The very next morning, saw Stevie sitting in her kitchen surrounded by the aroma of warm croissants, and working on an advert. She intended to put it in the window and see what response she got. Ideally, she’d prefer someone who was a little older than her, someone with a sensible head on their shoulders, who she could leave in charge now and again. Someone she could gel with.
With a wry smile, Stevie realised what she was searching for was a friend. What she also realised was, having an employee for a friend wasn’t recommended. How bizarre – she was rushed off her feet, didn’t have a minute to herself, yet she realised she was lonely.
Yes, she talked to customers all day, every day, but it wasn’t the same as having someone to go out for a drink with, or who’d pop in for a cup of tea and a chat, was it?
Thinking about a chat, she checked the time. It was rather early but she’d give Karen a call anyway. It seemed ages since she’d spoken to her, although they’d texted like it was going out of fashion.
‘Long time, no hear,’ Karen said, as soon as she answered. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘You don’t fancy a job, do you?’ Stevie asked her.
‘You’re not thinking of quitting already?’
‘No! But I need an assistant. I can’t do this all on my own.’
‘Of course, you can’t,’ Karen said. ‘You need to advertise.’
‘That’s what I’m going to do. I just feel as though it should be easier than it is. I’ve worked in a top London restaurant, for goodness’ sake! This running a café business should be a piece of cake – excuse the pun. But it isn’t.’
‘It’s just a different type of hard work. If you can survive working for Corky Middleton you can survive anything. I only hope I can survive Freddie French,’ Karen added, naming her own devil-chef of a boss. ‘Sorry, I should have said “Frederique” – he thinks it sounds more continental.’ She snorted with derision. ‘He’s only got me moulding caramelized sugar around thimbles, then filling the little blighters with a crushed biscuit base, creamed cheese, and rose-hip coulis on the top. And he wonders why the punters complain it’s not even a mouthful. I could understand if he served several them on the same plate, and maybe in different flavours, but he gives the customer one. One, I ask you! The man’s so far up his own backside, he should wear a headtorch.’
‘Work is going well, then?’ Stevie said, smiling. See, this is what she missed – being able to have a good moan when things weren’t going right. Being able to share the highs and lows and the silly bits in-between. ‘You should suggest it to him,’ she added.
‘The headtorch?’
‘Several different flavours on the same plate.’
‘I did. He got me emptying the bins.’
‘But you’re a sous chef and a darned good saucier to boot!’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Karen’s sigh floated down the airwaves.
‘Come work for me,’ Stevie pleaded. ‘I promise I don’t own any thimbles.’
‘As tempting as it sounds, I like my life here. I’d miss London, being able to get a crepe at three in the morning; going to all the shows the minute they come out and not having to wait for them to appear in whichever remote part of the country you happen to live in; the designer shops; the weird and wonderful coffees; being able to hop on the Tube. Don’t you miss it?’
Stevie did, but she wasn’t going to admit it. ‘No, I’m too busy,’ she replied. ‘And since when have you been to a show? You hate them. And you can’t afford designer shops. All your stuff comes from Primark. It’s Oxfam not Oxford Street for the likes of us.’
‘Yeah, but the potential is there,’ Karen argued. ‘Besides, I don’t want to work for my best friend – it would be a recipe for disaster.’
Karen was probably right Stevie admitted, after they’d chatted for a bit until Karen had to dash off to get ready for work. She imagined her friend in her tiny flat, which she shared with three other people, and she was glad she had a two-bedroom flat all to herself. It might be above the shop, so switching off from work wasn’t always easy, but at least she didn’t have an hour commute each way. And at least she owned the place. It might not be in the centre of a throbbing metropolis, but it was all hers.
Suddenly homesick, Stevie picked up the phone and dialled her mum’s number. Her mother answered on the first ring, and Stevie felt a surge of love when she heard the familiar voice.
‘Mum. It’s Stevie.’
‘Who?’
‘Stevie. Your daughter.’
‘Oh, so you are. It’s been so long since I heard from you, I’d forgotten I had another daughter.’
‘Very funny. How are you?’
‘Fine, but my varicose veins are playing up again, and your father has got a nasty cold. He decided to take up fishing and fell in. Oh, and your nana’s gone to live with a man she met in Tesco. Since she’s had her hip done, she’s acting like a teenager.’
‘Well, well, good for her.’
‘You won’t say that when you know he’s twenty years younger than her, comes from Bolivia, has got no pension, and lives in a caravan. Fern says he only wants her for a visa, but I can’t see any bank giving him a credit card, can you?’
Stevie stifled her giggles.
‘And he’s probably only after her money,’ her mother continued.
‘I didn’t think she had any.’
‘Exactly,’ came the indecipherable reply.
‘Mum, let her be. She’s having fun.’
‘Fun? Fun! She’s eighty-three! It might kill her.’
