The Girl You Left Behind

filled a glass with tap
     water and drank it.
    ‘Is Patrick coming round later? He
     rang here earlier. Did you have your mobile off?’
    ‘Mm.’
    ‘He said he’s after booking your
     holiday. Your father says he saw something on the television about it. Where is it you
     liked? Ipsos? Kalypsos?’
    ‘Skiathos.’
    ‘That’s the one. You want to
     check your hotel very carefully. Do it on the internet. He and Daddy watched something
     on the news at lunchtime. Apparently they’re building sites, half of those budget
     deals, and you wouldn’t know until you got there. Daddy, would you like a cup of
     tea? Did Lou not offer you one?’ She put the kettle on then glanced up at me.
     It’s possible she had finally noticed I wasn’t saying anything. ‘Are
     you all right, love? You look awfully pale.’
    She reached out a hand and felt my forehead,
     as if I were much younger than twenty-six.
    ‘I don’t think we’re going
     on holiday.’
    My mother’s hand stilled. Her gaze had
     that X-ray thing that it had held since I was a kid. ‘Are you and Pat having some
     problems?’
    ‘Mum, I –’
    ‘I’m not trying to interfere.
     It’s just, you’ve beentogether an awful long time.
     It’s only natural if things get a bit sticky every now and then. I mean, me and
     your father we –’
    ‘I lost my job.’
    My voice cut into the silence. The words
     hung there, searing themselves on the little room long after the sound had died
     away.
    ‘You what?’
    ‘Frank’s shutting down the cafe.
     From tomorrow.’ I held out a hand with the slightly damp envelope I had gripped in
     shock the entire journey home. All 180 steps from the bus stop. ‘He’s given
     me my three months’ money.’
    The day had started like any other day.
     Everyone I knew hated Monday mornings, but I never minded them. I liked arriving early
     at The Buttered Bun, firing up the huge tea urn in the corner, bringing in the crates of
     milk and bread from the backyard and chatting to Frank as we prepared to open.
    I liked the fuggy bacon-scented warmth of
     the cafe, the little bursts of cool air as the door opened and closed, the low murmur of
     conversation and, when quiet, Frank’s radio singing tinnily to itself in the
     corner. It wasn’t a fashionable place – its walls were covered in scenes
     from the castle up on the hill, the tables still sported Formica tops, and the menu
     hadn’t altered since I started, apart from a few changes to the chocolate bar
     selection and the addition of chocolate brownies and muffins to the iced bun tray.
    But most of all I liked the customers. I
     liked Kev and Angelo, the plumbers, who came in most mornings andteased Frank about where his meat might have come from. I liked the Dandelion Lady,
     nicknamed for her shock of white hair, who ate one egg and chips from Monday to Thursday
     and sat reading the complimentary newspapers and drinking her way through two cups of
     tea. I always made an effort to chat with her. I suspected it might be the only
     conversation the old woman got all day.
    I liked the tourists, who stopped on their
     walk up and down from the castle, the shrieking schoolchildren, who stopped by after
     school, the regulars from the offices across the road, and Nina and Cherie, the
     hairdressers, who knew the calorie count of every single item The Buttered Bun had to
     offer. Even the annoying customers, like the red-haired woman who ran the toyshop and
     disputed her change at least once a week, didn’t trouble me.
    I watched relationships begin and end across
     those tables, children transferred between divorcees, the guilty relief of those parents
     who couldn’t face cooking, and the secret pleasure of pensioners at a fried
     breakfast. All human life came through, and most of them shared a few words with me,
     trading jokes or comments over the mugs of steaming tea. Dad always said he never knew
     what was going to come out of my mouth next, but in the cafe it didn’t matter.
    Frank liked me. He was quiet by nature, and
     said having me there kept the place lively. It was a bit like being a barmaid, but
     without the hassle of drunks.
    And then that afternoon, after the lunchtime
     rush had ended, and with the place briefly empty, Frank, wiping his hands on his apron,
     had come out from behind the hotplate and turned the little Closed sign to face the
     street.
    ‘Now now, Frank, I’ve told you
     before. Extras are not included in the minimum