I stand back, with my hands on my hips, and gaze around me. The Cosy Kettle is looking fabulously festive, if a tad over-blinged. The plastic angel with hair like golden candyfloss is maybe a bit OTT with her flashing neon halo.
Millicent obviously thinks so. She’s staring at the angel with her mouth open as its halo blinks on and off, at the top of the tree. She folds her arms across her ample bosom and frowns.
‘Where on earth did that monstrosity come from, Becca? Oh, don’t tell me. Stanley!’
I nod. ‘He brought it along specially because it was a favourite of his wife’s. He said Christmas wasn’t Christmas until Edna came out of her box.’
‘Edna?’
‘That’s what they called the angel,’ I say, hoping that Millicent isn’t about to cause a non-festive fuss. ‘She looks like Stanley’s Auntie Edna, apparently.’
‘Only if she wafted round in a cheap nightie, never brushed her hair and flashed at all and sundry.’
Is Millicent making a joke? I giggle but stop when she glares at me, although I’ve learned since I started working at The Cosy Kettle that Millicent’s bark is worse than her bite. She lives in an amazing house in the posh village next to Honeyford and puts on airs and graces, but I reckon she’s quite lonely really. Why else would she spend so much of her time in here, a small café in the back of a little Cotswolds bookshop?
‘What about everything else?’ I ask, tilting my head at the decorations I came in early to put up. Shining strands of red and silver tinsel are looped across the walls, sparkly gold stars are hanging from the ceiling, and I’ve draped pink fairy lights along the shelves. A tall, slightly listing fir tree in the corner is dripping with red baubles and glass snowmen, and a plastic reindeer with a light-up nose is standing on the counter, near the till.
Millicent sniffs. ‘It’s rather more…’ – she hesitates – ‘showy than I’d choose. Live by the old adage “less is more”, and you can’t go wrong, in my book. Personally, I can’t bear an overly colourful Christmas.’
She’d hate my parents’ house, then. Dad decks the outside of the building with enough lights to drain the National Grid, and inside, it’s a riot of rainbow colours and tatty papier-mâché decorations that Jasmine and I made at school.
Thinking of Mum and Dad makes me feel guilty because I haven’t visited them for a while. Mum rang yesterday to let me know that Jasmine had called in, and there was a hint of reproach in her voice along with the unspoken question: How come you and Jasmine are so different?
Jasmine and I are sisters – twins, actually, but no one would guess it. Jasmine, older than me by a few minutes, is the family’s golden girl. She’s poised and confident and only has hissy fits in private – usually in front of me. Whereas I’m a bit of a disaster: shy, scared of just about everything, and prone to occasional panic attacks in public. It doesn’t seem fair, really, that my sister sucked out all my good genes in the womb, like a tiny foetal vampire, and claimed them for herself.
I glance at my reflection in the glistening chrome coffee machine and sigh. We even look different. Jasmine’s long blonde hair tumbles around her perfect heart-shaped face. She’s all ephemeral, glowing beauty, and drop-dead gorgeous.
My oval face is pale against my hair which is dyed sapphire blue and cut much shorter. My features are regular and my eyes – arguably my best feature – are green and fringed with dark lashes. I’m more not bad, does the best she can attractive. Zac, my housemate, did tell me I was pretty, a while back, but I don’t think he had his glasses on at the time.
But at least I’m happy here. I look around the glittering café and smile. Serving coffee and cake might not be everyone’s idea of a high-flying career but I get pleasure from doing a good job. And I feel safe in this little back room that’s been transformed into a welcoming space where people can meet and relax.
I’ve been happier generally since I moved – or rather, fled – from Birmingham to Honeyford ten months ago. The country town’s butter-yellow buildings and the rolling Cotswold Hills beyond are cheerful. They lift my mood and make life seem less likely to end in disaster.
Yes, things have definitely improved since I helped to set up the café and ended up working here full-time when it got busy. And I’ve got used to the regular customers, who are starting to accept me – people like Millicent and Stanley, who belong to the afternoon book club that’s meeting here this afternoon.
Millicent has wandered back to the club members who are huddled together in a corner of the café. Behind them on the wall is a large poster of a fir tree that’s so thickly covered in sparkling snow, it looks like it’s coated in tiny diamonds. I expect she’ll have a go at me about that later on, too.
But she looks content for the moment, sitting with her book club friends, who have become a close-knit gang of five, in spite of all being very different.
As well as Millicent and Stanley, there’s knackered new mum, Mary, Stanley’s friend Dick – who looks more like Father Christmas every day with his long white beard – and Phyllis.
When I glance at Phyllis, she catches my eye and gives me a wave from her wheelchair. She’s become a surrogate gran to me since we met near the river, back in the spring. I was worried her chair was about to roll into the water. Of course; it was a disaster waiting to happen. But she assured me that her chair’s brakes were on and she wasn’t about to drown.
