The Bluebird Café (14 page)

He soaked a handful of beans overnight and then cooked them for fifteen minutes, just to soften them up. He stirred them into some samosa-filling mixture, and wrapped it up making a square to distinguish it from the rest of the batch. He carefully lowered it into the boiling oil, it fizzled and turned orangey-brown.

‘Giz one, Dad!' Gurpal's quick hand reached for the biggest one, the square one.

‘No!' He slapped her hand away.

‘Aw, Dad, why'd you bother to have me if you won't even give me a samosa?'

‘OK. Have one. Just one.' He handed her a neat triangle.

‘Why'd you bother making them when we've got half a trayful left downstairs?'

‘We can't always be eating the stock.'

He carried a plateful of them downstairs and sat behind the
counter, watching the cricket with the sound turned down and the radio commentary on, waiting for Paul.

Paul was in the café listening to the cricket while Lucy made pies and four customers spent an hour over three cups of coffee and a glass of tap water, and two chocolate shortbread biscuits. He could sense that they wouldn't leave a tip. Lucy ran out of eggs. He waited for tea before he nipped out to Vir's to buy four boxes of their eggs which claimed to be free range and were certainly mucky. On the box there was a picture of a hen standing under an apple tree.

‘Probably kept in a shed with one tiny window,' he told Gurpal who was putting cartons of Happy Shopper orange juice on shelves. She didn't reply. He picked up a coconut to cut in half for the birds and headed for the till. John Vir told himself to Act Natural. As Paul approached he bit into one of the homemade samosas.

‘Nice to have something to eat when you're watching the cricket.'

‘Lucy makes me lemonade,' said Paul. ‘Good for when it's really hot.'

‘We used to make ginger beer. I'll find the recipe for you. Here, try one of these.' He wrapped the square one in some kitchen roll and gave it to Paul. ‘Ketchup? I got a bottle here.'

Gurpal kept a bottle of ketchup under the counter to anoint stolen samosas and pakoras. He brought it out. The neck was clogged red and black, as though decapitated in a terrible accident.

‘I'll pass on the ketchup, thanks.' He bit into the samosa and John Vir gave him a strange look when he handed over a fiver.

‘No, no. On the house.'

‘For the eggs,' Paul explained, ‘and the coconut.'

‘Oh, those eggs. £4.56.'

John Vir piled them into a blue-and-white stripy polythene bag so thin that Paul hoped that sunlight might break it down before it was landfilled.

‘They're coming out again,' he nodded towards the screen.

‘Light looks bad though,' said Paul.

‘Might not last long.'

Paul left. He hurried to make it back to the café before play resumed. He dropped the samosa into a bin around the corner. He'd kind of gone off curried things since that meal at the Virs'. Back at the café he saw that the four customers had left him a 10p tip. A Jersey 10p.

‘Cheers,' he said, and put it in the box that they kept by the till.

John Vir spent the afternoon watching the cricket. It seemed like a good omen when India finished the day on 186 for 2.

Lucy came into the shop at ten to ten for paracetamol.

‘Paul isn't well?' he asked her.

‘No, they're just for me. Headache. That's all.' She was feeling sick too, kind of dizzy. ‘Too long slaving over a hot stove,' she told him.

‘You need a rest.'

‘Mmm. I know. One day.'

Lucy's ‘one day' was to live at Howards End, or somewhere pretty similar. Perhaps with a walnut tree and an orchard.

‘I'd like to keep bees,' she told him.

‘What?'

‘Oh, one day, we might move to the countryside, retire or do something else, you know …'

She could see herself reading in a hammock in the orchard, sitting in a beechwood steamer chair in the sun, coming back from the orchard with a basket of apples, or walking through the garden with a trug full of flowers or raspberries. Fennel was there, twining around her legs or sprawled on the hot flagstones. Paul was there too, somewhere, and there might be children playing in the apple trees.

Later that night, John Vir heard music coming from the café which was closed. At first he thought it was Lucy singing and Paul playing the violin, but then the whole orchestra joined in and he could make out some of the words. It was something about cigarettes, strangers and ashtrays.

He looked out of the window and saw Paul, not in his death throes, but walking along with that funny lope he had, carrying a rucksack. Outside the café he patted his pockets, dumped the rucksack on the pavement and started to search in that. No keys.

