The Bluebird Café

by Rebecca Smith

  ‘Yes.’

  They were almost at the Badger Centre now.

  ‘I just need to check some new sea anemones …’

  ‘Paul! Oh, OK. I’ll wait outside.’ The smell would be too much. Lucy sat on a bench beside a bright green frog litter bin. She patted its warm plastic head and considered kissing it. Paul came out carrying a very small fishing net.

  ‘They need cleaning out again. I’d better stay. Do you mind? You can come in.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll just go home. I’ve got things to do.’ She could do the test on her own and think about the results, and telling Paul.

  A blue line appeared on the little white tile. Lucy smiled at herself in the mirror. What to do now? The luxury of quiet contemplation, the excitement of having a real secret.

  She made a salad of nasturtium flowers and watercress and took some of her best rolls out of the freezer, plus a brazil roulade. Thank God the café was closed. Then she had a bath and washed her hair and put on the dress she’d bought for Vicks’ wedding. She checked the café lease. Two months left to go or a month’s notice to give. They could sell the café stuff – tables, stove, chillers – and buy a pram or a cot or something. Perhaps the Badger Centre would buy some of the stuff. She’d ask Paul. And she could maybe start doing teas there, just really nice cakes and biscuits on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Mmm. She could make little biscuit animals and teasels and bees and things. She couldn’t stop smiling.

  Paul came in two and a half hours later. Could cleaning out the sea anemones really take that long? She didn’t ask. He’d probably done the crayfish and the fish and the ants as well. He noticed her dress.

  ‘Are we going out?’

  ‘Not unless you want to.’

  ‘Looks nice.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She’d intended to tell him over dinner. She couldn’t wait and she still couldn’t stop smiling, but how to pick the words, the best line of her life?

  ‘Paul, I think I am, I mean, I am, um … pregnant. I mean, having a baby.’

  ‘What? What?’ He stepped backwards, shocked or backing away … ‘That’s brilliant!’ His long, thin, aquarium-smelling arms were around her. He was kissing her hair, breathing in its dark marigold sweetness.

  ‘Are you pleased?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. But when, how long have you known? I didn’t really notice anything.’

  ‘Nine months, I suppose.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘September, October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June! I don’t know exactly when you start from.’

  ‘It’s forty weeks, I think, Lucy, from the first day of your last period.’ He could picture the table from A-level Biology, and how the human one had compared to a cat, rabbit and horses. Lucy was slightly taken aback when he said ‘period’. He didn’t usually discuss hers.

  ‘Sit down, rest!’ he said, propelling her towards the sofa.

  ‘I do feel sick all the time, and everything smells.’

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea and some dinner.’

  ‘Really weak. I’ve made the dinner already.’

  Paul went to make the tea, but kept looking at her all the time and smiling.

  ‘It’s so lucky that we’re both pleased,’ she said.

  ‘Marry me, Lucy.’

  ‘Can we get some things sorted out first? I mean, sorry, yes, I will.’

  They kissed.

  ‘I don’t want to renew the lease on the café. Let’s just go and live in Bluebell Cottage. If we sell some of the café stuff, I think we can end up even. And I’ve got some ideas for the Badger Centre. I want to do teas.’

  ‘You might have enough to do just with the baby. I think you should go to the doctor’s tomorrow and get it all checked,’ he said.

  * * *

  Lucy went to the doctor’s. She was weighed (64.8 kilos), and was given a Pregnancy Pack, a blue vinyl folder with charts and notes and leaflets. Once the lunches were finished she bunked off from the Bluebird and walked into the city centre. She got her hair cut and bought some folic acid tablets and Pregnancy and Birth magazine. She drifted round Mothercare, looking at impossibly small clothes, and bought a catalogue. Everyone else seemed to be pushing pushchairs, the occupants of which were either cross or asleep, or chewing something, or swigging something lukewarm from a bottle. Hmm. But then Lucy’s baby would never eat in its buggy, or cry in shops, or have a red face, or wear a stupid headband or anything with a slogan on.

  Chapter 42

  It was the Bluebird’s last week. They were moving out on Sunday.

