes a boy just coming in. ‘Yo, Tinky Winky, ’sup?’ says the boy.

‘Fuck off, dweeb.’

‘That’s Professor to you,’ he says.

I watch this brief exchange with interest. Not because the new boy, with his tall lanky frame, looks as if his brain has no idea what his arms and legs are doing, or that he doesn’t seem frightened by his tattooed rival. His close-cropped wavy black hair and mixed-race complexion don’t differentiate him from most of the other kids.

It’s his three-piece suit and the fatly knotted blue tie round his skinny neck.

And his briefcase, which he sets on the table between us.

‘I’m Joseph.’ He sticks his hand out for me to shake. His long-lashed brown eyes are the first to look directly at me all morning. ‘It’s your lucky day,’ he says. ‘You can cancel the other punters, because you’ve found your future employee.’

‘Well, I hope I have, but I’ll still need to ask you some questions, okay?’ Who told him to be so cocky in an interview? I glance at his file. Lives with his mum and older brother, who seems to be mixed up with one of the local gangs. ‘You’re seventeen?’

‘Yeah, but don’t let that fool you. I can do anything you can, and I’m really good.’

His suggestion is unmistakable.

That won’t do him any favours and the sooner he realises it, the better. Just to prove the point, I ask him if he can drive. No? What about buying alcohol legally? Are you registered to vote? No again? ‘Then you can’t quite do anything I can,’ I say, ‘so let’s stick to the interview, okay? Why would you like to do this training?’

There’s a scattering of hairs on his face where he’s been trying to shave, and his suit sleeves cover his knuckles. I bet he’s borrowed it from his big brother. He might have borrowed the razor too.

Joseph clears his throat. That doesn’t stop his voice from cracking. ‘I see the position as a stepping stone for my future as a CEO.’

‘A CEO… here?’ We both look around the pub. ‘That’s not really the position I’m recruiting for.’ Unless CEO stands for Chief Egg-on-toast Officer.

‘Well, then, what are you going to do for my career progression?’

‘It’s a six-month traineeship, so you’ll learn all aspects of working in a café. Working with colleagues, serving customers, making coffee and tea…’ I sort of run out of steam. It’s just a café, not Microsoft.

He sits forward in his chair. ‘Sales and marketing?’

I thought I might put up a few posters around the bus stops. ‘Sure.’

‘How ’bout customer complaint resolution?’

‘I expect so. Tell me, Joseph, what would you like to be a CEO of?’

‘A company with good benefits,’ he says right away.

‘Any particular kind?’

‘Definitely stock options. And a gold-plated pension.’

‘No, I mean any particular kind of company?’

‘I’d be happy at Apple. Or Xbox.’

I like that he’s dreaming big. My most ambitious goal at his age was getting a real pair of Dr. Martens. ‘Well, maybe you’ll get there. It would have been easier if you’d stayed in school, you know.’ He finished secondary school but doesn’t want to go on for college.

‘I like to think of myself as a student of life,’ he says. ‘Steve Jobs dropped out. So did Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, and they all became CEOs.’

‘Mark Zuckerberg dropped out of Harvard,’ I point out. ‘If you get into Harvard, then you can feel free to drop out.’

‘That’s what my mum said.’

‘I think I’d like your mum.’

Who can blame Joseph for not wanting to be in school? Not everyone is a swot like I was. I only left at sixteen because I needed to help Mum and Dad with the bills. And I went back to graduate from Uni.

If it hadn’t been for the twins’ unplanned arrival scuppering the job plans I had after university, I’d be the one on the other side of the interview table now, trying to get a charity to hire me and probably sounding as naïve as Joseph does.

There but for the grace of god, and my in-laws…

Joseph’s heart seems to be in the right place, underneath the cocksure attitude. He needs a lot of help with his interview technique and he’ll have to learn that people aren’t just going to hand him a job as CEO because he asks for it.

He might not know a teabag from a tea towel, for all I know, but that’s the point, isn’t it? If he can already do the job, then he doesn’t need the training.

‘You’ve got the job if you want it,’ I tell him. ‘Congratulations. We’ll open in four weeks.’

His face splits into a beaming grin. ‘Yeah, that’s well good! Are you for reals?’

‘I’m for reals. You’ll need to come in for training and stuff before the opening.’ I consider my very first employee. My employee! ‘Can I ask you a question before you go? Your briefcase. You didn’t open it. What’s in there?’

Joseph takes a second to answer. ‘My lunch. Mum packed it for me.’

And just like that, the CEO-in-the-making becomes young Joseph again.

I’ve just finished putting away all the boxes piled near the bar when Dad turns up with Auntie Rose wheeling the babies in the pushchair. ‘I’m glad the ramp works!’ I shout to them as they come through the door. We just had it installed last week and it’s only about three inches high, but it means Dad can come through in his wheelchair without having to pop a wheelie.

‘I’ve actually hired someone!’ I tell them.

‘Wayhey!’ Dad whoops, meeting me halfway for a hug. ‘You’re on your way now, me girl. Mind the wheels. This deserves a proper stand-up job.’ Slowly he lifts himself from his wheelchair so I can throw my arms around him.

