‘Thank you, I’d love to, but Kell and I have to go cake tasting after work tonight and you know I’ve got no self-control. I’ll be too full for tea and probably a little bit sick.’
‘Cake tasting sounds like such hard work,’ she says, her face creasing into a smile at her own joke. ‘Next time, then. You know where I am living.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Ishtiaque. I’ve got to hurry or I’ll be late meeting the lady who’s training us to make sandwiches.’
‘Training to make what?’
‘… Sandwiches.’
She purses her lips but doesn’t answer.
I’m probably going overboard getting sandwich training. It’s just a bit of bread and some filling. I’d have happily slapped together a few tuna mayo sarnies if it hadn’t been for Lou scaring me. She might have been taking the piss when she had Joseph make her complicated coffee order, but who knows what customers might actually want? Their sandwich expectations could be as intricate as their drink orders.
The woman is waiting in front of the café. She’s about forty, I’d say. She’s swathed in some kind of complicated series of jewel-toned capes, wraps and ponchos, and she’s wearing a garland of daisies on her head like kids do when they’re off their heads at festivals.
Lou and Joseph are standing across the road leaning against the wrought-iron railings that ring the grassy square, pretending they don’t know she’s there. As teenagers, they are experts in the fine art of utterly blanking a person.
‘Are you Magenta?’ I call to the woman as we approach.
‘Your aura is glowing!’ she calls back in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard from a woman. ‘I could see it from up the road.’
‘Thanks, I washed it this morning. New shampoo. Come inside and I’ll make introductions.’
‘Oh, no introductions necessary,’ she says. Inside the café, she squats in front of the pushchair where the twins can get a good look at her. ‘I’m very perceptive. These are… your children!’
It’s not exactly a wild assumption. Does she fancy herself as some kind of psychic too? ‘Oscar and Grace, yes. And these are my colleagues–’
‘Don’t tell me!’ She holds her bejewelled hand to her forehead. ‘You’re Lou and you must be Joseph.’
I’d be impressed if I hadn’t mentioned their names in my email. Still, she figured out which was which, so bravo.
I sneak a glance at Lou as she regards the twins. She’s hiding her mummy pangs better than I could. I’d probably be sniffing their heads if I were her. As it is, I’ve been going back to Mum and Dad’s every lunchtime just to satisfy my craving. I’m okay first thing in the morning after dropping them off, but then the feelings build until I can’t think about anything else. Are they all right? Do they need anything? Are they happy? Of course they’re happy. They’re with my parents, who happened to do a fine job raising me. So are they as happy with them as they are with me? Happier? What if they prefer them to me? I’ve got to go check.
Now I’ve got them to myself all day and they’re crowing to be set free. ‘If it’s okay,’ I tell Magenta, ‘we’ll stay out here so I can keep an eye on the children.’
She spins around twice, sending her layers fanning out around her. ‘The vibe is authentic here.’ She starts rearranging the tables and chairs. ‘You just need better flow.’
‘For foot traffic?’
‘For positive energy. And I’ll need to check wherever you’ll usually make the food. You might require a few adjustments. Back there behind the bar?’ She goes to explore without waiting for my answer.
‘She’s checking the kitchen for energy?’ says Joseph. He hasn’t relaxed his dress code. If anything, his tie is even tighter. ‘Maybe she can check your electrics while she’s there. You get me? Check the electrics?!’
‘She’s bare mental,’ Lou whispers. Her eyes are wide with alarm. ‘Seriously. I’ve got an auntie who went insane. She used to freeze her lightbulbs so they couldn’t spy on her. She still thinks her toaster gives her the Lotto numbers.’
‘Your auntie’s won the Lotto?’ I don’t know why this is the question I’m asking about someone who talks to her appliances.
‘Nah. It always gives her the wrong numbers. Burns her toast too. She hates that toaster but she won’t get rid of it.’
This is the first time that Lou has talked about any family. When I asked her in the interview, all she would say is that she lives in a foster home. The social worker did tell me that she ended up there after her mum died three years ago. I don’t know what happened. Maybe it had something to do with the insane auntie. ‘Did she…? Is she okay, your auntie?’
