by Sharon Owens
‘This is it, Lily,’ he said simply. She nodded. He calmly collected the letter and they sat down beside the fireplace. Jack opened the slim buff envelope slowly as if that would somehow lessen the impact of its contents. The letter explained that an exciting new project was being planned for the area. It would greatly enhance the entire city centre and also bring many much-needed jobs to the retail sector.
‘What about our jobs?’ asked Lily in a trembling voice. Her hands went up to her face.
‘Now, don't cry, pet,’ said Jack quietly, scanning through the pages. ‘This is only the pitch, remember? It's not an eviction notice. It says that most of the new jobs will be highly paid professional positions. It's good news for the economy, the usual thing. Software companies, IT, banking.’
‘Well, big deal. It's far from software companies we were reared, as Francy Mac would say. What else?’
‘Let's see. This bit cuts straight to the chase. It explains how we can accept or reject an offer from the developers. Here's the name and address of their solicitors.’
‘How much are they offering?’ she asked.
‘We have to arrange an appointment to find out, it seems. They'll only tell us the amount, in person.’ Jack double-checked the pages for a quote but there wasn't one.
‘How condescending! Well, they can stuff their appointment where the sun doesn't shine. I'm not taking a morning off work to go bowing and scraping to that shower of sharks.’
‘Lily, look. Here's the news we were hoping for. It says that because the bar is a listed building, we can block the demolition on the grounds of heritage-preservation. But that, given the high level of commercial interest here, the council has given us special permission to sell. And they'll bring in experts from England to assess the tavern for possible relocation.’
‘What does that mean, Jack?’
‘It means that we could stop the bulldozers. But, if everybody else wants to take the money and run, we'll be branded spoilsports. It's emotional blackmail.’
‘The dirty rotten sneaks! I say we ask our neighbours what they're doing. Face to face. I want to hear it from them, personally. This Halloran guy may be bluffing us.’
‘That's not all, Lily. The letter also says that only you and I are registered as working here. Just two people. They have plans for a huge delicatessen and coffee bar employing, wait for it, forty-five staff. We could end up being portrayed as two selfish has-beens, just running a hobby bar.’
‘So, that's their angle? Not enough staff? Right.’
‘I'll tell you what, we'll have to toughen up to get through this, Lily, my love.’
She watched him in silence as he lit the fire. They sipped their tea in a half-hearted way, imagining all the other traders on the block lining up to collect their closure cheques.
‘We've got about three months left, my darling, as landlord and landlady,’ Jack said as he finished his breakfast. ‘It seems the tide is against us. And if this thing goes ahead with some altered design, the atmosphere of Maple Street will be destroyed for ever. Would we be happy then, living in the shadow of some Brave New World edifice?’
‘Shush, Jack. I'm thinking,’ Lily whispered.
They didn't speak for nearly twenty minutes, each one contemplating where they would be spending the following Christmas and all the ones after that. Lily wondered if their all-consuming passion for each other would be eroded by the ceaseless demands of living in the real world. Compared to thousands of other married couples, they hadn't had to face many tough challenges together. Jack was thinking he should learn to drive right away so he could at least run a taxi service or drive a bus maybe, or a lorry. Lily was remembering her few backbreaking weeks in the shirt factory, where she had to ask for permission to use the bathroom during working hours. But they didn't talk about it any further. Today was simply for digesting this awful news.
‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked, as Lily stood up and dusted the pancake crumbs off her skirt.
‘I'm going to bake a cake, my darling. It always helps me to think clearly, when I'm working in the kitchen. I thought a nice Madeira sponge?’
‘That sounds lovely,’ he said gently. ‘You do that.’
She went up to the little kitchen and collected a small mixing bowl from the shelf above the sink, and packets of self-raising flour and sugar, and some eggs and butter from the fridge. She usually came up with a solution to whatever problem was vexing her when she was pottering in her beloved kitchen, with its red gingham curtains and neat rows of glass storage jars. All she had to do, she told herself, was stay calm and keep her mind open to fresh ideas. Jack seemed to have given up already, which irritated her a little bit. But then, she told herself, that was why she loved him so desperately, because he was always calm and rational. No, she would not beseech her husband to do something radical when she hadn't a clue what he could do. She would think of some kind of survival plan on her own.