The twins stop their babbling to stare. They’re not used to seeing my dad standing, and especially not without the crutches he uses to walk. ‘Look at them,’ I say. ‘Astounded.’

‘It’s a bloomin’ miracle, me angels.’

What a difference a generation makes. When Dad first came down with the multiple sclerosis that keeps him mostly in the chair these days, I was fourteen and mortified at having a disabled family member.

Typical teenager, thinking about myself instead of Dad, whose whole life changed in a matter of months. He’d had tingles in his arms and legs for a while but assumed it was from driving round in his cab every day. He might not have said anything if his vision hadn’t started going funny, and the disease had already taken hold by the time he got the diagnosis. He stayed out of the wheelchair for a few more years – a few more years than he should have, really, but he’s stubborn like that. Now he uses it most of the time, and it’s completely normal for Oscar and Grace.

He sits down again. ‘Let ’em loose, Rose. Emma, love, Kelly’s right behind us with fish and chips.’

His announcement makes my mouth start watering. It’s one of the advantages of having a fishmonger for a best friend. Kelly’s worked a deal with the local chippy who fries up her leftover fillets sometimes. She throws the owners a few free portions of fresh fish to cook her tea for her, and they throw in the chips.

‘Mum’s gone to work?’ I ask, reaching for my babies. I might have fantasies about child-free baths and cups of tea that I actually get to finish, but a few hours away from them starts the longing that pulls from my gut and makes me feel breathless.

That was a rhetorical question about Mum anyway. She cleans every weekday afternoon and evening. They’re mostly commercial office contracts, with a few houses whose owners she liked enough to keep as clients over the years.

Just in case Daniel wants some fish too, I ring his mobile but it goes straight through to voicemail. He’s probably in the Underground on his way home. I know Kelly. She’ll have a portion for him when he gets here.

My best friend comes through the door, as usual, with about as much grace as a tipper truck. Kelly’s not a big woman. She just makes big entrances. That sometimes tricks people into assuming she’s tough, so they’re not always as considerate as they could be. A perfect example is when her family decided she should be the one to take over the fish van instead of her sisters. They just assumed she’d do it, like a sixteen-year-old would naturally want to give up any chance of living a life that’s wider than her local market.

‘I figured you needed this after dealing with the little bleeders all day,’ she says, clearing one of the booths to make room for our meal.

Kell takes a different view than me of the hoodies who hang around the market where she works. I can understand why, when she sometimes gets caught up in their skirmishes. She’d like to fillet them and I’m trying to save them.

‘I’ve hired one of the little bleeders,’ I tell her. ‘You should see him, Kell, he’s adorable. He wants to be a CEO.’

‘Just watch the till. Rose, I got you extra chips.’

‘That’s kind, but I really shouldn’t,’ Auntie Rose says, looking up from where her hand is already elbow-deep in the carrier bag. ‘I’m watching me girlish figure.’

Auntie Rose pats her hip with her free hand as she chews on a chip. She’s a generously proportioned lady, in stark contrast to her sister, my Gran, who was always skinny like Mum. She’s got the same smiling eyes and sharp mind, though. Except when she wanders.

That’s why our doors are all locked from the inside and why we can’t leave her alone anymore. For years, she’s had little strokes that make her mind skip sometimes, which was okay when she stayed in the neighbourhood. But we had to take drastic measures after she turned up on the A12 with no idea how to get back home.

She’s pretty relaxed about being incarcerated. She and Dad do everything together these days and she’s as much a help to him as he is a minder for her. At least Mum doesn’t have to worry about either of them when she’s at work.

By the time we lock up the pub we’re full of fish, salt and vinegar. Daniel’s portion is soaking through the bag under the sleeping twins’ pushchair. His phone keeps going straight to voicemail.

‘Are you worried about him?’ Kell asks, walking beside me.

‘No, not worried,’ I say, rubbing the phone in my pocket. ‘More like disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, Kell. I don’t begrudge him having a night out. Lord knows, I wish I could do it any time I wanted too. It’s just that, I feel like–’

‘He’s having his cake and eating it, the bastard,’ she finishes for me. ‘I’d be pissed off too.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Kell. I didn’t say pissed off. I said disappointed.’

‘Really? Not pissed off when he gets to have these gorgeous children, the perfect family, plus you to look after it all while he goes out on the lash whenever he feels like it. Why does he get to be the only one? Shouldn’t you get to do it too? I say hand the twins over to Daniel for a few hours and let him be the one to sit at home covered in sick, being jealous of you while you dance on the tables.’

‘Kell, when have I ever in my life danced on a table?’ She is right, though. He should be the responsible parent for once. At least for a few hours. ‘You know what? I will.’

‘Tomorrow. Do it tomorrow,’ she says. ‘We’ll go out.’

‘I can’t tomorrow. I’m not sure what Daniel has on after work.’

‘You mean like he didn’t know what you had on tonight, yet just assumed you’d be there to look after the twins? Have I got that right?’ Her stare challenges me to disagree.

‘Fine, tomorrow night then. I’ll tell Daniel.’