  ‘I don’t know if Gilbert and Mavis are having a honeymoon,’ Lucy said. ‘A coach holiday might suit them. A News Readers’ Club special excursion. Or one of those Couples Only Pay Upfront and Eat All You Want islands.’

  ‘What about us?’ Paul asked her. ‘We could have a honeymoon if it wasn’t too expensive.’

  ‘Not a couples resort. There’d be salad bars.’ Lucy had a horror of self-service salad bars. So unhygienic. And dips. People who might double-dip. Ugh.

  ‘Impossible,’ said Paul.

  They looked in the back of the Sunday papers and decided on the Isles of Scilly where Lucy had always wanted to go, and where Paul had been as a child, and the Clouds had dined in some of the South-West’s Finest Fish Restaurants. Lucy didn’t want to go really abroad because of the baby. They would get married in early October at the registry office, just like Mavis and Gilbert, then have some friends back for a Wedding Reception/Gathering/House-Warming sort of thing at Bluebell Cottage. Lucy kept wondering if she wanted a white wedding, a church service, cars, all that stuff; but she decided that she didn’t, which was lucky, as they couldn’t afford it, and didn’t want to ask their parents to pay for anything.

  Paul was to wear his good Romsey Oxfam suit with a yellow silk tie and new shoes, not even £14.99 desert boots, but actually ‘Chukka boots’ that cost £39.99, whatever Chukka boots were.

  ‘Hope it doesn’t mean “Chuck ’er!”’ said Lucy, who had bought a caramel velvet dress with an ambiguous high waist from Monsoon, and an almost matching hat with dark brown velvet roses on. She thought of an autumnal bouquet: teasels, brambles, rowan-berries, bryony. They could have had the reception at Paul’s centre. They’d be attended by squirrels, young badgers, bumble-bees and robins who would throw autumn leaf confetti. She drafted a guest list and showed it to Paul.

  Abigail and Teague

  Parents

  Relatives

  Other friends from university

  All staff and volunteers from the Badger Centre

  Soo Sholing from the News

  Did they really have to invite Mavis and Gilbert? Should they invite the Virs? They would be ordering four dozen samosas from them.

  ‘Do you think we have to ask Gilbert and Mavis? We might have managed to shrug them off by then?’ she asked.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? Gilbert’s a regular volunteer at the Centre,’ Paul said.

  ‘No.’ Angry silence. ‘What about the Virs?’ Thank God Paul had never noticed any of that stuff, the frisson, the electricity she thought that there’d been between her and John Vir. Thank God she’d never let it go anywhere. It all seemed silly and distant now. ‘We could ask Shreela and John and Gurpal, but not those boys.’

  ‘Do you think they’d really want to come?’ Paul asked.

  ‘I don’t know. They are our friends, sort of.’

  ‘I don’t think we have to bother,’ said Paul. She crossed them off.

  Chapter 43

  1973 Graham Buildings

  Kalimpong

  India

  Dear Jagdish,

  Am writing to come back to England. Please send £400 or dollars for ticket. Gurpal phoning so I will be back when money arrives. Will also choose husband when she finish college. Please hurry. Or you and Gurpal come here. Please do so now.

  Your wife

  Pali

  He read the letter and put it behind the till to think about it. So after
all this time she wanted to come home, or for him to go there, and thanks to Gurpal. He was pleased for the girl at least. He supposed that Pali had fallen out with her sister or been shamed by Gurpal’s calls and unbetrothed status. He hadn’t even known that Gurpal had been phoning. £400. No problem. Perhaps they should go out and join her, it would be good for him and Gurpal to get away, see family, for Gurpal to see India again. Could he leave the shop with the boys? Would he have anything to come back to?

  ‘Time passes,’ he thought, ‘Time passes, and nothing really changes.’

  The Newses arrived with a thump on the counter, leaflets falling out of them: A GREAT FAMILY DAY OUT AT THE NEW FOREST HAWK CONSERVANCY CENTRE. That must be the new place Paul was working at, that they were moving to. He’d seen the ‘To Let’ sign outside the café and Lucy had told him that they were moving to Paul’s nature place. Paul had explained to him once about how they caught birds in a big net and ringed them.