Then Lucy opened the door. The light shone bright behind her and she was as flat and thin as a Fuzzy-Felt figure, a ballerina from Gurpal's Fuzzy-Felt set, so long ago. The bright yellow board, like the light streaming out from the café now, the figures suspended. There was no floor, just flat sky, there were white felt birds (Gurpal called them seagulls, he told her that they were doves) and flowers and ballerinas and one male figure who could wear a blue cloak.

He saw Paul look up, surprised at the open door, and that
Lucy didn't step back to let him pass, but opened her arms and tilted her face upwards for a kiss. There was no stumbling, they were a pair, perfectly choreographed.

‘Dancing to their own music,' John Vir told himself. And he knew that he shouldn't interfere, that they should be happy together. He remembered how upset Gurpal had been when a Fuzzy-Felt picture had been scrambled back into the box. ‘I will love her from a distance,' he told himself.

The next day, John Vir was cutting up fresh chickens at the back of the shop. He had a sharp, strong cleaver worthy of an appearance on
Crimewatch,
that thwacked through flesh, separating wings and limbs from bodies, bone from flesh, spirit from soul. He rarely cut himself. The last time had been just after Mrs Vir left. He'd almost sliced off his thumb. He had worn a huge clumsy bandage for days. The loss of sensation made him feel giddy and underwater, even now as he thought about it. He decided to think of something else. Mmm, Lucy. Then he remembered his resolution. He would take them a present to make amends. Paul seemed to have survived that samosa. He looked around the shop for a present. Paper plates, ones that nobody would ever buy, thin and bent. No. It would look like rubbish. Plastic cups. No. A saucepan. They must have all that they needed. It should be something proper, not just excess stock. He could cook something, but perhaps Paul wouldn't trust his cooking again. Then he thought of ginger beer plants and the recipe he'd offered Paul. Perfect. He'd copy it out and take it round that afternoon, or maybe later that week. He could get Gurpal to type it up for him at college. It would be good practice for her too. Thwack. He finished the last of the chickens. He'd done forty of them that morning, a special
order for a wedding. He tipped the bucket of entrails, necks and feet on to some newspaper, parcelled it up and put it into the huge metal trade waste dustbin where the foxes might not get at it.

‘Aw, Dad,' said Gurpal. ‘What for?'

‘The café people.'

‘But why?'

‘Being neighbourly, Gurpal. They can use it in the café.'

‘What'll you give me?'

‘Quid.'

‘OK.' She shoved the recipe in her bag.

‘I want it today, my girl.'

‘Money upfront.'

‘Cash on delivery.'

‘Aw, Dad.'

‘Come here.'

Gurpal slouched towards him. He kissed the wonky parting on the top of her head and gave her a pound from his pocket.

‘Dad.' She pushed him away, but he thought that she looked a bit pleased.

Gurpal gazed through the Computer Studies window into the greyness outside. There were some pigeons pecking around a drain, but nothing or nobody worthy of her attention. She was meant to be doing spreadsheets, but she'd missed the last few lessons and wasn't quite sure what they were. She found the recipe her dad wanted typing and hoped that it would look like a spreadsheet.

Her lips moved slowly as she read:

1. Grow a Ginger Beer Plant with 2 oz baker's yeast in a jar with ½ pint water, 2 level tsp sugar and 2 level tsp ground ginger.

2. Feed it every day for the next seven to ten days by adding 1 tsp sugar and 1 tsp ground ginger. You will see your plant getting bigger every day.

3. Strain the mixture through a piece of muslin or a very fine sieve. Keep the sediment. It will make two new ginger beer plants, one for you and one for a friend. To the liquid add the juice of 2 lemons, 1 lb granulated sugar and 1 pint boiling water. Stir until the sugar has dissolved, then make up to 1 gallon with cold water.

4. Bottle the ginger beer. It must be kept for seven to ten days before drinking. Leave three inches breathing space in the top of each bottle and leave for two hours before putting the caps on loosely. Do not stand the bottles on a stone floor.

‘Gurpal Vir! What is that?'

Mrs Merstham's clicky red nail stabbed at the screen. Gurpal tried to melt, to slide lower into her chair.