‘So? She’ll at least die happy,’ Stevie pointed out.
‘I don’t know why she couldn’t have found someone her own age.’
‘There aren’t many men her own age still alive, Mum. Perhaps she’s in love.’
‘Love? Huh! You would have thought she’d have grown out of all that. Your father and I certainly have.’
‘Too much information,’ Stevie thought, cringing. She spent another few minutes listening to how well Fern and Derrick were doing, and then she said her goodbyes.
An intense feeling of discontent engulfed her as she put down the phone. Here she was, doing what she had always wanted to do (well, almost, she conceded – Peggy’s Tea Shoppe wasn’t exactly a Michelin star restaurant, but at least it was hers), and she still wasn’t happy. She spent every minute of every day working, was miles away from home, and had no social life. Even her nana was getting more action than her, Stevie thought, as she re-read her advert.
Satisfied with the wording, she stuck it on the window, changed the sign from “Closed” to “Open” and prepared to face another day.
A little bit later on that morning, she was bending over, peering into the display cabinet to check everything looked as good as it possibly could, when someone said, ‘I could do that.’
The quivery voice made Stevie jump, and she glared accusingly at the bell above the door. Now and again it failed to ring, and she was convinced it had a mind of its own.
‘Do what, Mrs George?’ Stevie asked, as she placed a teapot on a tray, and selected an English Breakfast tea bag. Mrs George had the same thing every morning, as regular as clockwork.
‘That there job. I could do with a bit of extra cash.’ The old lady hobbled to her favourite table in one of the bay windows and eased herself into a chair. She usually sat facing out, but this time she took a seat which gave her a good view of the shop and Stevie.
Stevie watched as she carefully propped her stick up and stuck her bad leg out in front of her and wondered how to break the news to the old dear.
‘Pah! With your memory? You’d have forgotten the order before you’d got to the counter,’ a voice from the corner said. It belonged to a woman of around eighty-years-old, dressed bizarrely in a flowing multi-coloured skirt, a T-shirt, and a floor length purple cape. She had been in several times and Stevie was beginning to think of her as a regular. ‘Now, I could do it with my eyes shut,’ the woman continued.
Not wanting to offend Mrs George, Stevie said, ‘We could give it a trial run, if you like. How about giving me a hand for an hour after you’ve had your tea?’
‘Oh, no dear, I can’t do Thursdays. I go to the doctors on a Thursday.’
‘Every Thursday?’
‘Mondays are too busy, what with all those people who were ill on the weekend, Tuesday is my Salvation Army day and Wednesday I like to go to my bridge club. I go to the doctors on a Thursday.’
‘I’m surprised you can get an appointment,’ the purple-caped woman piped up. ‘They’re always full when I ring for one.’
‘Oh, I don’t have an appointment,’ Mrs George said, airily. ‘I just like to sit in the waiting room and have a natter. Thank you, dear.’ This last was said to Stevie who had just placed the pot of tea in front of her. ‘And I think I’ll have one of those scones with jam and cream, or maybe a slice of cake. What are those?’ She pointed to a selection of individual tarts in a variety of flavours.
‘Would you like to come up to the counter and choose one?’ Stevie offered.
‘Not with my leg,’ she refused, firmly. ‘I can’t walk far, and I like to rest it as much as possible.’
‘Do you think you’d be up to being on your feet for a few hours every day?’ Stevie asked, gently.
‘I was thinking, I could sit here and shout the orders over to you,’ Mrs George suggested.
‘That’s great,’ Stevie said with a pained smile, ‘but what about serving, or clearing the tables.’
‘You can do that.’ Mrs George nodded to herself, as if the whole thing was a done deal.
‘Actually, Mrs George, I need someone who can run the shop while I’m in the kitchen.’
‘That’s no way to run a business,’ the old woman stated. ‘Lounging around while you get a poor old woman to run about for you.’
‘That’s not what—’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Mary,’ the woman in the corner said. ‘You can’t work here, and that’s final.’
‘Er…’ Stevie said.
‘Keep your nose out of my business, Betty Roberts. Go get your own job,’ Mrs George said.
‘This is my job,’ Betty replied loftily. ‘You’re just too stupid to see it.’
‘Er… ladies…’ Stevie tried to intervene.
Betty got to her feet, and Stevie realised that she was actually quite tall and lanky. She had orange wellies with big yellow flowers on her feet, and a pink beret completed her outfit.
‘Let me know when you want me to start,’ she said to Stevie and swished out of the door, her cape billowing out behind her, reminding Stevie of a geriatric, multi-coloured Batman.
Mrs George had also risen to her feet and was wrestling with her walking stick. ‘I don’t think I’ll be taking the job, after all,’ she called to Stevie from the doorway. ‘I don’t like cats.’
Eh? What was the old dear talking about? What did she mean, cats?
