Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  “You just fancy the sound of him talking about his wood, that’s why you want him around!”

  Alex laughed and started topping up the water in the buckets to keep her flowers fresh. Richard popped the last of the cornet into his mouth, having saved the little chocolate-filled bit at the bottom for his beloved, and this he popped into her mouth as she waddled past with a heavy bucket of yellow carnations.

  “Yep, good idea,” he said, “I liked the sound of the bloke too and it’s about time I had someone on my side around here; far too many women for my liking.”

  “Lucky dad isn’t around to hear that – he always warned me that you were gay.” And back and forth they bantered, chuckling and sniggering, stepping around each other in a dance that came naturally from so many years together.

  They complemented each other’s roles as the shop was given a midday clean. Alex cashed up whilst Rich swept the floor. Alex found Dougie’s phone number in her order book and checked the diary before ringing through Monday’s order. Rich swept the pavement outside and rearranged the flowers from two half-filled buckets into one. It was the perfect demonstration of why Adam wanted an Eve, Superman a Lois, and Perdita a Pongo.

  Chapter 50

  Fish Without Chips

  Lettie arrived home to an empty house after a leisurely lunch on the patio with her friends on their return from a night away. She changed into her waitressing uniform and fixed her hair up off her face.

  Lettie entered the Sea View feeling ready for the immediate onslaught that a late shift provided. Her first surprise was to see Lisa in a white blouse and black skirt looking red and flustered.

  Waitressing was not as easy as Lisa had thought and the café, not having Jill’s quiet presence clearing and laying the odd table and chatting to customers, so that they wouldn’t realise how long their food was taking during busy periods, was making a difficult job harder.

  So far, Lisa had removed the coffee jug before it had finished being filled – resulting in a gush of burnt coffee hitting the hotplate and what hadn’t evaporated in a big hiss, had cascaded onto the carpet. Malcolm had tutted. It wasn’t only for the wasted coffee and the fact that the stuff she had served people would have been not sufficiently diluted, but also the time it would take to filter another jug, leaving people sat waiting impatiently. She had given out cold quiche instead of hot, roast potatoes instead of boiled and strawberry shakes instead of chocolate.

  It hadn’t taken Malcolm long to realise just how much Jill did. He had assumed that she just floated about, keeping an eye on the restaurant in the same way that he had floated about keeping an eye on the kitchen. However, it suddenly seemed that the usual waitresses weren’t coping, customers were sitting down to dirty tables, no one was keeping the drinks’ fridge stocked and the younger girls were struggling with the wine list and the corkscrew. Malcolm found himself having to abandon his post beside the drying and polishing point for the cutlery, and the gravy jug for the roasties, and go and help out. The stress of doing so gave him two left feet and his fretting simply wound up the other staff even more. He was intensely relieved to see Lettie arrive early for her three o’clock shift, although then guilt and anxiety about the potential need for explanations kicked in.

  Lettie’s first thought was that Lisa must have had an appointment at work and popped round for a coffee afterwards, but then she saw her carrying plates and looking harassed.

  “Hi, Malcolm,” breezed Lettie, and she picked up a few dishes on the way to the kitchen. “Hi, Lisa?” she said with a perplexed look on her face as Lisa mistimed the swinging door and nearly lost a milkshake. “You helping out?”

  “Yes,” growled Lisa, her face burning as she walked past to deliver an egg and cress on white. She’d hoped that she would have been released far earlier than this; she was exhausted and there had been no time for flirtatious glances and surreptitious whispering as had been her assumption.

  “Everything OK?” said Lettie to Malcolm after she had put her bag away and come in to check what was still available and say hello to the kitchen staff.

  “Er, no. Not really,” said Malcolm and with a brief nod of his head, he indicated for her to follow him outside. “Er, Jill has, er, left me,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as if it didn’t matter that much.

  “Oh, Malcolm! I am so sorry. Are you OK?” Malcolm nodded and shrugged again.

