The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘Yes, dear. They say I’ve got plenty of time left, though, so mustn’t fret!’

  She’s acting like Tesco’s have run out of her favourite biscuits, like it’s a bit of a bother, but she’ll live. Except she won’t.

  ‘But aren’t you getting treatment?’ If I found out something like that, I’d be trying everything I could to beat it. Just hearing about Auntie Rose’s strokes was enough to send me straight to our GP, Helen, to find out what could be done to help her. The answer wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but at least I’d tried.

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not interested in all that,’ Elsie says. ‘Hettie could have had years more if it wasn’t for the treatment. For all I know, I’d drop dead in the middle of it like she did. And who wants to be so ill when the end is the same anyway? No, I’ll take what God gives me and count myself lucky to have whatever time I get.’

  Auntie Rose isn’t too fussed about her strokes either, and she’s definitely not interested in any poking and prodding, as she calls it. Maybe what I think of as resignation is really just the practicality we get when we’re older.

  That explains why she wasn’t with Carl the other day. The poor woman was in bed with cancer. ‘I’m sorry, I should have sent around some cake or something. I’ll do it next time, I promise.’ She’s become completely devoted to our cakes. It was buttercream love at first sight.

  ‘Aren’t you angry about the cancer?’ I ask. ‘I’d be mad at God or Fate or someone.’ It’s just so unfair, after waiting forty-five years to finally be with Carl.

  She takes a last sip of her tea. ‘Where’s the good in that, dear, when it won’t change anything? Be grateful for what you’ve got, not resentful about what you ’aven’t.’

  As I’m thinking about this, another group of teens blusters through the door. They go to the takeaway part of the bar to get their drinks, even though they’ll sit upstairs to drink them. They seem to love the idea of the café – if nothing else, it gives them somewhere warm and dry to hang out – but they’re not interested in having anything to do with the rest of us. Typical teens, in other words.

  ‘Do you mind having all the kids in here now?’ I ask Carl and Elsie. ‘I mean the teens, not the babies.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s lovely seeing so many young people,’ says Elsie. ‘Both teens and babies.’

  ‘Don’t let the wrinkles fool you – we weren’t always ancient, you know,’ Carl adds.

  Carl and Elsie might not mind all the under-eighteens in here, but the babies are still causing parking problems downstairs. There must be a dozen prams and pushchairs wedged between tables and people have to twist and turn to get around them.

  ‘What about out back?’ Lou wonders as we gaze out over a sea of nappy chariots.

  Joseph sucks his teeth. ‘Nah, man, how’re they supposed to get the prams out there?’

  He’s always shooting down Lou’s ideas. Then he makes virtually the same suggestion and acts like it was his all along. He’s going to make a great CEO one day.

  ‘If only there was a way for prams to move,’ Lou says with her finger to her temple. ‘I don’t know, wheels or something…. I mean, they have to get them all the way through the café.’ She glares at him. ‘Duh.’

  ‘I mean, there’s no room, Einstein,’ he shoots back. ‘They need a straight run from the front door.’

  ‘Then we’ll make one,’ I say. It only takes a few minutes and a few apologies to shift people off their tables, but we end up with a nice clear path from the front door to the back. It looks a little M4-ish, but it’s more practical.

  ‘You could stick up some of that bunting you like so much out back with a few VIP parking signs,’ Lou says. ‘They’ll love thinking they’re special.’

  ‘Come on, then, let’s do it.’

  We go together out the back door, where the reality of our solution becomes clear. It isn’t a pretty walled garden. It’s a run-down weed-covered courtyard that doesn’t get any sun thanks to the buildings that crowd up around it. The brick walls are filthy and crumbling, the paving stones cracked and buckling. ‘It’s not exactly the Chelsea Flower Show out here, is it?’ says Lou.

  ‘But people don’t have to sit out here, and it won’t be so bad for parking. We can paint the walls if we use some of that stuff that seals bricks first. I can’t remember what it’s called, but my mum knows. Go grab us some bin bags and let’s at least clean it up for now.’