Jack straightened up the chairs in the bar and gave the windows a quick rub with a faded duster. He doubted that the demolition of an entire block of shops could be halted with one of Lily's sponge cakes but he loved his wife far too much to criticize her efforts. He would simply have to investigate if there was any property for sale that they could afford to buy with the money on offer. He might even be able to persuade Lily to go along to the solicitor with him so they would know what they might have to live on. Then, they'd look for bar or shop work in their new neighbourhood. It was a grim enough plan but it was the best he could come up with. Maybe they could ask for jobs in this fancy new diner? Or would that be too painful for them? Best to move right away and start again, he decided.
Upstairs, Lily traced a finger round the edge of the bowl and licked it thoughtfully. The cake mix was almost as lovely at this stage as when it was cooked. It was a comforting taste and it gave her a reassuring feeling. She wanted to run screaming into the street, crying and complaining about the injustice of everything. Typical woman that she was. But Lily knew she had to start thinking like a man. Practical solutions were required now, not just useless emotions.
‘Staff, the letter mentioned. A distinct lack of,’ she told the red curtains, which were tied back with pretty woven ribbons. Well, she could certainly hire more staff. They could raise the profile of the tavern about the city. Attract lots more customers through the doors and ask them to sign a petition against the mall. They still had until the end of February to give their final answer. Maybe they could still convince the other traders not to sell. At the very least, they should try to make as much money as possible before the keys were taken away from them. Thousands of pounds every week. That's what the brewery guy, Harry Frew, always said they could achieve if they put their minds to it.
Lily and Jack had never been the material types. As long as they made enough to pay the bills and keep going, they were happy. They had no staffing worries, and filling out the books for the accountant each year was a doss. But now everything had to change, and change immediately. They had no time at all to spare. Not one single minute should be wasted. She slammed the cake tin into the oven and went running down the stairs in her flour-covered apron.
‘Jack, it's going to be all right! I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll hire more staff. We'll make pots of money! We'll have those folk nights that Harry suggested. And proper food too. Hot comfort food that will draw in the crowds.’
‘Steady,’ he said softly, catching her round the waist and giving her a kiss. ‘You're only delaying the inevitable, my love. And you'll wear yourself out with the catering. Isn't that why we haven't bothered before?’
‘I won't wear myself out, Jack. I'm going to hire some girls, first thing on Monday morning. They can help me.’
‘Girls? No barmen?’
‘No. Girls will be much handier in the kitchen. And better-looking behind the bar. I know that's a sexist thing to say but we can't afford a chef.’
‘It won't work.’ Jack sighed. ‘There isn't enough time. A
nd where are you going to get a bunch of good-looking girls from, in a hurry?’
‘Look, my darling. Listen to me. We've kept a low profile for twenty years and that's worked well for us. We've had time for each other and no real stress. Now, it's time to change tactics. We'll shout our name from the rooftops. We'll become a legend. You'll see.’
Jack smiled. He loved to see Lily so animated and excited, but he feared she was not being realistic.
‘I don't want you to get your hopes up too much, that's all.’
‘But we can't lose, Jack. We'll take some girls on, on casual-pay conditions. I'll make a few pies in the stove each morning and we'll sell them by the slice, with a handful of lettuce leaves on the side. And soup too. I can have a big pot of soup simmering on the top plate. We'll charge £3.50 a bowl. We can rent the dishes from our supplier. Oh, please, Jack?’
‘If it makes you happy, sweetheart, then go ahead. Just don't overdo it. Promise me?’
‘I promise,’ she said. ‘Besides, you admitted yourself, we need all the money we can get with house prices the way they are. We'll need to buy outright. If we end up slaving for the minimum wage, we'll never get a mortgage.’
‘That's true enough, sweetheart. You just tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it.’
‘I love you,’ she said softly.
‘I love you too.’
