Читать книгу Summer at the Cornish Cafe - Phillipa Ashley - Страница 8

You can always spot the customers who are going to be trouble, no matter how hard you try to please them, but as I grab my notebook ready to take his order, I know that the man at table sixteen won’t be one of them.

Crammed in a corner under the kitchen extractor fan, that table has a wonky leg and most people only take it as a last resort, but I saw the guy head straight for it, even though there were other seats with better views at the time.

Sheila’s Beach Hut has the best spot of any cafe in St Trenyan, but he might as well be back in some trendy London espresso bar. He pores over an article in The Times, oblivious to the clotted-cream sand or the turquoise sea with its frilly wavelets or the holidaymakers, of all shapes, ages and sizes, sunbathing and playing cricket on the beach in front of the cafe. The water’s too cold even for a paddle this early in the year, but there are some hardy surfers at the far end of the beach, catching the bigger breakers. The Surf School has pushed out its racks of wetsuits and yellow foam boards, and set up its sign, promising to teach anyone to ride a wave in a two-hour lesson. Like, yeah. I’ve lived in Cornwall all my life and I’ve never managed it so far.

I flip over my notebook, pen poised. ‘Can I take your order, sir?’

‘Hmm …’

‘May I get you something, sir?’

‘Double espresso,’ he mutters, without even glancing up from the article in the newspaper. It’s in the features section and there’s a picture of a glamorous blonde standing behind a camera on a film set. Perhaps he’s not so highbrow after all?

‘Anything else with that? Toastie? Cake? We also have some homemade blueberry muffins.’

‘Just the coffee,’ he growls and suddenly flips over the page to the book review section.

OK. Fine if you don’t want one of the delicious muffins that I baked this morning, I think. ‘Coming up, sir.’

‘There’s no need to call me sir,’ he says, then adds a gruff, ‘Thanks.’

I could tell him that he’s nothing special and that I say the same to all the male customers, from twenty-five to ninety-five and anyway, I’ve seen his type before. Though I can’t see his face properly, his arms and hands are deeply tanned, even after the winter. His khaki sweatshirt hangs off his lean body and his black beanie hat is pulled over his ears, though the sun is beating down. Typical surfing wannabe, probably on a gap yah from his job in the City. Probably flew straight to Cornwall from Bondi Beach or a French alpine resort. Probably has his skis and surf board in the boot of his 4x4 on the drive of his parents’ holiday home in Rock. Not that I’m judgemental, much.

Feeling as hot as the pasties in my white shirt and black trousers, I weave my way onto the terrace. Every table, inside and out, is now taken, and people are even perched on the wall overlooking St Trenyan beach. As well as its fantastic views and Sheila’s famous pasties, the Beach Hut has an easygoing atmosphere that makes it a popular spot for surfers, families and dog owners alike.

‘Hey, you there!’

A customer barks at me from table twelve. She can only be in her twenties but has the air of an older, more harassed woman. Judging by the likeness, she’s obviously with her father and a younger sister who looks as if she’s in her late teens – a few years younger than me. Unlike beanie man, the older daughter definitely wants to be noticed. With her fitted black business suit, high heels and heavy make-up, she stands out like a sore thumb from the tourists. None of her party seem happy to be at the cafe, however. The father has a permanent scowl and the teenage daughter is a goth, so maybe she’d look miserable anyway.

The woman in the suit glances at her diamante watch and purses her lips.

‘Excuse me. Did you hear? We’ve been waiting for hours. When are you going to actually take our order?’

Actually, she’s only been here five minutes but I give her my shiniest smile. The customer is always right and I can’t afford to upset any of them because Mitch and I need this job more than you would ever believe.

‘I’m sorry about that, madam.’

‘You obviously haven’t planned your staffing levels accordingly.’

I could tell her the staff consists of me, Sheila, her niece (who turns up as long as there’s no decent surf) and Henry (who called in sick with an infected nipple ring this morning) but I don’t think it would help.

‘Apologies. I’ll pass on your feedback to the manager. Now, may I take your order, please, so we can get you served as soon as possible?’

‘We haven’t decided yet, have we?’ She throws out the challenge to her family. Her goth sister keeps her eyes fixed on her phone while their middle-aged father frowns at the menu and lets out a bored sigh. Fixing on a smile, I answer a long list of queries about the menu and wait for them to make up their minds.

Twenty minutes later, having delivered the beanie man’s espresso, served several other tables and taken a load of orders, Sheila shouts to me over the top of the serving counter in the kitchen. Her face is red as she slides steaming pasties and a slice of quiche onto three plates. ‘There you go. One steak, a cheese and bacon and a spinach and ricotta quiche for table twelve. You said they’re awkward customers, so I’ve given them extra garnish.’

‘Thanks, Sheila. I’m on it now.’

‘And can you clear some tables before you come back, please? It’s mayhem out there but we need to get as many customers as we can over the holiday weekend. I can’t believe the weather we’re having this early in the year. This is the warmest Easter I’ve ever known. If this is global warming, bring it on.’

