by C.J Duggan
Chapter Three
The arrangement had been to meet at the Onslow Hotel for orientation in our spare school period, so we could get the feel of our surroundings.
Little did we know it was actually an ambush and we were about to be thrown into the deep end. A billowing cloud of steam blew up into Uncle Eric's face, threatening to melt it off entirely. This was just as disturbing as the loud hissing sound he was creating in an attempt to froth up milk on the coffee machine. I looked on in horror; how was I expected to be able to master this beast of an apparatus? I had never made a cappuccino in my life! Ash teetered on the edge of Uncle Eric's cigarette as it wavered every time he spoke.
He was a big, bearded, gruff, biker-looking kind of fellow, who cared little for his health if the caffeine consumption and chain-smoking was anything to go by. As far as I knew, the reason Adam had roped us in to help out was largely due to Uncle Eric's wavering health. No doubt it was a bonus that we were still in school so he could pay us minimum wage off the books. Kind of like a sweatshop for child labour.
He gave us an assessing look.
"We could do with some fresh blood around here. Tess and Ellie will be front-of-house in the restaurant."
There was a not-too-subtle agenda: Uncle Eric tended to work in a way of capitalising on people's strong points so as to attract the right clientele. Little did he know that I was silently freaking out over a coffee machine, let alone what else this job might entail. Just breathe, I told myself.
Just. Breathe.
As if sensing my unease, Adam elbowed me and threw me a friendly, reassuring smile. Ellie, who was as giddy as a schoolgirl, flashed me her pearly whites as if what Uncle Eric was saying was truly magical. I felt nauseous with information overload. I had only been inside the Onslow a few times for the odd dinner gathering, but Mum and Dad were not regular pub goers. They were more accustomed to wine and home-based dinners with close friends than pub hopping.
Now the beast of a coffee machine lay silent, the noise replaced by yet another scary sound: Uncle Eric wheezed out an uncomfortable series of chest-rattling coughs. I folded my arms and fought not to wince as the sound and smoke blew my way.
"Thought you quit that nasty habit, Unc."
An older version of Adam appeared through the divider that sectioned the main bar from the restaurant - Chris. He brushed past us in the small space, ensuring he slammed Adam hard in the arm as he made his way towards a lower cupboard, crouching to search for something. They never used to look alike. Adam went through a phase where he thought he was adopted because Chris looked so much like his parents, but nowadays there was no mistaking the resemblance. Lean, with clear alabaster skin, big deep, dark eyes, and dark unruly hair. The main differences were that Chris kept his hair cropped shorter, he was taller, and he held himself differently. Adam was a lot more outgoing whereas Chris was the far more serious sibling; he tended to go about in life as if the weight of the whole world rested on his shoulders.
Chris found an exercise book and flicked through it, a crinkle forming between his brows as he concentrated.
"What habit? Coffee or smoking?" Eric mused.
"Both," Chris muttered. His brow furrowed further as he thumbed each page.
When we arrived to begin our trial at the hotel, Adam had looked forlorn. Not a good sign. Not much seemed to worry Adam, but when I saw Chris behind the bar taking stock of inventory, I automatically knew the reason behind Adam's sullen mood without even having to ask. Uncle Eric had chosen Chris to manage the bar.
Smart move, Uncle Eric.
Knowing what Chris was like, we knew he'd run a tight ship and not give us an inch, especially Adam. Suddenly goofing off and free pool seemed like an impossible dream. This was strike one against the 'dream job' I had envisioned. Strike two quickly followed.
Uncle Eric moved aside.
"Tess, why don't you make Chris a coffee? Show us what you got."
Oh God! Why didn't I pay attention to how he did it?
I moved closer to the machine, fearing it would come alive and burn me with its evil steam spout. I was just about to fake the 'I totally know what I'm doing' routine when - saved by the bell! The bell being the distant jingle of jewelry and a gay, breezy voice that could not be mistaken for anyone other than Claire Henderson. Eric's younger, oddly glam, attractive wife. Well, glam and attractive for Onslow standards, anyway. I had heard Mum and Dad say on more than one occasion that it was an 'odd' marriage, and not just for the obvious aesthetic reasons. Claire had a tall slender frame dripped in Gucci and smothered in French perfume. Her silky, ash blonde hair was never out of place. I know opposites attract, but seriously? Claire Henderson leant over the bar, reaching for the keys to her Audi convertible.
"Hello, poppets! What do we have here?"
"Orientation," Chris said. He flipped through the mysterious exercise book but with less interest now.
"Of course. Adam these are your friends, the ones you always talk about? You must be Tess and Ellie."
We offered pleasant smiles; wait a minute, I'm wrong. I offered that smile. Ellie was beaming in such a way I feared we all may have been blinded by it. She stepped forward with an animated hair flick.
