I’m struggling, right now, to separate the days from the nights. To remember what I did yesterday, this morning, an hour ago. All these years I’ve been hiding from the past and now my memory is pinned so far back I’ve forgotten what it means to live in the present day.
Last week I slept in late, left the customers standing out in the cold until most of them turned round and made their way to the big Starbucks at the bottom of the hill, where the tea costs three times the price but at least you know someone will remember to open the bloody door. Fionnoula let it go, laughed it off and said she hoped whatever it was that had kept me up half the night was worth her caff going down the pan. But then it happened again this morning.
She’s been watching me like a hawk all day, biding her time, waiting for a lull in the endless serving of teas and coffees and bacon butties so that she can corner me. I’ve been doing all I can to stay out of her way, and as my shift draws to an end I slink across the caff, keep my head bent low as if that might help. But Fionnoula won’t let me escape that easily, pulling me up in the passageway between the kitchen and the little pantry at the back.
What’s going on with you? she says.
I try to keep my face blank, tell her I don’t know what she means. She crosses her arms over her chest, gives a deep sigh, and in that moment I have the sense of Fionnoula and Mary’s lines blurring together so that I’m no longer sure who I’m talking to, which life I’m in, which version of myself I am. I put out a hand to steady myself against the wall, try to herd my thoughts, the plaster against my palm belonging to both the caff and the pub all at once. Someone is saying my name, a singsong lilt, and then a hand is under my elbow, Fionnoula’s touch bringing me back together, pulling me into the present day. I frown her face into focus, see the worry lines creasing around her mouth.
Come and sit down, love. Take it easy for five minutes, will you? she says, leading me out to one of the tables, maneuvering me onto a chair. And for goodness’ sake, tell me what is going on.
In the background Ali makes us a pot of tea, carries it through on a tray and places it gently in front of us. I smile my thanks and he squeezes my shoulder, looks on me with his kind eyes before walking back into the kitchen. Fionnoula turns to me again.
Is there something I can help with, love? Anything at all?
I shake my head, reach for the cup, but the tremble in my hand makes the tea slosh onto the tabletop and then on my thighs, burning through the cheap fabric of my trousers.
Oh dear, oh dear. Fionnoula starts flapping about, dabbing at the mess with a damp dishcloth that only serves to make everything soggier than it already is. I hope that might be enough to distract her, but then she carries on.
You know, she is saying, you’ve been off for a while now, ever since that fella came in, I swear it is. What’s his name? He did tell me…D-something. Daniel, is it?
I look up at her sharply. Not Daniel, I say. It’s Denz.
Denz, that’s it! Denz. Well, it’s ever since he’s been around, there’s been something different with you, love. And, you know, you know I’m not one to pry. But I can’t help but worry; it’s not like you, all this forgetfulness and sleeping in and never quite knowing if you’re coming or going. I mean, you’ve always had your quirks, Jen love. But it’s more than that now, isn’t it? She pauses, laying her warm hand tenderly over mine. You know, Ali and I are so fond of you. But this is our livelihood too, we have to look after it. And if you think that the early starts are getting to be too much, if you’ve maybe been staying out late or seeing this Denz fella—
How many times? I snap. I’m not seeing Denz, not like that. I’ve not been going out, I just…
Just what, love? Fionnoula takes my hand in both of hers, the warmth of the gesture making me want to curl up in a ball.
I’m sorry, Fi, ignore me, I say quietly. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You don’t need all this. I shouldn’t be making your life difficult.
Oh, Jen, she says, edging her chair closer to me now, circling an arm around my shoulder. Don’t be daft. You make our life better—I hope you know that. I don’t know what we’d do without you, love.
I want time to slow, to stay here in the safety of this moment. To lean into Fionnoula, trust her with all the truth that I’ve buried. And I want to believe that she would listen, that it wouldn’t make her turn on me. I want to believe it so much.