‘Why do anarchists drink herbal tea?’
Stef crouched, sandy hair wavy as spaghetti, wearing a jumper you could use to drain pasta.
Click, click. Eyes level with the cooker knobs, one thumb on the ignition. ‘There’s a trick to this. In a minute, it’ll...’
The nearest gas ring flared and spluttered. A bloom of fire exploded, clouding close to Stef’s eyebrows.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s it going. Did you hear the click?’ Stef stood, and opened the nearest cupboard. ‘You have to keep pressing and unpressing the ignition, then when you hear the click, turn the cooker knob about halfway up – but not too fast. That’s the only way to get the rings lit. It’s a bit temperamental, but you’ll soon get used to it.’
‘Is it because all proper tea is theft?’
‘Hmm?’ Stef inspected a bent tin of kidney beans.
‘Why anarchists drink herbal tea – is it because all proper tea is theft?’
In response, a quizzical look. ‘Didn’t I tell you that one a minute ago?’ Stef felt around the worktop. ‘Tin opener. Tin opener.’
Samhain took a scourer, and ran the tap over it. People left the cafe in a real mess. He’d only been here an hour, and already found spilled beer, sticky and dried, in cloudy brown patches all over the serving hatch side. It had taken him half an hour of scrubbing to get it up, and he’d had to throw the sponge away afterwards. ‘Back pocket,’ he said.
‘Hmm?’
‘The tin opener. It’s in your back pocket.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Stef whipped it out, grinding its blunt teeth against the can top. ‘Now.’ He frowned over the top of his glasses. ‘Is this your first time making a bean burger?’
‘No.’ Open cupboard doors: Samhain took boxes and packets down, to wipe down the insides. They kept – and to him, this was the most impressive part – a whole cupboard full of herbs and spices, and eighteen different kinds of herbal tea.
‘You’ve made bean burgers from a packet, I expect.’
‘Yes.’
‘This is different. You may think you know how to make a bean burger. What’s that?’ Stef reached across, and plucked apart an old, dusty packet of star anise. ‘Look at the date on that. 1996. This should be in a museum.’ He flicked it into the bin. ‘Well, what I’m about to teach you today is going to blow your mind. Or something. You see, here, on gig nights, we never make burgers from packets, no. Today, Samhain, you are going to learn one of the best kept secrets of the club – how to make a Social Club Beanburger. It’s only ever made here, using a recipe closely guarded by a select group of anarchists, and only ever handed down through anarchist hands.’ Stef rustled through a plastic bag of new ingredients. ‘It’s also in the club cookbook, but whoever wrote it down made a mistake. They forgot to say...’ drawing out a bag of flour, of millet; beetroot, newly purple and fresh from the ground, still wearing wet soil on its skin: ‘...they forgot to mention the cabbage.’ Stef tossed the beetroot into the sink, rubbing the earth from his hands. ‘It’s better with it, but sometimes you have to manage your best without.’
Samhain sliced potatoes for chips as the band arrived. Six of them, dirty-faced, with sleeping bags and banjos, came in looking as though they were trying to find their location on a map. The smell coming off them was something far stronger than you got from a week on the road: he watched them walk through the cafe with their bags and their cases, vests hanging loose from their shoulders, and tried hard not to slice his fingers.
Frying onions gave off a hearty, caramelising smell. Pan clattering and hammering on the ring as Stef poked them with a spoon. ‘Wait until they’re lovely and brown,’ he said. ‘How are you getting on with them potatoes?’
‘Perfect.’ The last of the boys went through the gig room door, tote bag in hand, guitar leads trailing from the zipper. Samhain laid raw potato carefully in strips on kitchen roll, sprinkling them in a glittering snowfall of salt. ‘Stef, do you ever miss touring?’
‘What?’
Pushing glasses back up his nose, glancing at the closing door to the other room.
The smash of cymbals falling, a shouted curse. The door opened and two of the band came out again, eyes blackened and heads hanging, hands empty. ‘Did you bring the guitars in yet?’ one said to the other.
‘Still in the van – and the bass cab,’ said the other. ‘Pete better not leave it all to us this time.’
His companion rolled his eyes, scurrying after.
‘Miss it?’ Stef nodded at the two lads. ‘No way. I like sleeping in my own bed too much.’ He grinned. ‘Are you thinking of leaving us already?’