Lou shrugs. ‘Depends on your crazy scale.’ She glances into the kitchen. ‘She’s probably better than that one, though.’
‘I know, but we need Magenta to show us how to make the kind of sandwiches our customers will want.’ Now I’m whispering. ‘She’ll give us all the recipes and comes highly recommended.’ There were all kinds of testimonials on her website about the deliciousness of her sandwiches. ‘Plus, she’ll do the hygiene certification course we need as part of her fee, and I’ve got loads of sandwich meat that’ll be wasted if we don’t practise with it.’
Magenta is back with us a few minutes later. There’s a blissful look on her broad ruddy face. ‘Your kitchen will be a comfortable space for the sandwiches to thrive.’
‘As opposed to the bog, I suppose,’ Lou mutters to me.
I have to stifle a snort. ‘Thanks for checking, Magenta. That’s good to know. Maybe we should get started while the children are occupied?’ They’re sitting on the play mat on the floor surrounded by every toy I could think to haul here with us.
Magenta clasps her hands together, not exactly in prayer mode like Pablo did, but close enough. What is it with café people? ‘I knew I had a gift at an early age,’ she begins. ‘I’ve always been able to see food in a special way. I feel at one with food, and it feels at one with me.’ She stops to make uncomfortably long eye contact with each of us. ‘Today I will share some of its secrets with you. These are the ingredients?’ Carefully she picks through the bags, examining each package of cheese, putting each jar and pot to her ear.
She’s an absolute loon.
‘Is none of this is organic?’ She points an accusatory carrot at me. ‘Don’t you love our planet? Why wouldn’t you at least get free-range?’
‘You didn’t tell me to get organic or free-range,’ I say. What’s a free-range carrot, anyway?
‘So much work we have to do,’ she says, like a ham-and-cheese Yoda. So savoury, this sandwich is, hmm.
A squawk from the play mat stops our progress towards vegetable enlightenment. ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry.’ Grace has piled all the toys on to Oscar’s lap and he’s tired of the game. ‘Maybe play with the truck instead,’ I tell Grace, wheeling the plastic fire truck along to demonstrate.
But my daughter isn’t interested in the truck. She hauls herself to her feet. ‘Grace, why don’t you stay here?’ I call after her waddling backside. As if she’ll listen to me.
Oscar isn’t about to let her have all the fun. He’s off too.
Lou deftly kneels down and scoops Grace up. Like she’s done it before. ‘Come here, little one.’
‘Fast reflexes,’ I say, grabbing Oscar.
But she’s not admitting anything. When Grace starts to squirm in Lou’s arms, Lou bounces her on one hip and babbles in a singsong voice that my daughter finds fascinating. ‘Where do you want her?’
I know better than to try to strap them into their pushchair. They can shatter glass with their screams when they want out of that thing.
Lou considers one of the café chairs. ‘Pen them in,’ she says, flipping it on its side with her free hand, and then another beside it so that the backs make a sort of fence.
‘Genius idea,’ I say, ‘just don’t tell Social Services.’
Too late I realise the joke is probably in bad taste, considering the company.
By
the end of our training, I still don’t believe that Magenta can taste the difference between happy lettuce and sad lettuce, but she’s got great recipes for sandwiches that we’ll actually be able to make. She’ll probably be too busy dancing round maypoles or harvesting her parsley by moonlight to ever come into the café once it’s open, so she’ll never know if our carrots aren’t free-range.
‘Have you got any questions?’ she asks.
Joseph raises his hand. ‘Is your name really Magenta? I mean your given name? What?’ he says, catching Lou’s expression. ‘She asked for questions.’
‘My parents named me Julia, but it doesn’t suit my aura. Which is magenta, as it happens.’ She brushes back her wiry brown hair, causing the daisy crown to slip a bit. ‘Magentas are a combination of red, blue and violet. That makes us grounded as well as spiritual and emotional, and we seek joy by focusing our positive energy on worthy causes. Like your café. Does that answer your question?’
‘You call yourself a colour on purpose,’ he asks, nodding. ‘That’s aiight. Magenta the Sandwich Whisperer. They call me the Professor.’