‘Is that a spreadsheet?' Mrs Merstham demanded.

‘I dunno, Miss.'

‘What is it then, Gurpal?'

‘Um, nothing, Miss … just a recipe. My dad wanted it typed.'

‘Well! Do I deliver this module to enable students to type favours for their families?'

‘No, Miss.'

‘Then get rid of it.'

‘Yes, Miss.'

‘I want that spreadsheet finished and on my desk by the end of the period.'

‘Yes, Miss.'

There was a cry of despair from the other side of the room.

‘Carrie Chitty, what is wrong now?'

‘Saved!' Gurpal told herself as Mrs Merstham hovered over her next victim. Gurpal clicked on Save and then Print. She had most of the recipe done, all the ingredients and that.

‘What the fuck's a spreadsheet?' she asked the girl sitting next to her. ‘Giz yours.' She set to work copying it. The numbers wouldn't stay in their columns, but if you read it diagonally it was more or less the same.

‘Here you are, Dad.'

John Vir was surprised. Gurpal never gave him anything. It was the ginger beer recipe.

‘Did it at college for you, didn' I.'

‘Thanks, love. Here you go.'

He gave her two pound coins from the till, forgetting that he'd already paid her, and that they'd agreed on a pound.

‘Thanks, Dad.' Gurpal was out the door before he might realise his mistake. It was neatly typed. He smiled. Gurpal was good at this anyway. He folded it into one of the brown paper bags he usually used for samosas and put it behind the till. He'd take it round later that evening.

Lucy was alone behind the counter with a book when he walked in. There were just two occupied tables, students eating puddings. Lucy was surprised when the door opened. Not many people came in after nine. She looked up, annoyed. She didn't want to do any more dinners. She hoped that they'd just want coffee. Then it was him.

She shoved her book under the counter – a girl caught reading in class – she bit her lip, gave a guilty smile. John Vir was coming towards her with a very flat paper bag. She blushed, felt silly for blushing, blushed even more.

John Vir just saw Lucy, pink and pretty, smiling at him.

‘I've brought you something, for your café. Instructions.'

‘Instructions?' Lucy thought. ‘What, business tips? Getting customers? Increasing profits?' She drew the folded sheet out of the bag, feeling like a celebrity announcing an Oscar.

‘Gurpal typed it at her college,' he told her.

‘Well, it's really neat, tell her. Give her my congratulations,' she said. It sounded silly, but she couldn't concentrate to read what it was. She tried harder, focused.

‘Oh, a recipe. Thank you! Ginger beer. I've always meant to do this. We'll definitely have a go at this. Thank you! It's really kind.' And before she thought of what she was doing she came out from behind the counter and kissed him on the cheek.

The black clouds lifted.

The sun shone.

The ice in his heart melted.

The frog turned into a prince.

The Disney bluebirds sang in the corners of his mind,

And

Snow White threw open the shutters to a beautiful new morning.

‘I'm not sure how long Abigail will be here for,' said Lucy.

‘I didn't know she was here. She doesn't usually do Thursdays, does she?' said Paul, his eyes drifting back to the tray of Shasta daisies that he was pricking out.

‘Can we eat those?' Lucy asked him.

‘They aren't nasturtiums. Or marigolds.'

‘But can we?'

‘No.'

‘She's applied for a place on a dig in Suffolk. Teague too.'

‘Him …'

‘It's a two-year project. They'd move. They'd have to live in tents at first. Abigail says she wouldn't mind, but it'll be a different matter when the perfect bob is iced over.'

‘Ha!' said Paul, who wouldn't really miss them very much.

‘And Teague's feet would suffer. He'd probably insist on wearing his high-performance sports sandals in the snow … I don't know how Abigail can be in love with someone who thinks that those are acceptable footwear. Or who has such a self-indulgent name, or who is so keen on medieval things.'

‘But, Lucy, some of the medieval gardens must have been very beautiful.'

‘Imagine a world without potatoes and tomatoes. Just turnips, and lice in your armpits. And you'd be old at thirty. I know. I did it for A level. Even Robin Hood probably didn't exist. It
would be really hard to manage without Abigail. I don't want anyone else involved!' she railed.