And then she dashed back up to the kitchen table to make a very long list of catering ingredients, addresses of good suppliers, and various novel ways to make money. She almost forgot to keep an eye on the Madeira, she was so absorbed in her thoughts. And when she finally rushed to the stove and yanked opened the door of the oven, the cake was slightly overdone.
Lily phoned the job centre on Monday morning and told them to send over some potential bar personnel immediately. She would interview any males, she decided, just to play along with the current equality legislation. But she would only hire females. Pretty females, to be exact. However, she needn't have worried about breaking the law. There were no unemployed barmen in the city that day. The young clerk who answered the phone said he knew four terrific girls who would be perfect for the tavern. He would call them on their mobiles and, surely to goodness, Lily would have her staff by the end of the day. Their names were Daisy Hardcastle, Bridget O'Malley, Marie Smith and Trudy Valentine. That young man was extremely nice and courteous to me, I must say, thought Lily as she replaced the receiver. He couldn't have been more enthusiastic.
Within sixty minutes, there were four hopeful applicants standing on the doorstep. Daisy was over six feet tall with back-combed red hair. Bridget was tiny with platinum-blonde ringlets. Trudy was kind of Spanish-looking although very heavily made-up. And Marie, the last one to arrive, had a lovely smile and a head of tumbling brown curls. Lily thought they looked very suitable and nicely turned-out, apart from Daisy's punk hairstyle. But that could be toned down easily enough. Lily thanked her lucky stars they were all extremely attractive. She would hire them certainly but she knew she still had to go through with the formalities. She informed the girls she would interview them, one at a time, in the end booth beside the grandfather clock. She would fetch them all a cup of tea first, she told them, and begin interviewing right away. They nodded nervously and sat down on some stools at the bar to wait. If Jack was surprised that Lily had begun recruiting so soon, he didn't show it. He just went on polishing the bar counter and slicing some lemons with a sharp knife.
The black-haired girl with the big brown eyes turned away from him when the tangy smell of the bright yellow lemons drifted across the serving space towards her. Jack thought she'd said her name was Trudy Valentine but he couldn't remember. The girl's eyebrows had been removed somehow and she had drawn on two high curves in their place. She looked permanently surprised, he decided. Trudy was also wearing very heavy make-up and her hair was an elaborate confection of clips, combs and coloured extensions. She looked like a pop star not a waitress, he thought. Jack sighed softly to himself. He didn't really want to have to work with other people behind the bar. He was feeling under pressure already and it wasn't even lunchtime yet.
Meanwhile, Lily had served the tea and was doing her best to conduct her first-ever interview.
‘My name is Daisy Hardcastle,’ said the six-feet-tall girl with the fire-engine-red hair and the witch's-stripe tights. ‘But I always tell boys I'm called Daisy Chain. You'd be amazed how many of them call me that for months before they cotton on!’
‘I can well believe it,’ said Lily, noting how Daisy's long legs seemed to go on for ever. ‘You're very, um, striking-looking, Daisy.’
‘Thanks a lot. I use other names too, sometimes. Rose Garden, Gaye Couple, Honey Comb and Penny Farthing to name but a few. I like to wind the lads up a little bit, but don't worry, they enjoy it.’ They both laughed. Lily thought that Daisy was very amusing but she was anxious to get on with her plans.
‘That's all very interesting, Daisy, but have you worked in a bar before?’ asked Lily. ‘It's not as easy as you might think. Some customers can be difficult to handle when they're tanked up.’
‘Well, I'm only nineteen, you see, so I don't have a lot of work experience. I'm a full-time art student at the moment. Did I mention that? But I have worked in a bar. In Donegal last summer, it was. So I know my way round the optics and pumps. I'm not terrific with cocktails, mind you.’
‘We don't serve many of those, as it happens. But that's all about to change. You seem competent enough to me. There's just one thing, Daisy. Does your nose ring come out?’
‘Oh, please, Mrs B! That's one of my best features. Boys love it.’
‘Do they really?’ asked Lily, wondering how she could ask Daisy not to call her Mrs B in public.