  “It’s a bit of a shock; I had no idea,” he said, successfully playing for sympathy, “and Debbie’s ill, so when I bumped into Lisa in town this morning, she kindly said she would come and help.”

  “Oh, fair play,” said Lettie, borrowing one of Dougie’s phrases. “Where has Jill gone? Is it, is it for good?” Then seeing Malcolm’s eyes looking down, she realised how upset he must be. “Sorry, I’m prying,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get through the rest of the day and if you want to talk later, I’m here, OK?” Malcolm nodded weakly and muttered his thanks. Lettie went back in, smiled her support at Lisa who breathed a sigh of relief, and then she tucked into her tables, kept an eye on Lisa and the younger girls and suddenly, everything worked again.

  The tip count seemed to take forever to arrive. Lisa worked the whole day, finding it much easier once Lettie had clocked on and was relieved that Lettie neither knew nor suspected anything about the reason for Jill’s sudden departure. Malcolm happily returned to his cutlery polishing, not seeming to notice Lettie being run ragged in the restaurant. That is – until he remembered that Jill also spent the afternoon making cakes to replenish the pile of crumbs and chocolate-smeared doilies that should be feeding the afternoon tea rush…

  A fresh pot of coffee was certainly required and as the last customer was escorted from the premises and the signs turned firmly around, Malcolm collapsed into a chair, followed quickly by Lisa who felt she hadn’t walked so far in years. She kicked off her shoes and groaned. “Lettie, no wonder you are so trim – I thought you did sneaky late night aerobics, but really you just do this!” Malcolm grouped the last of the cakes onto a plate and put them on the table. The summer waitresses grabbed a slice each and fled, having far more important things to discuss than where Jill had gone to and who the crap new waitress called Lisa was.

  Lettie got fresh cups and poured them all a coffee. Lisa sipped it gratefully, dabbing a moistened finger onto the plate in order to scoop up some cake without being seen to have a whole slice. “Well, thank goodness that is over,” said Lettie. “Are you OK?” she added to Malcolm, getting him a plate and putting the last slice of coffee and walnut sponge on it. “Go on, eat that – you’ll feel better.” He thanked Lettie quietly and wondered how he was going to get through the next undoubtedly awkward bit – especially with his new “girlfriend” assessing every expression for signs of regret that Jill had gone.

  Lettie mistook Malcolm’s anxiety for sadness and decided that as it was none of her business, she would be purely practical as that was her business. “Malcolm,” she said gently, “I presume Jill isn’t coming back, like, tomorrow?” Malcolm shrugged and then shook his head again, keeping his eyes on his coffee cake. “OK,” she continued, “so, I think we need a plan of action to keep this place afloat until she does – or doesn’t?” she added quickly. Malcolm nodded again, feeling Lisa’s eyes piercing his shell of studied disinterest. “I assume you are happy with all the ordering and, between you and the kitchen staff, I am sure that can be covered?” Malcolm looked up in alarm, and then nodded again. “The cakes may be more difficult – I can help a bit, but I don’t really want any more hours than I have at the moment.”

  “I can help!” jumped in Lisa, “I can bake; I can do some in the evenings for you – if you want?” Lettie raised an eyebrow at her enthusiasm, but didn’t feel it was her place to comment. “It’s a couple of hours a day,” she informed her, “Jill tended to pop up and down as they were cooking, but they’re a lot of work – they need icing too and that can only be done when they are cold.”

&
nbsp; “That’s OK!” beamed Lisa and both Lettie and Lisa looked at Malcolm who nodded noncommittally. Unappreciative sod, thought Lettie, but then, he must be devastated. She had guessed it wasn’t the most satisfying marriage in the world, but Jill hadn’t seemed to have been particularly miserable – it must have been something she had been chewing over for months.

  “Jill was also a very useful floater,” Lettie reminded Malcolm. “You know, clearing tables, putting on new coffee – just keeping things ticking over. It may be worth employing another waiter in the meantime – it does save a lot of bad feeling from the customers – puts them through quicker too,” she added, trying to be positive.