"I'm Ellie Parker, Mrs Henderson." She took Claire's hand to shake. "I love your shawl. Wherever did you get it?"
Claire Henderson honed in on Ellie with interest.
"Why, thank you. It was a gift, to me from me." She winked, and she and Ellie beamed at each other, instant friends. It was so clear, Claire Henderson could see herself in young Ellie Parker. It was a like magnetic pull towards each other, like for like.
Ellie beamed, Claire beamed. They didn't just enter into a room, they filled it with their vibrant energy and just when I was about to ask my own question about the shawl, Claire's bright, friendly eyes cut from Ellie to me and dimmed. A crinkle pinched between her perfectly manicured eyebrows, a crinkle that looked as though it really shouldn't be there considering I'd heard she had her plastic surgeon on speed dial.
"Ah, Tess, sweetie. Tut tut tut." She waggled her finger. "Uncross your arms and stand straight. Body language is everything."
I quickly unfolded my arms and stood straight like a soldier. All of a sudden I was very aware of every body movement I was going to make. What else did I do unconsciously that might be offensive? I blushed and felt like a naughty five year old.
Without further thought, Claire jingled her keys.
"I'm off now, poppets, don't work too hard."
Oh, we weren't allowed to work too hard or have bad body language, I thought bitterly. And on the same breeze Claire Henderson blew in on, she blew away. Probably to her townhouse in the city that Uncle Eric purchased for her. Another conversation overheard from my mum to one of her friends.
"They don't even live together! He has his pub; she lives in the city all week. What kind of marriage is that?" my mum would ask in dismay.
One that obviously skipped the 'in sickness and in health' vows, I thought, as I studied Uncle Eric's grey complexion. No doubt made worse by years of working indoors in a dark bar surrounded by cigarette smoke and a lifetime of pub meals. Was this what he meant by fresh blood? My heart sank. I knew it was only weekend work, but it was a weekend with minimal sunlight, no fresh air and no lake.
This was going to hurt.
The remainder of the trial went on in a string of awkward chaos, even when Uncle Eric retired himself to his residence upstairs. Crusty old Melba, the kitchen hand, took over some of the orientation. She whipped us into polishing silverware and glasses, folding napkins and various other jobs that we all apparently did 'wrong'.
"Hearts like a split pea, this generation, honestly." Melba snatched a napkin out of Ellie's hand and showed her how to fold it the 'right' way. It was nice to see not everyone succumbed to Ellie's charms. Not even Adam's good nature could steer Melba in a less moody direction. And he had known her all his life.
"Did she really babysit you when you we
re young?" I whispered to Adam who was helping me frantically to polish cutlery.
"She sure did," he sighed.
"That is the scariest thing I have ever heard," I said. "I didn't know your parents hated you."
"I guess when you have three boys you need the Terminator for the job."
We snickered, and her beady eyes settled on us from across the dining room. We quickly looked back down and polished like we were demons possessed.
I went to get a cloth from behind the restaurant bar when I noticed that the book Chris had been so focused on earlier was, in fact, a reservations book. I skimmed a couple of pages, working out just how busy to expect my days to get. I found today's page and saw a reservation circled in pink fluro texta. It highlighted something sinister. A lunchtime group booking for fifteen ? today!
My breath hitched. They knew about it all along? I wondered if Adam knew? Was this some kind of test? My heart pounded as the double doors swung open and a congregation of permed, blue-dyed hair poured slowly into the restaurant bringing with them a mass of high-pitched chatter.
Chris appeared beside me and reached for the book; he took in my ghost-white complexion with mock interest.
"I know, a pokies tour bus," Chris said as we watched elderly people flood into the restaurant. "It's as frightening as it looks."
What were they doing here? We didn't even have pokies, did we? Maybe they were just travelling through for lunch and then off to wreak five-cent havoc elsewhere. I swallowed my fear as a group assembled in front of me.
"Try not to stress, Tess. They can smell fear," Chris whispered into my ear. I barely registered his laughter as he returned to the main bar.
I would be fine, old people were nice. They would be easy, surely? Where on earth was Ellie? And Adam? They'd been at the table folding napkins a second ago, but the table stood abandoned now. All of a sudden the glint of spectacles shone my way in a domino effect. The old people shuffled towards me.
I fumbled for a notebook and pen, ready for action. Poised and standing straight behind the counter, I flashed what I hoped was a winning smile and not a scary one.
I can do this. No sweat, this I can do. Just take down the order and handball it to the kitchen. Piece of cake.
Just when I was about to write my very first order as a confident, gathered, working woman, the leader of the group merged forward. She smiled at me sweetly, putting me instantly at ease. Then she sucker punched me in the guts.
"We'll have twelve cappuccinos, please."
Shit.