‘Yeah. It's a great conversation piece. They pretend they think it's outrageous, but really, they wish they had the courage to get one too. I practically have my own fan club in the Art College. They call me Crazy Daisy there.’
‘In that case, you have the job.’ Lily smiled at her new member of staff.
‘Wow.’ Daisy was amazed. ‘Thanks.’
‘I like your positive attitude. We're trying to cheer the whole place up for Christmas and we need some staff with a sense of humour. Just jot down your details, Daisy, and the hours you'll be available to work. And I'll be in touch.’ Lily smiled. ‘Send in the next girl on your way out, would you?’
‘Sure thing, Mrs B.’
Daisy skipped out into the weak November sunshine, absolutely delighted with herself. She hurried down Royal Avenue towards the college, barely pausing to peer into the shop windows and only stopping once to buy some sherbet wands at the newsagent's on York Street. She'd enjoy telling her friends in the college that she had just managed to nab herself a flexible-hours job in a cosy little pub on Maple Street. She wasn't intending to work up much of a sweat in Beaumont's Tavern, however. The place is on its knees, by the looks of it, she thought happily. They had hardly any customers. It'll be a total breeze! Money for nothing, and no mistake!
The pub was full of antique stone jars and pretty glass bottles too. And there were three tweedy old pensioners slouched in the corner. She'd get some terrific sketches in her notebook while she was sitting behind the bar. Not a bad achievement for the girl they all called Crazy Daisy.
Back at the tavern, the second interviewee, Bridget O'Malley, aged twenty-five, was busy telling Lily that she was a very experienced barmaid and that she had won several prizes in the hotel business in America for her Irish coffees. She'd spent a couple of years serving drinks in an Irish bar in Atlantic City and she'd learned a lot of very useful things during her time there. She could prepare any cocktail under the sun in record time and she could also pull the perfect pint. Lily was delighted to hear that. She was also delighted that Bridget's hair was an angelic halo of natural white-blonde ringlets and that her waist was barely eighteen inches in circumference. Bridget's feet were the smallest Lily had ever seen. She guessed they must be about a si
ze two. Which wasn't surprising, really, because Bridget was barely five feet two inches tall herself. She was wearing dainty silver high-heel shoes and a neat white lacy dress and jacket. She looked like a Christmas angel who had lost her wings. Lily always did have a soft spot for images of angels and all things heavenly, and she was convinced that Bridget had been sent to her by a higher power. Lily wasn't proud of her observations. It felt a trifle lecherous to be sizing up the candidates in this way but times were truly desperate. The tavern was like a little honeypot in the centre of the city and worker bees were needed to make the honey. Attractive barmaids would bring in the customers. That's what Harry Frew always maintained. But Lily planned to send all the barmaids safely home at night in a taxi so she wouldn't be worrying about them being pounced on by lovelorn customers.
Bridget told Lily that she had just left her current job in a posh hotel after a silly falling-out with her supervisor. At this point, Bridget bit her lip and looked as if she was fighting back tears.
‘It's okay,’ said Lily. ‘Just tell me the basics of what happened.’
‘It was over the smallest little thing, Mrs Beaumont. A mere misunderstanding, you know. This poor woman, my supervisor, she was a bit paranoid. I suppose it was the medication she was on for depression, or maybe she was starting to go soft in the head. But anyway, she accused me of making personal telephone calls from the office. The bill was sky-high but it wasn't my fault. I told her it was a ridiculous accusation and totally baseless. There was barely time to draw breath in that hotel, never mind conduct a personal life.’
‘So, who made the calls? Did you ever find out?’
‘Now, I don't like to tell tales but it was the owners' teenage daughter. Tara was her name.’
‘But surely, the bill was itemized?’
‘Yes, it was. Mostly to psychic chatlines, though. I couldn't prove it wasn't me and I didn't like to say anything about Tara. She's a lovely girl, is Tara. An only child, you see. I felt sorry for her. She was like a little sister to me. I couldn't get her in trouble with her parents. They were a right pair of bullies.’ Bridget looked devastated and Lily duly clucked her sympathy.