  Seeing that Malcolm wasn’t really listening, Lettie finished her coffee and made to go. “You coming, Lisa?”

  “No, I think I’ll just have another cup of coffee here – if I may?” she replied looking at the unresponsive Malcolm. “There is no way I can put these shoes back on for at least another twenty minutes!”

  Lettie said her goodbyes and left the building, leaving two people sat really not knowing what to say to each other.

  Chapter 51

  Whipping the Cream

  Dougie was sat on his front doorstep enjoying the evening sun. Alfie was snoring loudly at his feet, tired from another day of endless and fruitless searching. Dougie had a large bowl of pasta on his knees and was munching happily away on the slightly undercooked penne, so done because of ravenous hunger, rather than any appreciation of the concept of al dente. He’d added his own delicious version of bolognaise sauce, adjusted so far from the true recipe as to be unrecognisable in order to accommodate the ingredients in his fridge. The radio was playing in the background and Dougie was happy just to be sat resting, tired from another strenuous day’s work on the steep slopes of the Crychan Valley.

  The phone rang and he got stiffly to his feet and fetched it, stretching the cable out to allow him to return to his resting place before he answered it. “Ye’ ’ello,” he said in his usual way.

  “Hi, is that Dougie?” said a voice that he almost recognised but not quite.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, trying to place the accent.

  “It’s Alex here, Lettie’s sister. I hope you don’t mind me ringing, but I wanted to talk to you…”

  “No, that’s fine. How are you?” he said tentatively, not sure what to think.

  “I’m fine, we’re all fine. How are you?”

  “Yes, I’m fine too.”

  “Good, then everyone’s fine,” laughed Alex. “Doug, it’s none of my business, and you can tell me to bugger off whenever you want to, but I just felt I needed to explain something about Lettie, just to make sure, before you two never speak again. Is that OK?”

  “OK,” he said slowly, running his hand through his hair, wiry from the day’s sweating under a protective helmet.

  He sat on the step, for once ignoring all the people walking by, his frown showing his concentration. As he listened, there was a stream of exclamations from him: “Oh my God, I had no idea,” was followed by, “I just thought…” and, “Oh, poor Lettie. I never stopped to think something like that might have happened”.

  “So, what I was going to suggest,” said Alex eventually, “was why don’t you just pop down to see her? See us? I think she feels she’s blown it and you’re not interested and if you tried to phone, well, it just gets awkward. Whereas, if you were there, you’d sort something out – if you wanted to, that is,” she added quickly, not wanting to force him into anything he didn’t want. “There’s plenty of room at our house if you wanted to stay with us, or both have dinner with us on Saturday night. But it’s up to you.”

  Dougie’s mind was racing with excitement and caution jumbled together in a writhing mass.

  “But, what if… What if she doesn’t want to see me?”

  “Oh, I think she will,” said Alex with her older sister voice.

  “Well, when?”

  “I happen to know that she is working Friday night and Saturday until about three and that she has Sunday off. And she has nothing planned for her free time, because I have asked her if she’ll help me spring clean the shop.”

  “So, seeing me would be preferable to that I am sure!” laughed Dougie, “I could be her escape route.” He thought for a few short seconds and then said, “Thank you, Alex, I’d love to come. Thank you for phoning and thinking of us – it would be terrible if we hated each other after all this effort, but at least it would be from a point of knowledge.”

  “Exactly,” she replied, “be there, or spend the rest of your life wondering!” They made a few more arrangements, said their goodbyes and hung up their phones.

  Dougie stood up, stretching out his back from the day’s heavy hauling and clutching the phone in his strong hand. He put it back on the kitchen table and stood for a few seconds with his lips pursed. Then he walked slowly to the cupboard under the stairs, not noticing the dried mud falling from the treads of his rigger boots, and opened the door. He reached in and carefully retrieved a large cardboard box. He gently pulled off the tape that held it shut and delved inside. Then he took out two pictures that were neatly wrapped in newspaper and taped up with far more Sellotape than was truly necessary.

