The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  Her words pierce the fragile membrane holding me together. I don’t want to be the happy homemaker while Daniel brings home the pay cheque and puts his feet up at the end of the day. But that’s what’s happening and I feel like I am doing it all.

  She’s watching me closely. ‘Tell me, Emma. What is wrong? Why are you not happy?’

  ‘I’m not unhappy.’ But the tears that spring to my eyes tell the truth. ‘Is it supposed to be this hard, Mrs Ishtiaque?’

  She nods. ‘Sometimes it feels impossible, yes? I know. First there’s a little bit, and we can do it. Then a little more and a little more. We are strong. Maybe that is why we are being given so much responsibility.’

  ‘Do you mean by God?’ We’ve never talked about religion before. I don’t want to be tested by a higher being. I’ve got enough on my plate with my little beings.

  She laughs. ‘Goodness, no! I mean by our families. And they are no gods, are they?’

  ‘It’s like nothing has changed for Daniel, but my whole world is different now. It’s not fair.’

  ‘It is not fair,’ Mrs Ishtiaque agrees.

  Once I start talking, I can’t stop. It all tumbles out – the resentment that keeps bubbling up around Daniel and this feeling that too much is on my shoulders. She listens to me rant and snivel, rage and finally despair.

  What is wrong with me? Why can’t I be happy with two beautiful children and a husband who loves me and my dream business about to open? Women do this every day, and in harder situations than mine. I’m not exactly living on beans and hauling water from a well every morning. So what’s wrong with me?

  She grasps my hands in her dainty ones. ‘Emma, no matter what you think, you are doing a very good job. You must be knowing that. We are all most critical of ourselves.’

  But she’s being too kind, because I’m not being critical of myself, am I? I’m being critical of Daniel. I’ll just add that to my list of reasons to feel guilty.

  There’s a commotion upstairs. ‘They’re up,’ I say. ‘Let me just go get them. They love visitors.’

  ‘No, I must go home. I will see you again soon, yes? Remember what I said.’

  Little do I know that curries will turn up on my doorstep nearly every week after that. Each one will be a little pot of love, telling me everything is going to be fine. Maybe if I eat enough jalfrezi, I’ll believe it.

  I’ve just folded the crispy clothes and got Oscar and Grace to play quietly on the floor when Philippa rings. ‘Yah, darling, hellair! Go look at the café.’

  ‘I can’t really right now,’ I say. ‘I’ve got the children. Why, what have you done?’

  ‘It’s a surprise, but you can see it any time, rahly. Right, let’s talk later. Bye, darling!’ She hangs up.

  Of course, now I’ve got to see what she’s talking about. Shrugging a coat over my stretched-out T-shirt with the bleach stain on it, I wrestle the children into the pushchair. ‘Let’s go have a look at what Granny Billings has done.’

  Because it could be anything. This is the woman who wanted to build the hanging gardens of Babylon for our wedding reception and – with a straight face – suggested a synchronised butterfly release.

  As I round the corner and the café comes into view, my hoot of laughter startles the twins. ‘It’s okay, Mummy’s just surprised. Your granny is incredible!’

  The whole building has been flower-bombed. A riotous display of blossoms and greenery cascades from boxes on every window ledge on both floors. A man and a woman wearing matching blue jumpsuits emblazoned on the back with Billings Garden Consultancy are hanging the last of half a dozen enormous baskets from supports that they’ve drilled into the façade.

  ‘Philippa sent you?’ I ask the woman, who wipes her soil-smeared hand on herself before extending it. I wonder how soon Mum will get that Sheila Larkin over here for a look. It’ll make our neighbour green with envy.

  ‘That’s right,’ says the woman. ‘We’ll replant every season, but Philippa said you can change the flowers if you don’t like these colours.’

  The top of the building is covered in vibrant pinks and reds that transition into deep purple in the middle and finally to pale blues and whites on the ground floor. ‘I’ve never seen anything so pretty!’ I say. That sends them beaming into their pots.

  But what’s all this going to cost us? Philippa knows how much she and Hugh loaned me. I figured we’d get a few bunches of flowers from the market every week to stick into jam jars. I didn’t budget for the Garden of Eden on the front of the building.