  ‘Euch! Who’d wanna work there?’ Gurpal said when he told her. ‘Hawks. Gross.’ Her nostrils flared in disgust and she looked not unlike a golden eagle, standing on a rabbit, tearing it apart.

  But it gave him a good idea. The next day he had a big order of chicken to prepare. He kept the heads, feet, some bones and entrails, and wrapped them up for Paul to give to his birds. There was nobody in when he went round to the café, so he left the bag on the doorstep with a note.

  ‘For the new job. Good luck. John Vir.’

  Two hours later there was Paul waving a dripping bin liner at him, slapping it down on the counter.

  ‘What’s this for? Don’t you know Lucy’s a vegetarian? She threw up everywhere. She’s still crying and being upset, seeing something like this could be dangerous in her condition! Why did you leave this disgusting health hazard on our doorstep? Is it some kind of a sick joke? Because it’s not funny. I’m thinking of calling the police. Don’t you ever come near us again!’

  ‘Hey, hang on, mate! It was just for your hawks. Help you in the new job.’ He put the bag into a couple of very large Happy Shopper ones. ‘Only trying to be neighbourly. Saw your leaflet,’ he indicated the one he’d put behind the till to show Gurpal. ‘Thought you’d like some bits for the birds.’

  ‘Hawks? It’s a Badger Centre, you arsehole!’ And he left.

  John Vir knew that he had finally fluffed it. That he had lost her for ever. There was no hope for him. He was a game-show contestant who makes it to the big money question, the car or £20,000 final, he has all the letters but he can’t solve the last simple puzzle. The audience are yelling the answer, but he can’t hear them. His minutes tick away and he’s going home empty-handed. It was all up for John Vir.

  Chapter 44

  Mavis bought a pad of Forever Friends notepaper invites. Huge-headed rabbits and teddies announced the nuptials in shades of peach, grey and lemon. The ceremony was to be at 2.45 p.m. on 17 September at Southampton Registry Office and afterwards at the Bluebird Café. Mavis wasn’t sure about the afterwards, the café. She thought that funny people went there, but Gilbert had wanted it there, and the price was certainly all right.

  ‘Paul and Lucy would be upset if we didn’t. They might be thinking I don’t have time for them any more now I’m with you,’ Gilbert told her.

  ‘Well, you don’t. And not with the wedding,’ Mavis replied. She was right. Gilbert’s days no longer stretched empty, identical, drip, drip, drip. After the bins there was shopping to do with Mavis and looking in catalogues for things, the new budgie to look after, and dinner and washing up, and trying to fix things, and the telly together, and supper and bed. Once he was in that warm flat with the door shut and Kenny turned up loud while Mavis got his dinner, the time just went. He hardly had time for any of his old stuff now.

  ‘They’re closing down. Moving to the Common,’ he told her, hoping to elicit some sympathy for his old friends.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Mavis said. ‘Funny ones go in there. Tree protesters and students. Not that I’m against trees, really. But all those funny teas and no meat.’ She looked quite fierce. Until then Gilbert hadn’t noticed how long her canines were.

  ‘I’m taking some meat and no arguing. We can’t have a wedding and no meat. Chicken and ham and that’s final.’

  ‘I don’t know if Lucy will like that,’ said Gilbert faintly.

  ‘Well, she’ll have to lump it then. We’re paying and we take our own booze so what’s the difference?’

  Lucy and Paul were doing a finger buffet at £1.50 a head for twenty guests.

  Crisps

  Canapés

  Pickles

  Bridge rolls – egg and cress

  – cheese and pickle

  Pizza slices

  Mini quiches

  Mini stuffed pancakes

  ‘And peanuts,’ Gilbert had told them, ‘and Hula Hoops.’ Lucy had put iced gems on the list too. And a peach ice cream she’d recently been experimenting with, with heart-shaped wafers; that could be on the house.

  Mavis had ordered a cake from Bignells, the bakers. Just ten inches, sponge not fruit, no tiers. They’d been surprised and pretty impressed. It made a change from day-old bread and lardy cake.

  ‘For your daughter, is it?’ the girl had asked. ‘I didn’t know you had any kids.’