Lou rolls her eyes. ‘Pssh. Only you call yourself that. I told you. Everyone else calls you a–’
‘Okay,’ I say over Lou. ‘Thank you, Magenta.’
Lou pulls on her hoodie to go as soon as our trainer leaves. But now I know why, so I can’t really object. It’s obvious that she’s not going to admit to the baby when she’s pretending we never saw each other the other day. And I’m sure there’s some kind of employment law against me asking.
‘Lou, be sure to take any sandwiches you’d like, okay? I don’t want them to go to waste. Really, take all you like.’ I hand her one of the empty carrier bags that the ingredients came in.
She picks out a cheddar and chutney on a seeded bloomer, peering at me with raised eyebrows from beneath her blue fringe.
‘Please take more than one. Look at how many there are!’
‘If they’re going spare.’ She snatches another five sandwiches and carefully stacks them in the bag. ‘Thanks.’
That girl must really love sandwiches.
Joseph helps me carry everything back to the kitchen from where we were working at the bar. ‘You get on okay with Lou, right?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah, she’s aiight,’ he says. With a piece of kitchen towel he wipes the egg mayo off a knife before putting it in the drawer.
‘You have to wash that, Joseph.’
‘But it’s clean. You just saw me wipe it. And look.’ He holds the blade up to the light. ‘Spotless, see? There’s nothing on it.’
‘It doesn’t matter if you can’t see it, Joseph. Everything needs to be washed with soap and water. Hot water.’
He holds up his hands. ‘Don’t be vexed, I got no beef.’ Then he straightens his tie. ‘I’m not being funny, but it’s the end result that matters, boss, not the details.’
‘Well, you’re not being funny, and the end result could be norovirus if you don’t wash things properly.’
He empties about half a bottle of washing-up liquid into the sink, but I don’t care. It’s cheaper than Food Standards Agency fines.
While Joseph is elbow-deep in Fairy Liquid, I try to find out more about Lou. She’s not like any other kid I’ve met. She’s definitely not like I was at seventeen.
Joseph gives me a clue when he says one of her foster brothers was also in their year.
‘One of them? How many does she have?’
He shrugs. ‘There’s a bag of youngs, but not always the same ones. Sometimes they go back to their fam or get adopted or something. It’s not my job to keep track.’
‘Are they good kids?’ I ask, and immediately regret my choice of words. I know better than that. ‘I mean, have they had any trouble?’
His eyes flick away. Just because he doesn’t know Lou doesn’t mean he won’t protect her.
‘I know about… the problem Lou’s been having,’ I say.
‘Yeah, I heard something.’
‘Do you know what it’s about? Do you know what she stole?’
I believe him when he shakes his head. ‘A lot of people nick stuff, boss.’
Maybe so, but knowing that everyone does it isn’t helping me to trust Lou.
My mobile rings just as I get to Kelly’s fish van to pick her up for our cake tasting. ‘How was your training?’ Mum wants to know when I answer the call.
‘Like you suspected, the consultant was flakier than a croissant, but we got what we need.’
‘I saw Mrs Ishtiaque just now. She says she invited you for curry. Why aren’t you going? You always love her curry. What’s wrong? Is it Daniel?’
‘Nothing’s wrong, Mum! I’ve got to go try cakes tonight, that’s all. I’m with Kell now, actually, so I can’t really… What did you tell Mrs Ishtiaque about me?’
‘Hmm? Sorry, you cut out there for a sec.’
‘Mum, did you tell Mrs Ishtique that something’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Mmm hmm, I’ve got to go, Mum. Kelly’s waiting. Stop talking to people about my personal life, okay?’
Chapter 8
The doorbell goes off the next afternoon just as I’m backing out of the twins’ room. I freeze, as if my still figure can absorb the sound ricocheting around the house. It’s the first time in weeks that they’ve gone to sleep at the same time – day or night – and the Jehovah’s Witnesses pick now to try to convince me I should be paying closer attention to God’s good works?