  Philippa answers on the first ring. ‘Philippa, the café looks incredible!’

  ‘Oh, I am glad, darling. And I assume they’ve left room for your sign like I told them to? Right, if there’s anything you want to change, just say the word. It’s your café, after all. But you do like it?’ The insecure wobble in her voice is very unusual. ‘It’s our gift to you.’

  ‘What do you mean, it’s your gift to me?’ There must be hundreds of plants. They’ve even put boxes all along the top of the roof. I’ll need a drone to water them. ‘Philippa, you can’t pay for all this!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. It’s my garden consultancy, remember? Flowers cost virtually nothing for us. Now, don’t be silly. The team will come weekly to maintain it, watering and so forth, so you won’t have to do anything but enjoy them. I know how important this café is to you and I want it to be the most brilliant success too. Right, darling, you will say if you need anything else, won’t you? Hugh and I are always here to help.’

  I’m feeling pretty weepy as I hang up. Everyone has so much faith in me.

  But really, the only potential customers who’ve shown any interest at all are Carl and Elsie. And they only come in to be nosy. There hasn’t been so much as a twitch of a curtain on the square. What if we open and nobody comes? Then this will all be nothing but a big, flower-covered failure.

  Chapter 9

  Of course the Jehovah’s Witnesses would choose today to visit the neighbourhood, just when we’re planning to do some door-knocking ourselves. No one will answer their door now. It doesn’t matter that we’re offering tea and cake instead of everlasting hell for non-believers. A stranger is a stranger when they’re standing on your doorstep.

  But we’ve got to do it, even if it means trailing along behind the holy converters. The café opens in three days and so far, our only paying customers will probably be Carl and Elsie, though even they’re iffy on a fixed income.

  ‘How’s that tea coming along?’ I call into the kitchen as I cut little slices of vanilla and chocolate cake into squares and wrap them in blue gingham wax paper.

  Joseph pops his head out of the doorway. ‘The teabags won’t come out of the flask. Do I have to take them out?’

  Why would the teabags be in the flask? ‘Let’s see,’ I say, looking over his shoulder. He’s trying to use the bread knife to fish out the teabags. There’s tea splashed all over the worktop.

  ‘I think I got it. Shit.’ The burst bag comes out on the end of the serrated knife. ‘Just don’t drink the last cup. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Why aren’t you brewing the tea in pots like normal and then pouring the tea in?’

  ‘Because then you’ll make me wash the pots,’ he says. ‘This saves a step. It’s all about efficiency.’

  ‘Except that you’ve got to get the teabags out in one piece. Come on, Joseph, do it right. We’ll go as soon as you’re ready. Make one flask white and we’ll leave the other black. I’ve got extra milk in the basket in case we need it.’ We’ve each got one of those old-fashioned wicker baskets like Dorothy had for her little dog in The Wizard of Oz. I just hope we don’t meet too many wicked witches.

  A few minutes later he strolls out with a large flask cradled in each arm. ‘Let’s roll, boss.’

  ‘Did you taste it?’

  He tries to suck his teeth but it comes out as a sort of squeak. ‘They should be grateful. It’s free.’

  ‘It’s o
ur calling card, Joseph. If it’s shite tea, then who’ll want to come to the café?’ I pour some of the steaming liquid into two of the builders’ mugs we’ve been using every day. Pablo insists that the crockery is on its way. I just hope it’s not on Italian time.

  ‘It’s the best cuppa I’ve ever had,’ Joseph says, smacking his lips after a sip.

  ‘Yeah, I admit it’s pretty good. Well done.’

  ‘Does that make me the Tea Barista?’

  ‘Uh, sure. Congratulations on your new title.’ I check my phone. ‘If Lou’s not here in a few minutes, then we’ll leave a note. She can catch us up.’

  His face goes funny. ‘She might not be coming,’ he says. ‘She got nicked.’

  ‘For what?!’

  ‘For teefin’ somfink.’

  I hate it when he tries to be street. ‘What did she teef? Thieve? Steal, what did she steal?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Is that a dunno that means you do know?’