‘No problem, boss.’

Sheila doesn’t stand for any nonsense but she’s very fair and while the money is only minimum wage, it comes with something far more important to me. She lets me and my beloved dog, Mitch, sleep in the tiny loft conversion above the cafe free of charge. Despite the long hours and the difficult customers, I’m beyond grateful to have a job and a warm place to stay after months of uncertainty, sleeping on couches, in hostels and occasionally even roughing it in the caves along the bay. I don’t mind admitting that it’s been a tough time but Sheila’s kindness had proved there were people willing to help in the world.

Blowing a strand of hair that’s escaped from its scrunchie out of my eyes, I dump my tray of dirty crockery beside the dishwasher. Sheila carefully heaps fresh salad and homemade coleslaw next to the pasty and the quiche. The spicy aromas waft under my nostrils and make my stomach rumble almost as loudly as the extractor fan, but there’s no time for us to eat yet.

‘Demi, wait!’ Sheila calls as I’m half in and half out of the door to the cafe.

‘What?’

‘Can you possibly do something about Mitch’s barking? I don’t mind him staying in the flat while you’re at work but some of the customers have been asking if he’s OK.’

My heart sinks but I nod. ‘I’ll try to get him to settle down in my break. I’m sorry but it’s new for him here and he misses me.’

‘I know but do your best,’ says Sheila with a brief smile. Then she’s gone, already preparing the next order.

From the flat above, Mitch whines again. I really hope I can settle him down but he gets so excited, with so many interesting canine smells and noises drifting up from the cafe. We already went for a jog together on the beach before dawn and I’ll take him for another walk when I eventually get my break.

Back on table twelve, the younger daughter of the family brightens a little as I smile at her and hand over the spinach quiche but her sister and father are stony faced as I serve them.

‘Here’s your lunch, madam, sir. I’m very sorry for the delay.’

‘About time, too. I could have made the pasties myself.’ Her tone is icy. Her eyebrows are also weird, so weird that it’s hard not to stare.

Gritting my teeth, I offer them cutlery wrapped in serviettes. ‘Once again, I apologise for the wait, madam, and I’ll certainly pass on your feedback to the owner.’

‘Make sure you do and you can also inform her we’re not paying for my meal.’

‘You tell her, Mawgan,’ says the father to his older daughter, while the young goth sister glances down at the ground, embarrassed. I feel sorry for her.

‘I’ll have to ask the owner about your bill.’ I feel faintly sick. I can’t just give away Sheila’s food. She’s only the tenant at the cafe and her profit margins are wafer thin as it is.

‘I don’t care … and what’s this? Coleslaw? I specifically asked for no coleslaw.’ Mawgan wrinkles her nose at the pasties.

‘I’ll have it removed immediately and bring a fresh plate, madam.’

Mawgan snatches the plate back. ‘If you do that I’ll be waiting until Christmas.’

‘Whatever you wish, madam.’

Gritting my teeth, I take the tray, desperate to move on to new customers but dreading what Sheila will say about their refusal to pay the bill. It was my fault that the coleslaw ended up on the plate; I must have taken down the order wrong in the rush.

‘Would you like anything else?’ I ask in desperation. ‘Condiments? A jug of water?’

‘Some mayonnaise,’ Mawgan grunts, leaving me wondering what the objection was to coleslaw anyway.

Wondering how I’ll break the news to Sheila about the discount, I head for the condiments alcove at the side of the kitchen, and scoop some mayo from the catering jar in the fridge into an individual pot. Maybe Mawgan will change her mind when she tastes the homemade pasties that Sheila and I slaved over this morning? While I carefully place the pot on a tray, I can hear the odd yip from above but I have to harden my heart.

I reckon no one will hear Mitch anyway above the squawking of seagulls and head back outside. A large group of them has already gathered on the beach wall opposite the cafe, eyeing the lunchtime chips and pasties with their beady eyes and sharp beaks. They’re a menace all over St Trenyan, but the tourists will keep feeding them. The gulls must think Sheila’s is a drive thru.

Make that a dive thru. I’m almost at Mawgan’s table with the bowl of mayo, when I spot three of the big birds circling low over a young family at the edge of the terrace. The mother is trying to manoeuvre a buggy with a baby down the steps to the beach while a little girl clambers down beside her. She can’t be more than four and she has a bright pink ice-cream cone clutched in one hand. Her tongue sticks out in concentration as she negotiates the stone steps onto the sand. I’m in two minds whether to leave the mayo and give the mother a hand when there’s a deafening screech.

Wings beating like pterodactyls, two large gulls launch a double-pronged attack on the little girl. The birds are probably only after the food, but they could do some serious damage by accident.

‘Look out!’