Tiptoe-running down the stairs before the bell sounds again, I’ve got to weave through the assault course of clothes baskets and toys to get to the front door. I know there’ll be a smiley middle-aged man and woman on the step. He’ll be neatly dressed in his white shirt, red bow tie and dark suit, clutching a stack of Watchtower magazines, and she’ll have a blue and green tartan raincoat belted tightly over her round middle. The same two try their luck on the square every few months. They’re ever-so friendly and undeterred by my rejection, and I do feel for them. It must be hard dealing with heathens all the time.
But it’s not the god-knockers. The bright pink smudge showing through the frosted glass in the door tells me it’s Mrs Ishtiaque. ‘This is a surprise!’ I say, kissing her smooth cheek.
Though it isn’t, really. I knew Mum said something yesterday. I know she thinks she’s helping, but, really, it’s bad enough dealing with everything at the moment without having my problems broadcast to the neighbours. Even neighbours that I love.
‘There is curry left over that I am bringing you,’ Mrs Ishtiaque says, clutching a large pot. ‘The girls did not want leftovers.’
I know Mrs Ishtiaque’s three grown daughters love her curry as much as I do. Which means they’ve willingly given up leftovers for me. This is a pity delivery. ‘That’s kind, thank you! Can you come in? The twins have gone down for their nap. We might even get a cup of tea before they wake.’
Handing me the pot, she crosses both sets of fingers near her ears. It’s a gesture we’ve shared since my school days when I had to sit exams. I hope it works as well for sleeping children.
She follows me through to the dining room, kicking off her sandals in the hallway and adjusting the shawl of her saree. No matter the weather, Mrs Ishtiaque wears sandals.
I glance around the house. I really did mean to clear up after breakfast. The clothes draped over the radiators have gone crispy over the last week. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ I murmur. ‘I just never seem to have time to tidy up.’
‘You are only one person doing many person’s jobs.’ She sits in the dining chair that I clear of bibs and bills for her. It probably says a lot about the state of our family that there’s only one usable dining chair at the table. Daniel sits there for breakfast. When we do have tea together, it’s off trays balanced on our laps on the sofa.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I tell her a few minutes later, setting two steaming tea mugs and a pack of digestives in front of us.
‘I’m still stuffed from trying all the cakes last night, but please have a biscuit.’
Cleo’s cakes were beyond delicious. She’s the baker who owns the Mad Batter, which sounds like the name of a cricketer who does the samba around the stumps before insanely swinging at balls.
She does have some mad cakes, combinations like avocado and chocolate, pistachio and cardamom, and courgette and roses. Kell was sceptical about the parsnip cake, but even that was out of this world, and gorgeous too. In case our customers’ tastes are more plain vanilla, though, Cleo says we can just come and pick up a few options of whatever she’s baked that morning and see how we go. Over time I’ll probably get to know the regulars’ favourites.
‘We’ll have the curry for tea,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Isthiaque nods. ‘Every meal that you do not have to cook is a good meal. I know how hard it is for you. I was not working when I married Mr Ishtiaque. One or the other. Not both.’
‘But everyone does both these days, Mrs Ishtiaque. At least everyone we know. It’s different today.’
I make it sound like Mrs Ishtiaque is ancient when she’s only in her fifties. It’s her sarees and the way she keeps her black hair swept back into a bun that makes her look so traditional, like she’s from the olden days.
‘I’m not sure that I’d want to stay home full-time even if we could afford it,’ I tell her. ‘I like having something else to do, even if it’s stressful. How did you do it, Mrs Ishtiaque, with three children?’
She laughs, a sound that matches the silver bangle bracelets that tinkle every time she takes a sip of her tea. ‘I was young like you, but I wasn’t knowing the ways of the world. I only knew what my mother was telling me, the same thing her mother was telling her. They chose Mr Ishtiaque because he was a good worker, from a good family. He was providing for us and I did everything else.’
‘That doesn’t sound like such a good deal, Mrs Ishtiaque.’
Her deep brown eyes are direct and searching. ‘What is a good deal, Emma? A life where you do some things and your husband does some things? Or a life where you are doing it all? We women are strong, but sometimes I am thinking we are trying to be too strong.’
The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square Page 8