  ‘No, honestly, boss, I just heard the po-po went to her house last night and nicked her.’

  ‘Poor Lou. Excuse me a minute, okay?’ I go into the kitchen to call the social worker.

  She’s as tight-lipped as usual, but she does admit that Lou was arrested for theft last night. So that’s twice, at least, and I still don’t know if she’s stealing Smarties from the corner shop or smartphones from tourists.

  ‘You won’t want to cancel her training contract, will you?’ the woman asks. It’s more an accusation than a question.

  ‘That’s not why I called,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to make sure she’s all right. Could you tell me what happens next? I guess she’ll need to go to court at some point.’ And maybe prison, if things don’t turn out well. Can a seventeen-year-old go to prison?

  ‘Then you’ll keep her on?’ The relief in the social worker’s voice is obvious. ‘I can tell you that charges are being pressed, so she will probably need time off for court. My advice is to try to keep things as normal as possible. It’s more important than ever for Lou to have continuity now.’

  She’s not the only one. Even if I did want to get rid of Lou, how would I find a replacement waitress in three days? I need her as much as she needs me.

  She’s with Joseph when I come out of the kitchen and he’s obviously told her that I know. ‘Please don’t lecture me,’ she says when she sees me. ‘I’ve had enough of that already.’

  ‘I’m not going to lecture you. You’re almost an adult and can make your own decisions. Besides, I don’t know what else is happening in your life.’ I shrug. ‘You have to take the consequences, that’s all.’

  ‘I know,’ she says as a strand of blue hair finds its way into her mouth. ‘Do you need help with the cakes?’

  So she’s still not going to tell me anything. I wish I had that much cheek when I was seventeen. If an adult asked me a question or wanted an explanation, I’d have grumbled a bit at first, and definitely stomped around saying it was unfair, but I’d have given it to them. All Mum or Dad had to do was wait, wafting their disappointment at me, and I’d cave.

  ‘Just… let me know if you need anything, okay?’

  ‘I don’t need anything,’ she says.

  Which is fine, though it’d be useful to know if I’ll need to find someone to fill in while Lou does time.

  ‘Did you see the door-knockers when you came in?’ I ask her. ‘The Jehovah’s Witnesses are making their rounds. They went into the house on the corner, the one with all the gnomes out front.’

  ‘Someone actually let them in?’ Joseph asks. ‘Brave.’

  Lonely, I think. It’s a man who lives on his own in that corner house. I have tried a friendly wave when I’ve passed but he blanks me every time. Maybe free tea and cake will warm him up.

  The Jehovah’s Witnesses have finished with the gnome house and are making their way up one side of the square when we catch up with them.

  ‘Hi, hello!’ I call.

  The man straightens his tie. It’s probably the first time someone has ever tried to talk to him instead of the other way around.

  ‘We’re opening the café just there and we’re introducing ourselves to all our neighbours today.’

  ‘I’m Jonah and this is my sister, Martha.’

  ‘Oh, hi, I’m Emma, and this is Lou and Joseph. No, I mean we’re introducing ourselves to the people who live in the houses.’

  ‘You’re welcome to join us on our rounds, Emma,’ says Jonah. ‘The more the merrier.’

  Now I feel bad about trying to bully him off his turf. ‘That’s very kind but the thing is, they may not want to come to the door if they think… well, if they think we’re with you. No offence, but do you see what I mean? Maybe you could do your rounds in another neighbourhood today?’

  ‘We’re doing God’s work,’ Martha says.

  ‘Well, we’re doing PG Tips’ work,’ says Lou, holding up her basket. ‘Come on, can’t you give us a break? Love thy neighbour and all that?’

  ‘You could come back tomorrow and ask everyone how they liked the cakes,’ I suggest. ‘That’d give you something to talk about.’

  ‘The Lord our Saviour gives us enough to talk about,’ says Martha, tightening her raincoat belt.

  But Jonah puts his hand on his sister’s arm. ‘We can come back tomorrow, Emma. We hope your café will be a success. Maybe we’ll come by to visit one day.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome!’ I say. ‘And thank you.’

  As they walk away, Lou mutters, ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’ve invited them in. Like vampires. You’ll wish you hadn’t.’