‘I don’t think so.’ The smell of the onions was making him hungry, and Samhain found that he didn’t much mind.
He noticed he was humming.
Lemmers came in, carrying a big plastic box full of microphones and DI boxes.
‘Hello,’ he said, putting it down on the serving hatch.
‘Hello.’ Samhain was grating carrots, a whole bag of them, like Stef had told him to.
‘Well.’ The box lid loose on one side; Lemmers tried to squeeze it closed. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. Are you volunteering in the cafe now?’
Lemmers fiddled with switches and knobs, turning things on, off, up, down. Adjusting levels on a rack mount that wasn’t even plugged in.
‘Seems that way. This is my first time.’ Samhain put the bowl to one side, and rubbed knives and forks clean and dry with a towel. ‘We’ll have to see whether they’ll have me back a second time.’
He seemed very interested in the knobs, staring at them even while Samhain shredded the carrots, even while he put two wooden spoons into the salad bowl to turn the leaves. ‘I bet they will,’ he said. ‘People are always needed in the cafe.’
‘Lemmers.’ Samhain laid knives and forks down in the cutlery tray. ‘I’m sorry I ruined the tour.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Lemmers hesitated, tipping one corner of the box up, then the other. ‘I don’t think anybody really blamed you. We all knew you were going through some... you know. Nobody minded.’
‘But what about Ned – wasn’t he...?’
‘Oh yeah, Ned. We had to take him to Dutch A&E at four in the morning. That wasn’t great. His girlfriend went mental – she wanted him to go straight home, but he stayed. Not that he could play anything for the rest of the tour, not with all the stitches. Still...’ Lemmers picked up his box. ‘It got him out of carrying anything heavy for the rest of the way around.’
‘And Romey?’
‘What about Romey?’
‘Wasn’t he pissed off?’
‘Ah, no.’ Lemmers grinned. ‘Romey forgot about the whole thing after a couple more drinks. I think he was just glad to be out of the house. Good to see you again, man.’
Later, Samhain cleaned the cooker. Washed every mug, put all of the spoons and forks and everything else away, ready for the next person to come and mess it all up again before he was next in.
It was late. The band were still banging and scraping away in the gig room, making their noise over the speakers, even though half the audience had already left. They had gone yawning, or running to catch their last bus.
Samhain was packing his bag when the text came through.
So how come ur cooking now? U never used 2 do that wen we were 2getha!
Charley.
He switched the cooker off at the wall, and turned the lights off in the kitchen. Left the damp tea towel hanging over the oven door handle.
He texted back: I must have changed! He added: Stefan taught me.
Closed the door, pulled the latch over the serving window. Called out: ‘Night, Rawlplug,’ to the barman.
‘Night.’
Charley replied when he was around the back of the club. Outside in the dark, unchaining his bike from the rack.
U can come Sunday pm 2 meet Astrid if u like. We’ll be at my mum’s. Come @2.
He texted back: I’ll be there.
He wondered whether her boyfriend would be there too. She’d got this guy called Tom, somebody she’d apparently met through work, or so he’d heard. People said he was a great guy. Very clean, very straight up. Tidy clothes and short back and sides. Looked ordinary, but he was anything but. Samhain knew this, because he’d been asking around about Tom for a couple of weeks, and nobody had a bad word to say about him.
So this much he knew: Tom was steady, Tom paid his bills on time and never owed money. Tom had once spent a year in the former Yugoslavia doing good works that nobody could exactly name. He still went back sometimes to give a lick of paint to the school or hospital he had helped build. He did some kind of voluntary work with asylum seekers that was maybe giving legal advice, or something to do with housing. Samhain was not sure how he’d also had time to get together with a woman.
This was something nobody knew, what exact date to put on Tom and Charley’s relationship. ‘I don’t know, a couple of years maybe?’ one person had said; another, ‘Must be about a year. No, maybe nine months. No wait, it might be six.’
The boyfriend he knew about, but not how long the boyfriend had been the boyfriend. They could have been together when Astrid was small. When she was still a red-faced, crying thing with weak legs and strong lungs. This Tom might have held her while she still needed her neck supporting, rocking her when she screamed, changing her nappies. May have been there before she was even walking. When Astrid hadn’t fully gained vision yet, before she could even have known the difference between one large pink human-shaped blob and another.
She might even be calling him ‘Dad.’
He texted a second time: Does she know I’m her father?
No reply. For hours and hours and hours.