That would have been that, but sadness was coming off her in such waves, I couldn’t just walk away. So we talked and she told me about her husband who’d died and her daughter and grandchildren who’d moved to Australia. And we kept in touch. There’s a soothing matter-of-factness about Phyllis that cuts through my brain’s overactive alarm system and makes me feel calmer.
A clipped voice suddenly cuts into my thoughts. ‘I said I’d like a double espresso, if it’s not too much trouble.’ When I turn around, there’s a short balding man in a suit behind me. He’s drumming his stubby fingers on the café counter. ‘And could you turn the music down? I might need to take an important work call and it’s far too loud.’
‘No problem,’ I say, scooting behind the counter to turn down the volume on Wham!’s ‘Last Christmas’ – though it wasn’t very loud to begin with. ‘Can I get you something to eat as well?’
The man glances at the magnificent cake display laid out in front of him and sniffs, as though there’s a bad smell. ‘I don’t think so. And can you hurry up with the coffee because I have an appointment to keep. I haven’t got all day.’
The man’s just being an arse and I shouldn’t let him get to me. But my hands start shaking as I tamp down the ground coffee beans and choose one of our patterned china cups. Thick treacly liquid starts dribbling from the spout of the coffee machine as the man stares at me.
‘There you go,’ I say, placing his drink on the counter in front of him. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’
‘Hmm.’ He inspects the espresso, wrinkling his nose. ‘How much is that?’
‘One pound eighty please.’
When the man hands over a crisp ten-pound note, I ring up the purchase at the till and count out his change. He squints at the money in his hand and frowns.
‘You’ve short-changed me. I gave you twenty pounds.’
‘You gave me a ten-pound note.’
‘No, I definitely gave you twenty which means that I need more change. I’m hardly going to pay eleven pounds and eighty pence for this, am I?’ He nods at his coffee, which is sending wisps of steam towards the tinselly ceiling.
‘I’m sure you gave me ten pounds.’ I don’t sound that sure because my voice has gone all wobbly.
‘I know what I gave you and it was a twenty-pound note,’ retorts the man, raising his voice.
Members of the book club glance up and stare at us as the man’s mobile phone starts ringing. Its shrill tone vibrates across the café.
He pulls the phone from the front pocket of his suit jacket and clicks onto the call. ‘Hello, Martin. Would you mind if I called you back in two minutes? Yes, absolutely, I won’t be long but I’m being ripped off in a café and need to sort things out.’
Being ripped off? My cheeks start to burn as he ends the call and holds out his hand, palm up, waiting for more change.
‘I really don’t have time for this,’ he says, his voice getting even louder. ‘I’m a busy man with places to be so just give me the correct change and we can both get on with our lives.’
I hesitate as Wham! fades to nothing and blood starts pounding in my ears. I’m absolutely certain that the man gave me a ten-pound note. If it was my money, I’d give him change for a twenty, just to make him go away – but it’s not. The money belongs to Flora, who owns The Cosy Kettle, and she’s trusting me to keep a careful eye on it.
‘Is everything all right over here, Becca?’
Phyllis has zoomed up so fast in her wheelchair, the man had to take a swift step backwards to avoid being run over.
‘Yes, thank you, Phyllis,’ I say, swallowing hard as Stanley wanders over behind her.
‘Are you having a bit of a prob, hun?’ he asks me, adjusting his low-slung jeans which reveal a glimpse of white underpants. He’s wearing a Killers T-shirt and a denim jacket and must have been freezing, walking through Honeyford. But, as he informed me earlier, ‘Fashion comes before comfort. That’s what I’ve discovered.’
He’s discovered a lot of things since he hit eighty earlier this year, including a death wish according to his granddaughter, Callie. His quest to be his ‘true self’ before he kicks the bucket is turning poor Callie prematurely grey.
But I think Stanley is brilliant. The way he mangles youth slang is a bit like nails down a blackboard sometimes, and his scrawny buttocks in tight jeans are disconcerting. But I admire his courage and the fact he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. It’s the type of kick-ass attitude to which I can only aspire.
‘This girl has short-changed me, though I don’t see why that’s any of your business,’ huffs the man, his fleshy face turning puce. Anger is bristling off him and I soak up his agitation like a sponge. My heart is hammering and my throat has started to tighten, even before I spot Millicent striding over to join us.
She looks the man up and down and barks: ‘This girl is called Becca and we’re her friends so it’s definitely our business.’
‘I’m sure Becca can look after herself.’
Before I can agree and try to cool things down, Stanley leaps in. ‘That’s where you’re very wrong, mate. Becca’s a bright and caring young woman, but she needs looking after. She’s fragile.’
The man pulls back his shoulders. ‘Then she really shouldn’t be in charge of this tin-pot café and short-changing customers.’