  ‘No – me! Me and my Gilbert!’

  ‘Isn’t that nice. Been together long?’

  ‘About six months.’

  ‘Quick work! Congratulations!’

  Mavis chose some embracing penguins and yellow ribbons for the top.

  ‘That’ll match my dress,’ she had said.

  ‘What, penguins? Nice!’

  She had a yellow dress with black-and-white stripes, and a white bouclé (or bobbly) jacket and was planning to get some new shoes.

  ‘I’m not so keen on wedding hats,’ she told Gilbert. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘You’ll look lovely,’ said Gilbert, on the softest wings, the thought was there. ‘Just like my mum.’

  FOR SALE OR TO

  LET CAFÉ/SHOP PREMISES WITH FIRST-FLOOR FLAT

  Cllr Doon had plans. A drop-in centre for the local community. Advice, help with filling out forms, an office base for community projects (there must be some around here). It was either that or it could go for more social housing. The housing associations were buying up everything around there. It ensured the properties were kept up. Nobody would expect the Bluebird to be turned into a real business, not a going concern, anyway.

  Paul and Lucy had everything packed upstairs; books, clothes, kitchen stuff. Paul was going to borrow the van from the Badger Centre. Lucy hoped that it wouldn’t be full of cobwebs and woodlice, or worse.

  Chapter 45

  Gilbert was walking along the path beside the river from Northam to St Denys in the shadows of the Meridian TV Studios. The Itchen was going out. He was hoping to find a wallet on the shore or to see some interesting birds. The mud beneath the imported pebbles glittered green in the sun. The university crew sculled by, hotly pursued by three swans.

  ‘Row! Row! Go, swans, go!’ yelled Gilbert. If you saw him now in his Caramac jacket, all alone, wearing his baseball cap, you’d know that he was on the edge. In Southampton they give baseball caps out at the Department of Psychiatry.

  ‘Here’s your pills and here’s your cap.’ Choose between black Coca-Cola ones, and ones from places you’ll never make it to – Florida, Hollywood, LA, NYC – you don’t need to buy one, they’re standard issue for the mentally ill and people with learning difficulties, the poor, the halt and the lame.

  ‘A swan can break a man’s arm with one beat of its wing,’ Gilbert cautioned himself.

  The so-called Sprinter, the train from Portsmouth Harbour to Cardiff, limped past on the track just a few yards from the water’s edge.

  ‘It’ll be doing that underwater soon,’ he thought, as its fat behind disappeared. ‘It’ll soon be on the wrong side of the tracks, laughing on the other side of its face.’

/>   He had been given his notice. It had come out of the blue to him; everybody else had seen it coming. Mavis said he would be all right with her though, and the council were going to try to find him another job. He was on the At Risk Register. He had some sandwiches that Mavis had given him crammed into his pocket. Cheese and piccalilli, his favourite.

  He’d even had to help do himself out of a job, helping with the deliveries. There were no more council-issue bin bags now.

  They came at dawn, crouching on trucks. At the signal they were off the back and down the road in formation. People sprang out of bed at the strange rumblings, threw back the nets to see them massing on the pavements and then spread out, one to each house. There were a few conscientious objectors. Some people found them ugly and didn’t want them cluttering up the pretty Victorian terraces.

  ‘Paul, quick! It’s the wheelie bins!’ Lucy shouted.

  Chapter 46

  When Paul collected the boxes of samosas on the morning of the wedding he’d expected to see John Vir, had thought that he’d apologise for flying off the handle; but only Gurpal was there.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’

  ‘Cash and Carry with my mum. You having a party?’

  ‘Yes, it’s our wedding,’ Paul told her.

  ‘That all you’re having? Not many guests. We’ll have two thousand samosas at my wedding.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Paul. ‘It’s just a little party, but if you and your mum and dad want to drop in … It’s at Bluebell Cottage on the Common, near the duck pond. This afternoon, after three.’

  ‘Where they have the fair, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah, quite near there. I’ll draw you a map.’ Paul drew a sketchy little map with directions on a brown paper bag. ‘X marks the spot,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll tell them,’ said Gurpal.