Too late. The mother looks up from the bottom of the steps, there’s a flapping of wings and screeching like nails over a blackboard. The toddler lets out a wail as the gulls attack her ice cream. Dashing forward to try and chase them off, my shin connects with someone’s beach bag, I stagger forward and the pot of mayo flies through the air. It lands, smack onto the back of Mawgan’s jacket, just as if I’d aimed right for it.

Ignoring Mawgan’s shriek and my throbbing foot, I run over to the mum. The toddler stares at her empty hand which thankfully is still in one piece. Pink gloop trickles down her chubby arm, while the seagulls tear the cone to pieces on the sand.

‘Are you all OK? Is the little one hurt?’ I ask.

Her mum crouches down and hugs her. ‘She’s fine. You scared them off just in time. I was so busy with the buggy I hadn’t realised what was happening.’

‘I’m glad she’s OK.’

‘Thanks to you. Nasty things. Don’t cry, Tasha! I’ll get you another ice cream, darling.’

‘You! Waitress! Have you seen my suit?’

‘Sorry,’ I mouth to the mum. ‘Have to go.’

On the terrace, Mawgan holds up her jacket, her mouth set in a fuchsia line. It’s spattered with mayo, just like a seagull pooped on it.

‘I’m so sorry, madam, you can see it was an accident.’

She thrusts her jacket under my nose. Mayonnaise dribbles down it. Her gaze scythes through me. ‘Maybe it was, but my suit’s still ruined.’

‘I – I’ll pay for it to be cleaned,’ I say, though every word kills me to say it and it will take most of my savings.

‘Cleaned? It’s ruined. This suit cost over three hundred pounds. I expect you to pay for a new one. You or your boss.’

The words leave my lips before I can stop them. ‘Three hundred quid? You’re kidding?’

She gasps. ‘What did you say?’

The hipster lowers his Times and stares at us. His dark eyes glint in the sunlight. He frowns, seems about to speak but then raises the newspaper again. A woman nearby giggles nervously and faces look up from their lattes and pasties at the unexpected free entertainment.

‘I … didn’t mean to be rude, madam.’

‘Oh, really?’ She lowers her voice so that only I and her family can hear her. ‘You do know I can make sure you get the sack and never get another job in this town? I don’t let anyone speak to me like that.’

I hesitate, anger bubbling up in me like the fizz in a bottle of pop. Then my cork blows. Just as quietly I say: ‘Neither do I. Madam.’

I’m on the point of fetching Sheila when loud barks ring out from the side alley of the cafe. They sound exactly like Mitch’s barks but he’s supposed to be safe inside the flat. He can’t have escaped, but seconds later a hairy ball of energy hurtles from the rear of the cafe and onto the terrace. Two Pugs and a Cockerpoo start yapping and before I can blink, Mitch leaps at me, barking joyfully. Mawgan’s eyes flick from Mitch to the back door of the cafe and back at me.

‘I take it that’s your dog?’ There’s ice in her voice.

‘Yes.’

‘And it lives here?’

‘Um. Not as such. He’s just staying in the attic temporarily while I’m at work but he wasn’t supposed to get out.’

‘So, you live here too?’

My stomach swirls with unease but I don’t want to let Mawgan see that she’s rattled me and I’m getting annoyed now. The customer may be always right but she also has no right to interrogate me about my private life. ‘Yes, but I really don’t see what it has to do with you.’

She smirks. ‘Rather a lot, actually. I own this building. Your boss is my tenant so she shouldn’t be subletting the place, for a start, and there are no pets allowed, especially not a great big dirty thing like that one.’

‘Mitch isn’t dirty!’

Mitch glances up innocently then resumes his pursuit of a seagull. Squawks fill the air. My heart sinks to my boots. If I’ve got Sheila into bother I’ll never forgive myself. Even as I think the words, I know I must already have got Sheila into deep trouble. Mawgan raises herself up. ‘In fact, I’m going to see your boss right now.’

‘Mawgan …’ the goth sister murmurs.

‘Keep out of this, Andi!’

Andi caves in like a sunken sponge cake but their father beams proudly and folds his arms.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘You do that, but no one treats me like this and if I’m going to lose my job, I may as well go out with a bang.’ I reach for the nearest cold drink, which just happens to be an abandoned raspberry frappuccino and throw it over Mawgan’s skirt.

Her jaw drops and then she shrieks. ‘You little cow! You did that on purpose.’

‘My daughter could sue you for assault,’ says her father as Mitch skitters back to lick up the bright pink slush from the terrace. I glance over at the hipster but can’t see him any more and despite my bravado, I’m shaking inside.

I rip off my apron. ‘Be my guest. My legal team will be in touch.’

I glance around me defiantly and everyone turns their faces away. No one backs up Mawgan but somehow, I don’t think this is going to help Sheila’s Trip Advisor rating either. Oh shit, what the hell have I just done?

Pink slush drips from Mawgan’s skirt onto her shiny stilettos and her voice is barely more than a hiss. ‘You’ll live to regret this.’

Trembling inwardly, I shrug. ‘Actually, madam, I think I’ll look back on it as one of my finest moments.’