  A few decades of paper and plastic bags have blown over the walls, and there’s a tangle of bindweed underfoot.

  ‘You could get a cheap awning to cover it over in case it rains,’ Lou says as we’re carefully peeling up all the decomposing lumps of paper. ‘The mums won’t want their pushchairs getting wet. Some of those things in there cost a fortune.’

  ‘You should know,’ I say, adding when I see her expression, ‘I mean because of your foster sister. Stop being so tetchy. I’m not accusing you of anything.’

  ‘I’m not tetchy. And she hasn’t got a pushchair.’ She answers my surprise. ‘I put her on my front when we go out. You saw.’

  ‘But what about your foster mother? It’s a lot easier running errands with the chair. I can stuff a whole weekly shop in with the twins.’

  ‘It’s even easier never taking her out in the first place,’ Lou snaps. ‘Which is what she does. Or doesn’t do.’ Then she starts yanking up more weeds.

  ‘Lou, is everything all right at home?’

  She glares at me. ‘What do you think? I live with six other foster kids because my mum is dead.’

  I can’t believe I’ve just asked an orphan if everything is all right at home. She probably doesn’t even think of where she lives as home. I wouldn’t if I’d lost my mum at fourteen. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know, do I? Maybe if you told me I could help.’

  ‘You can’t help,’ she says as she pulls a blue strand of hair into her mouth. ‘Believe me, don’t bother. Nobody can help.’

  ‘Lou, you should know me by now. I’m just going to keep asking, so you may as well save yourself the trouble of having to ignore me every time. And you might be wrong.’

  ‘Yeah, everyone says that and then nothing happens.’

  I cross my arms. ‘I’m not going away, Lou.’

  She blows out her cheeks, but she can see that I mean it. ‘Put it this way. We’re a business for our foster parents. We’re the income-generating assets. It’s in their best interest to invest as little as possible to get the highest margin. Don’t look so surprised, Emma. I did pay attention in school. If my foster parents can still get those cheques without actually having to take care of us, they will.’ Now she crosses her arms. ‘You’re going to tell me to go to my social worker. I have. A lot. It’s their word against mine. Guess who they believe?’

  It’s no use pointing out that they might have believed Lou if she hadn’t been nicked, twice, for stealing. ‘Does this happen to have anything to do with your court case? You may as well tell me because I’ll hear all about it when I go. I might be able to help more if I know beforehand.’

  She takes a minute to weigh up the question. ‘I stole cases of Nurishment, okay? It was stupid and I got caught trying to get them all out of the shop.’

  ‘You mean that stuff that old people drink? What were you going to do, have a party for OAPs?’

  Her laugh has no mirth in it. ‘For my sister. The baby. She needs it.’

  Alarm bells start ringing in my head. ‘But that’s for undernourished people. Lou, why would the baby need it? Aren’t your foster parents feeding her?’

  ‘I told you. We’re just a business to them. They do the bare minimum to collect the cheques.’

  ‘That’s why you’ve asked for the leftover sandwiches and fillings.’

  ‘The lady gets a prize,’ she says.

  ‘You’ve got to tell your social worker!’

  ‘I told you, I have. She won’t listen.’

  ‘Fine, then, let’s see if she listens to me. You can look after the caf�
� while I’m gone, right?’

  ‘You’re going right now?’

  ‘Right now, Lou.’

  I’m shaking as I ring the social worker. Miraculously she finds time for me when I say I want to talk about one of the children in her charge as a possible abuse case.

  I’m not naïve about the way the kids around here are treated. Suspect first, ask questions later. Or never bother to ask, simply accuse. But it’s harder to make broad-stroke assumptions when you know the person first-hand. And the social worker knows Lou. She should know that she’s not a liar. Obviously she needs reminding of that.

  She looks exasperated already as she reluctantly leads me to her cubicle, and I haven’t said anything except hello. ‘Mrs Billings. I’m very busy today, so I’m afraid I can’t spare more than a minute or two.’