  The paper was removed and he sat back on the floor to look at them once more. Walking into the dining room, he re-hung them in the two spots that had goaded him for the last few weeks with their bareness. One drawing was of a beautiful lake with a couple of dogs swimming and the other was of a wooded parkland with two strange folk standing with sandwiches in their hands, staring intently into his eyes.

  Stepping back to admire it, he nudged the sleeping Alfie with his rigger boot. “Right you, let’s get that ribbon back on – we’re a goin’ courtin’.”

  Chapter 52

  More Crust than Pie, More Potato than Meat

  John Haskins sat at the kitchen table of Mr and Mrs Pryce sipping a cup of tea out of a large blue and white striped mug admiring the beautiful day. He helped himself to a fruit scone with no fruit in from the ancient biscuit tin with rusty corners. Mr Pryce was sat in the worn winged chair next to the old range, which was burning away despite the summer heat, being the only means of cooking in the house. Mrs Pryce was sat at the large wooden table peeling a mountain of vegetables into a dented pressure cooker and listening intently to the conversation.

  “So,” said Mr Pryce slowly, “let me make sure I have this right… Dougie’s missus that was, who drew that picture of us in the park has gone and won a competition that she didn’t know she was entering and you want us to meet they newspaper men?”

  “That’s it exactly,” said John, “but,” he added in Mrs Pryce’s direction, “there is only one of them and he just wants to have half an hour or so here and maybe a photo?”

  John sat at the large table and wondered if he had been somewhat overzealous when he had made his rash invite to the journalists in Cardiff. He was passionate about art, but more so because of the implications it had for the community and its individuals. He’d always rued that he would never be an artist himself, but instead poured his enthusiasm and organisational skills into chivvying others into discovering their own talents. His wife would tutt over uncooked meals and unwashed dishes as the school’s Senior Art Club framed their pictures under his supervision in their garage, or a request from the Glan Llanfair Thursday Club took precedent over a long-standing dinner arrangement with friends.

  In this instance, she had sighed in an, “oh, not again” way, when he mentioned the journalist Matt Fitz-Hughes’ potential visit. “Why don’t you just leave these poor people in peace, John? Why do you assume that everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame? Not everyone is like you, John, just you remember that – don’t you go bullying them now, you hear?”

  John had nodded and felt like crossing his fingers behind his back. His wife always seemed to feel as if it were her role to bring him not just down from the clouds, but instead have him firmly sat on the kitchen flo
or peeling potatoes.

  “Well,” said Mr Pryce again, turning to his wife, “what do you reckon, Mother?”

  “I dunno,” she said bluntly, “sounds exciting though – I’d have to dig out me best frock, eh? And this place’ll need mucking out, that’s for sure.” John looked round him; he’d never noticed much more than the range that was such a focal point, but now he drank in the heavy old dark furniture: a sideboard, the table and a fine Welsh dresser in the corner. The light bulb hung shade-less over the table and was looped up with a bit of string to prevent the tall Pryce boys banging their heads on it. Cobwebs filled the corners and the walls were covered by the display of family photos in their cheap gold coloured frames.

  The lino that covered the floor was cracked and worn and, as with the curtains, the original pattern and colour were not really distinguishable. Yes, it was certainly a character-filled kitchen all right, from the pile of newspapers stacked on the dresser to the overflowing cardboard box of random wellingtons and work boots on the floor in the corner – the majority of which had been grown out of, worn out or had had the laces taken out of them many years before.

  “No, no, no,” said John. “No need to worry about anything like that – he just wants to see you as you are and have a chat.”

  “Well, I quite fancy it,” smiled Mr Pryce, the piles of clothes airing on the back of his chair beginning to slip down onto his shoulders like an aeroplane neck cushion. “I always thought I was destined for stardom!”

  “Yes, why not eh?” chuckled Mother, wiping her hands dry on the faded cotton pinny that covered her home-knitted jumper. “Let’s not tell the kids until it’s done and then show them the paper as a surprise.”