‘Tin-pot café? How dare you!’ snorts Phyllis, as Mary and Dick join the throng.
Everyone starts arguing with the man while I stand there, like a right lemon, wondering how to defuse the situation. As the arguing continues, the angel’s halo blinks on the tree and the man’s coffee cools.
‘Please stop arguing, everyone, and I’ll sort this out,’ I say, but no one’s listening. The Christmas soundtrack that’s been adding festive cheer to the café all morning is completely drowned out by the sound of raised angry voices.
Suddenly, Flora’s loud voice cuts across the mayhem. ‘What the hell is going on? It sounds like a zoo in here.’ She marches across the café and stands with her hands on her hips in front of the throng which has gone quiet. ‘Well, Becca?’
I swallow as all eyes turn to me. ‘This gentleman…’
‘Not much of a gentleman,’ mutters Phyllis.
I clear my throat and try again. ‘This gentleman ordered a coffee and says that I haven’t given him enough change.’
‘So why is everyone else getting involved?’ asks Flora, brushing dark hair from her face. She looks totally bemused.
‘Becca can’t look out for herself so we were looking out for her,’ declares Stanley, blinking behind his John Lennon specs. ‘It’s like The Three Musketeers in The Cosy Kettle. One for all and’ – he does a swift head count – ‘six for one. We never leave one of our own behind. Not in the face of enemy fire.’
‘Too much,’ murmurs Dick, behind him, shaking his head. ‘Always too much.’
Flora places a steadying hand on Stanley’s shoulder. ‘Coming to Becca’s aid is admirable but I’m sure it’s not necessary. So perhaps you could all go back to your table and talk about books and I’ll sort this out.’
With a fair bit of grumbling, the club members head back to their abandoned coffees and Flora addresses the disgruntled customer, who’s still proffering his hand for more change.
‘I do apologise for the fuss. Perhaps you could tell me what the problem is?’
‘And you are?’ asks the man, coldly.
‘I’m Flora Morgan and I own this café and Honeyford Bookshop.’
‘I see. Then you should know that your employee… Becca, is it? She’s only given me change for a ten-pound note when I gave her twenty. And then those people over there joined in and were most abusive. I must say I’ve never had treatment like this before in a retail establishment.’
‘What exactly did you order?’
‘A double espresso – which has gone stone cold.’ When he pushes the cup across the counter, thick dark coffee slops over the rim and into the saucer.
Flora goes to the till, opens it and pulls out a crisp ten-pound note which she hands to the man.
‘Here’s your money, sir, and I’m very sorry about what’s happened. Becca will make you another double espresso on the house and perhaps you’d like a mince pie or a slice of Christmas cake to go with it? Please take your pick.’
She gestures at the fabulous array of festive confectionery on display – snowmen made of gingerbread, sticky cinnamon and cranberry buns, tiny Christmas puddings in silver fluted cases, and thick chunks of yule log covered in chocolate frosting.
But the man doesn’t even look. ‘Don’t bother. I don’t intend to stay in here a moment longer than necessary. And I won’t be back.’ He strides to the door before stopping and turning round. ‘Oh, and perhaps it would be best not to have someone “fragile”,’ – he puts the last word into ironic air quotes – ‘in charge of your café.’ With that, he strides out, slamming the door behind him.
As the bang echoes through the café, Flora turns to me with her arms folded and her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘What on earth, Becca? You shouldn’t have let things get out of hand like that.’
‘I’m so s-sorry,’ I stutter, feeling awful. ‘I’m sure he gave me a ten-pound note, and then everyone piled in when we started discussing it. I realise I should have handled the situation better.’
‘Yes, you should have. We can’t afford to upset customers.’ Flora’s face softens. ‘But the book club can be rather overwhelming at times.’ She sighs and her shoulders drop. ‘It’s OK, Becca. These things happen. But please don’t let anything like that happen again.’
‘Of course not. I promise.’
When Flora has disappeared back into the bookshop, I clear away the man’s cold coffee and turn up the Christmas soundtrack – though Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ doesn’t match my mood.
‘You all right, Beccs?’ shouts Stanley across the room. ‘Did she tear you off a strip? She’s a cool dude, that Flora, but she can be a bit in your face at times.’
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him, collecting up used mugs and plates and sweeping cake crumbs into the bin. But the truth is I’m not fine. I’m gutted that I’m seen as fragile and in need of rescuing – like an abandoned puppy. I’m twenty-five, for goodness’ sake, and should be able to stand up for myself.
But even though Stanley’s ‘fragile’ description was harsh – his insistence on telling it like it is can be a pain at times – it was the man’s follow-up remark that really hit home. Maybe he’s right and someone like me doesn’t have the personality and the mental resilience needed to run a place like this. Flora believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, but perhaps that was her heart talking rather than her head.