  Her name is Mrs Boggis-Stanton, or Mrs Bog-Standard, as I’m starting to think of her. The name fits. Everything about her is middle-of-the-road, from her slightly pale forty-something face and her mousy brown tied-back hair to the shapeless grey jumper she’s wearing.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s about Lou, my trainee. She’s just told me that her youngest foster sister isn’t getting enough to eat. I thought you should know.’

  Mrs Bog-Standard nods. ‘We’ve looked into that allegation. We’re satisfied that there are no violations in the foster arrangement.’

  I’m trying to be reasonable, I really am. Screeching at someone I need to help me won’t get me far, even though it’ll feel good. And besides, it’s not fair. I know how much pressure the woman is under already. Isn’t that why I wanted to work in the charity sector in the first place, to support the social care system and help these people? But, honestly, hearing her brush off Lou’s concerns with that kind of by-the-book admin-speak isn’t helping me to like her.

  ‘If that’s true,’ I say, ‘then why did Lou have to steal cases of Nurishment?’

  She fixes me with a tired look. ‘That’s a very good question for which we don’t have a very good answer.’

  ‘But Lou’s given you the answer. She took them for her sister. Are you saying you don’t believe her? Have you even gone to the house to see what’s happening?’

  ‘Mrs Billings, despite what you might think, we take our jobs very seriously around here. We’ve gone to the house. We’ve talked to the foster parents and to the children, and we’re satisfied that there are no violations. Please try to understand. I’ve been doing my job for over twenty years.’ She looks sad. ‘I know you want to believe Lou, but I hear similar stories a hundred times over. It’s never their fault, they say. Unfortunately, a lot of them are lying. Do you really expect me to believe them all on the off-chance that one person isn’t?’

  ‘I don’t expect it,’ I say. ‘But I hoped you’d believe Lou because she’s not lying.’

  ‘Maybe I would have if this was the first time, but she’s been caught before. And when I talked to the foster mother she told me that Lou has taken cases of Nurishment from the house to sell as well. Lou is lucky they didn’t officially report the home theft. It’s a pricey item. So she probably robbed the shop to sell them again. They go for over a pound per tin.’

  ‘Right,’ I sneer. ‘Because there’s such a thriving black market in nutritional supplement drinks. Did you ask yourself why the foster parents need to have it in the first place if they’re feeding the children properly?’

  ‘Mrs Billings, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than play amateur sleuth, when there’s no mystery to solve.’

  ‘I do have better things to do, Mrs Bog-Stanton. I have to prepare to be a character witness at Lou’s court case. Because I do believe her.’

  ‘It’s Boggis-Stanton.’

  ‘I know your name.’

  When Lou asks me later what happened, it’s my turn to be vague. It won’t make her feel any better to know that her social worker – the one person in the system who might be able to help her – thinks she’s a liar.

  Chapter 19

  At first I don’t think anything of the man who comes into the café, even though he doesn’t fit in with our normal clientele. Not that our clientele is always normal. The lady who wears the tinfoil hat doesn’t come in much now, and we haven’t seen the lady selling kittens lately, but the Jehovah’s Witnesses still like to hand out their Watchtowers if I don’t stop them at the doorway with a polite reminder about soliciting.

  With his white work shirt and nondescript chinos and cleanly shaven face, this man looks like a civil servant, not a hipster. He’s got no children with him, so he’s not one of the occasional dads that we get. And he’s at least two decades too old to join the Instagram teens upstairs.

  He doesn’t leave me in suspense for long, though. Maybe the notebook should have clued me in. ‘Health and safety inspection,’ he says. ‘You’ve got a crèche?’

  ‘No, no, it’s definitely not a crèche,’ I say. I did enough googling to know that if we call it a crèche, there’ll be all sorts of red tape. ‘It’s just a play area for our customers to use with their children.’

  We both look at where seven or eight toddlers are having the time of their lives with Auntie Rose and Dad. ‘The parents aren’t always inside the gate,’ I explain. ‘Sometimes they, erm, play from the sidelines.’ Play, gossip, eat, drink.

  ‘Are those relatives of the children?’ The man points his pen at my family.