  A few god-botherers are the least of my worries. Even though I know these are my neighbours, my tummy is doing flips as we make our way to the corner house. ‘You’re going to talk, yeah?’ Lou asks me as Joseph rings the bell.

  But the man doesn’t answer. He must have used up all his hospitality on Jonah and Martha. Nobody answers at the next door or the next one either. That’s when I remember about the squeaky gates. It drove me mad when we first moved in, but actually it’s quite useful. If I hear the gates squeaking one after the other, it means there’s a charity mugger or a Jehovah’s Witness on the loose. No wonder nobody is answering. ‘Come on,’ I say, leading Joseph and Lou to the adjacent road. ‘This’ll take a bit longer, but I’ve got an idea.’

  We choose a house at random and ring the bell.

  A woman of about forty answers, but her look is suspicious.

  Seeing us standing there with our wicker baskets probably doesn’t help. ‘Hi, we wanted to introduce ourselves…’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t want any,’ she says, going to close the door.

  ‘Oh, no, I see. We’re not selling anything. We’re from the–’

  ‘Not interested,’ she says as the door clicks shut.

  ‘That went well,’ says Lou.

  ‘She didn’t even give us a chance,’ I say. My face is flaming. ‘That’s not fair!’ In a parallel universe, my seventeen-year-old self is stomping up and down.

  ‘You’ve gotta hone your story, boss. That was waaaayyy too much waffle.’

  ‘I only said about two words!’

  ‘Maybe they were the wrong two words,’ Lou says. ‘He’s right, we’ve only got a second to get the point across, and they don’t really care who we are. They might care once they know we have free cake. I’d start with that if I were you.’

  ‘All right then,’ I say. ‘Let’s try it. Pick a house away from this one and you can do the talking this time. We’ll be right behind you.’

  She shrugs like it’s no big deal but she pops her hair into her mouth and paces back and forth a few times, murmuring to herself, before picking a house around the corner. This time an older man answers – older than Dad but younger than my grandpa who smells like Pot Noodles. ‘Free cake? We’re giving delicious free cake and tea to all our neighbours,’ Lou tells him. ‘Would you like some?’

  He frowns. ‘Who are you?’

  �
�We’ve got the new café over on Carlton Square. The cakes are from there. Vanilla cake or chocolate? We’ve got both.’ She holds out one of each.

  His expression relaxes. ‘I was just about to have a cup of tea.’

  ‘No need to make it yourself, sir,’ Joseph says. ‘We’ve got hot tea right here. Would you like it white or black? Sugar?’

  I couldn’t be prouder of my trainees. Ha, my trainees! They’re training me.

  We leave the man happy with his tea and cake, and the flyer that Lou remembers to press into his hand at the last minute. Buoyed by the success, Joseph wants to take the next house. ‘Back in the square,’ I say, leading the charge.

  A few doors do slam in our faces, but Lou’s and Joseph’s approach definitely works better than mine.

  Until we meet a woman who wants a fight, that is. She looks like she’s been fighting all her life.

  ‘Why would I take fackin’ cake from yous?’ she demands with her arms crossed and her scowl set deeply into her lined face. ‘How do I know it ain’t poison?’ She’s clearly got up on the wrong side of the bed, even though it’s three-thirty in the afternoon. An inch of dark roots shows through her bleach-blonde hair, which is standing up on one side and mashed from the pillow on the other.

  ‘But we’re opening the café just over there,’ Joseph says. ‘Why would we poison you?’

  ‘You fackin’ lot.’

  Lou squares up to the woman. ‘Who’re you talking about?’

  ‘Lou,’ I warn her. We all know who she’s talking about. Kids, black kids, blue-haired hoodies, take your pick. Lou and Joseph have probably heard it their whole lives, but it’ll take more than arguing to change a bigot’s mind. ‘The cake’s from the Mad Batter,’ I say. ‘You know, the bakery? They really are yummy if you want a slice. We have tea too.’ I wish I hadn’t said yummy.

  ‘Gimme, let’s see. I can smell poison, you know. I’ll ’ave your café if you’re fackin’ ’avin’ me on.’