Stevie watched them both as they hurried down the street, not giving Mrs George a hope in hell of catching the sprightlier Betty Roberts, but at least their joint departure had removed the sticky issue of the job.
After thinking for a moment, Stevie removed the advert, added, “Please apply with a CV” and put it back up.
Then she screamed as something soft rubbed against her leg.
It was a little black cat.
At least that explained Mrs George’s parting comment.
‘Where did you come from?’ Stevie asked the feline, bending down to stroke it. ‘You can’t stay here, oh, no you can’t, no matter how cute you are.’
She opened the door, to usher the cat out but instead of leaving, the animal wove a figure of eight around her ankles.
‘Go on, shoo,’ Stevie said, trying to extricate her feet from the determined feline, and hopping on one foot as she tried to avoid stepping on it, and when that didn’t work, she picked it up and popped it on the pavement outside. ‘Be a good kitty and go home. I’ve got nothing for you here.’
The cat ignored her and shot back inside the tea shop. Stevie dashed after the animal, but there was no sign of it. Where did it go?
‘Here kitty, kitty.’ Stevie bent down to peer under the tables.
‘Here’s my CV.’
‘Arrgh!’ Stevie straightened up and banged her head on the underside of a table.
‘Sorry, but the door was open, so I assumed the café was too,’ a female voice said.
‘It is,’ Stevie rubbed her head and took the sheet of paper the woman was holding out. ‘That was quick.’
‘I always carry a few around with me. You never know when a job opportunity will arise. Like today.’ The woman laughed, a little nervously, Stevie thought.
Stevie scanned the CV. Cassandra Curtis, aged thirty-four, was more of an executive type than a waitress, if her employment history was to be believed.
‘All your previous jobs have been in London,’ Stevie noticed. ‘You’ve worked for a couple of big companies.’
‘And you’re wondering why I’m answering a “Help Wanted” ad in a little village in the middle of nowhere, right?’
‘Er… right.’
‘Because my husband and I live here. We both got fed up of the rat race and wanted a simpler way of life. Yeah, we got that all right.’ She sounded sad.
‘I’m sorry?’ It came out more of a question than an expression of sympathy.
‘We simply can’t afford all the repairs to the house and let’s not even begin talking about the outbuildings and the land. You see, we bought a smallholding, with grand ideas of being almost self-sufficient. If we could grow roof slates, I’d be a happy woman.’ Cassandra paused. ‘I know none of my previous jobs qualifies me for this one, but I’m a dab hand at mixing cement, and I’m a quick learner. Please, I need this job.’
Stevie didn’t like seeing anyone beg and the woman seemed nice enough. ‘One month trial?’ she offered.
Cassandra bit her lip and Stevie wondered whether she was going to laugh or cry. ‘You won’t regret it,’ she promised. ‘I scrub up well, honest.’ She gave an apologetic wave at her attire of muddy hiking boots, scruffy old Barbour jacket, and worn jeans. ‘I was off to the Post Office when I saw the advert. Then I was going home to wedge some buckets in the attic.’ She saw Stevie’s puzzled expression. ‘Rain is forecast for later. When do you want me to start?’
‘Oh, um, tomorrow?’
‘Great!’ Cassandra was beaming broadly, and Stevie noticed how pretty she was without the worried expression on her face. ‘Would a white shirt and black trousers be OK?’ the woman asked. ‘I’ve still got most of my old work clothes somewhere.’
‘Perfect. Welcome to Peggy’s.’ Stevie stuck out a hand and the two women shook on the deal.
‘I can’t wait to tell Aiden the good news,’ Cassandra cried as she headed for the door. ‘See you tomorrow, Peggy.’
‘I’m not Peggy,’ Stevie said. ‘My name is Stevie.’
‘Sorry, I just assumed… is it the cat’s name?’
‘What cat?’
Stevie had forgotten all about the little black cat, until she saw where Cassandra was pointing. The cat was perched quite serenely on top of the display cabinet, washing its face.
‘It’s not my cat,’ Stevie objected.
‘It seems to think it is,’ was Cassandra’s parting words as she skipped out of the door.
Stevie took the advert down and marched over to the cat. ‘You can’t be in here,’ she said, scooping the animal off the display cabinet, and making a mental note to disinfect both it and the counters. ‘What will the Health Inspector say?’
The cat meowed and rubbed its face against hers. It was certainly very friendly.
This time, when she put it outside the door, it stayed outside, jumping onto the windowsill and peering into the tea shop. All through the day, Stevie was conscious of those pleading green eyes following her, so it was inevitable the last thing she did before locking up was to pick the little bundle of fur up and take it upstairs to the flat.
‘OK, Peggy, you win,’ Stevie said, thinking the name was as good as any for now. ‘You can stay here for the night, but tomorrow I’m taking you to the vet, and seeing if you belong to anyone.’ Stevie didn’t know much about animals, but she did know that by law all dogs had to be microchipped – maybe cats did too.