  My heart starts racing. Is it perjury to lie to a health and safety officer? ‘They’re friends. Is there a problem? You did the inspection when we first opened. Well, not you, but your colleague did.’

  Instead of answering he says, ‘Is it all right if I look around?’

  Dad’s already spotted the man and wheels over. ‘Emma, me love, is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I say brightly. ‘It’s just an inspection. Perfectly normal. Would you like something to drink?’ I ask the man.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  No, right. That’s probably bribery.

  Everyone’s pretending not to notice the man, in the same way you’d pretend not to see an uncle getting royally pissed at a wedding. If we all pretend everything’s okay, then maybe he’ll go sleep it off.

  But he’s no drunk uncle and he’s not going to sleep this one off. He’s scribbling furiously in his notebook as he peers at every single bit of the play area. When he taps Dad’s wheelchair, I know he won’t have good news.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘There are a few issues. When was the last time the play mats were disinfected?’

  He can tell by my expression that the answer is never. ‘We sweep them every night.’

  ‘Mmm hmm.’ He writes something down. ‘Some of the children aren’t wearing socks. That can spread infection.’

  Clearly he’s never tried keeping socks on a toddler. Besides, Oscar licked the bus stop seat the other day. Bare feet are small beer.

  ‘And I saw several dummies inside the play area. Again, that can spread infection, especially if the children drop them on those mats.’

  I don’t like that implication one bit. ‘My mats are not dirty,’ I snap.

  ‘Then you do disinfect them after each use?’ His pen is poised above his notebook while I stay silent. ‘Right, so your original answer was correct. Do you disinfect the toys?’

  ‘We wipe them down!’ As if I don’t feel bad enough about my house being a tip. Now I’m being criticised at the café too.

  ‘What cloths and cleaning solutions do you use on them?’ he asks. To give him credit, he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying this any more than I am. Just doing his job, I bet he’d say.

  ‘The ones from the kitchen.’

  ‘Are those the same ones you use to clean up food?’

  We both know he’s got me bang to rights. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The final issue is that man’s wheelchair. I can see that his spokes are covered over, but there are other parts that could be a problem for small fingers. Just as no prams or pushchairs s
hould be inside the play area, there shouldn’t be a wheelchair in there either.’

  I’m tempted to snap that maybe my dad could just crawl in there on his elbows, but I know that’s being dramatic, and Dad would hate being called helpless when he’s clearly not. He’s perfectly capable of using his crutches to walk.

  I’m not really surprised when the inspector writes up the citation and tells me the café has to stay closed until all the violations are corrected. So, for the record, they’re not tears of surprise I’m having to fight back.

  ‘You’ll have to close right away,’ he tells me. His voice is a bit gentler now. ‘People can use takeaway cups if they want to finish their drinks.’

  ‘Right now? This very minute? You’re telling me I have to kick everyone out?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ He sticks a menacing, humiliating notice on the outside of the front door. ‘I am sorry, but as soon as you’ve cleaned everything and posted notices about the socks and dummies and pushchairs, you can open again.’

  He stands beside the doorway and watches me tell everyone they have to leave my café. ‘It’s not that it’s dirty!’ I try telling the mums as they gather up their children.

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ Melody assures me, shooting a filthy look in the man’s direction. ‘He’d close down any of our houses if he saw the state they were in. Please try not to worry too much about this, okay? We’ll be back tomorrow or the next day, whenever you’re open again.’ She hugs me.

  ‘I bet my house would pass a health inspection,’ I hear Garnet murmur. ‘Our cleaner is amazing.’

  ‘She is, Garnet, you could almost eat off your floors!’ Emerald says. ‘It’s just a shame she can’t come three times a week like ours does.’

  Upstairs, they don’t take the news as well. ‘Yo, how come we have to go just because the little’uns do?’ one teen asks as the others back him up with air snaps and teeth-sucking. ‘It’s not our problem.’

  I’m a little surprised to hear the kids giving me aggro because they’re generally very polite. Ever since Lou stood up that day and shouted at everyone, they know we’re all in this together, all for one and one for all, like Musketeers in hoodies and trainers.