I reach below the counter for my bag and find my purse. I’m convinced that the man did give me a ten-pound note, which means Flora is out of pocket because I messed up and didn’t handle things properly. Pulling out a tenner, I place it carefully into the till. I can’t really afford it, especially with Christmas presents to buy, but it seems only fair.
Ten minutes later, I’m too busy to fret about what happened. There’s no room for negative feelings when you’re making coffee with one hand, serving cake with the other, and advising a small child with a death wish not to clamber up the Christmas tree.
But I start reliving the scene as I’m walking home through Honeyford, and go over what I should have said. By the time I reach the honey-hued arches of the mediaeval market house I’ve taken charge of the situation. Before walking past the weathered war memorial, I’ve confidently told the book club to back off. And as I turn off the High Street into Weavers Lane, I’ve asserted with such conviction that Rude Man is mistaken about his change, he’s begging for my forgiveness. There’s no messing up, no shouting, and no boss thinking that her mistake was in employing me in the first place.
If only we could rewind time and live life with the benefit of hindsight. I’d have done so many things differently. In fact, I’d be a completely different person. I’d certainly have handled the break-up of my relationship with my ex, Charlie, better. He’s a big part of the reason I felt I had to run away from Birmingham – though it was during my first months at university there, before I’d ever met Charlie, when things first started to go wrong.
I’ve always been more ‘sensitive’ than Jasmine, more likely to worry and be unsettled by life events, and these stirrings of anxiety became a rumble and then a roar when I went to university and moved away from home for the first time.
I managed to keep everything damped down, apart from the occasional panic attack, and, in my third year, started dating postgrad student, Charlie. Heaven knows what handsome, competent Charlie saw in me, though I later realised that he was drawn to women who found life challenging – maybe he liked being the big hero, riding in to rescue them.
But we were happy and, after university, I started working in Birmingham for a large company as a trainee manager. I was fast-tracked for swift promotion and Mum and Dad were so proud of me. But that was when my life started to properly unravel. I became unhappy at work, which was a hotbed of gossip and bitchiness, my panic attacks increased, and then Charlie left me. It turned out I wasn’t what he wanted after all – but my friend, Chloë, was.
Everything came to a head one rainy Wednesday, two weeks after Charlie had walked out, when I was hauled over the coals at work for making a minor mistake. Suddenly, my life crumbled, the world went black and I fell into a big hole.
I walked out of my job and spent the next three months hiding under my duvet, until my savings ran out and I ran away from Birmingham and took refuge in Honeyford with my best friend, Zac. Gradually, since then, my life has improved, but I’ve never completely shaken off the anxiety that dogs me – or my reputation within my family for being emotionally unstable. They’re not unkind people. They just don’t properly understand.
I sigh, my breath hanging white in the frosty air, and quicken my pace past pale stone cottages whose windows are glowing with amber lamplight.
At least I now get to go home to Zac. The small cottage we share is at the end of the lane and the lights are on so he’s already home. It’s a welcoming sight after the day I’ve had.
When I bundle through the front door, he looks up from the sofa as I drop my bag with a clatter onto the flagstones.
‘Hi, Beccs. Shut the door quickly ’cos the central heating’s on the blink again and I’ve only just got the fire going. Did you have a good day?’
‘Not really. It’s been a bit pants, to be honest.’ I slip off my coat and head for the flames that are flickering in the grate. Rubbish central heating aside, I love our rented cottage – the small rooms with their thick Cotswold stone walls, the pitted brown beams across the ceilings and the soot-blackened fireplaces. I stretch my hands towards the glowing orange flames. ‘How was your day?’
‘Better than yours, by the sound of it. My meeting went well and Paul hinted that I might be up for promotion if my project doesn’t go tits up.’
‘That’s brilliant, Zac. You deserve it.’
He really does. Zac works hard as a designer for a growing engineering company on the outskirts of Cheltenham. He’s confident and resourceful and just the kind of level-headed, resilient employee that every business needs.
I stand in silence for a moment and watch Zac tapping on his laptop. A question is bubbling up inside me and I suddenly blurt it out: ‘Can I ask you something? Do you think I’m fragile?’
Zac closes the lid of his computer and draws his legs up under him on the sofa. He knows this isn’t likely to be a two-minute conversation.
‘What makes you ask that?’ He pushes his fingers through his brown hair, which is flopping about all over the place. He’s been nicking my expensive conditioner again.
‘Stanley described me as fragile this afternoon and it struck a nerve, I suppose. It made me feel rather inadequate as a café manager.’
The corner of Zac’s mouth lifts. ‘Would that be eccentric Stanley who prides himself on “saying it like it is” and subsequently upsets people all over the place?’
‘Yeah, though he doesn’t mean to upset anyone. H. . .
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