The Day I Died. Polly Courtney
he said again. ‘You said you’d wiped the tables!’
Jo frowned at him. The bright light was hurting her eyes. ‘What?’
He stared incredulously at her. ‘There are coffee cup marks all over it–and bits of food! We’ll get rats. And think of the impression we’re giving. This isn’t some cheap fast-food outlet, is it?’
No, thought Jo. It’s an over-priced fast-coffee outlet. She could just about make out a faint ring-mark on the table and a couple of microscopic crumbs. ‘Sorry Think the detergent ran out.’
‘I pay you good money,’ he said angrily. This was a slight inaccuracy, thought Jo, given that she was earning just thirty pounds a day and he hadn’t actually paid her for this week’s work yet. She was rather hoping that payday would be today, but now didn’t seem like a very good time to ask.
She mumbled something apologetic and referred again to the detergent–which, by happy coincidence, had nearly run out. Trevor seemed excessively grumpy this morning.
‘Well, I’ll show you where the new ones are and you can do the tables again,’ he said patronisingly. ‘Properly, this time.’
Jo rolled her eyes and followed her boss back inside. It was only as he threw out his hand to open the store cupboard that she realised what was about to happen. Sure enough, agonisingly slowly, the blankets and coats tumbled onto Trevor’s feet and unravelled all over the floor.
‘What…?’
‘Oh, those old things,’ said Jo, feeling inspired. ‘I found them the other day. I thought they could probably do with going to the charity shop.’
Trevor poked around in the pile with his stubby foot. ‘Did you indeed? And where did you get them?’
‘The back of the cupboard,’ Jo said casually. She couldn’t actually remember where she’d found them. Last night her mind had been preoccupied and addled.
‘Oh, right.’ Trevor extracted a beige full-length coat from the muddle. ‘So you took it upon yourself to consign my coat, along with other items you found whilst poking around in my cupboard, to the charity shop?’
‘Er, no, well…’
Trevor looked furious. ‘I don’t like being lied to, Jo.’
She stammered some more but the inspiration had run dry.
‘I should warn you that I’m seriously considering your position in this teashop. You’ve already demonstrated that you’re lazy, careless and deceitful, and I’m beginning to think you may have an unhealthy relationship with some of my customers.’
Jo cursed herself for inventing the ridiculous story about the sock. She put on her most apologetic expression and hoped she didn’t look too much like the hung-over wreck that she was.
A voice sounded from the front of the shop. ‘Hey, anyone in?’
They returned to the shop like a chided schoolgirl and teacher, Jo recognising the smooth, confident tone instantly.
‘Ah, hi, Jo. How’s things?’ Stuart stepped forward, not seeing her warning glare. ‘Just popping in for my “freebie”. You open yet?’
‘Um, er…’
‘I can answer that,’ replied Trevor, stepping out from behind the counter. ‘Yes, we’re open but no, you can’t have your “freebie”. This teashop does not offer “freebies”.’
Stuart looked a bit taken aback. ‘Er, right. I see. Well, I just wanted to leave this for Jo,’ he said, depositing what looked like a five-pound note on the nearest table. ‘See you later.’
Like a crab, he sidestepped out of the café and disappeared.
Trevor looked at Jo. ‘That is exactly what I’m talking about.’
Jo nodded feebly. It seemed fairly pointless to protest.
‘Well?’ squeaked Trevor, nostrils flaring. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Jo wasn’t waiting for anything, but presumably that wasn’t the correct response.
‘I suppose I should give that table a good scrub…’
‘You should do no such thing. Get out. You’ve had your last chance. I don’t want to see you in here again. I’ll find someone else. Someone honest. Someone who can do things properly. I should’ve known there’d be trouble as soon as you said you were foreign.’
Jo hastened towards her bag of possessions on the counter, trying to work out a line of defence but distracted by the irony of her boss’s last comment. She couldn’t think straight. It wasn’t just the alcohol in her bloodstream or the fact that Trevor was waving his flabby arms at her, exposing his sweat patches; it was the fact that she didn’t want to form a defence. She needed a job because she needed the money, but that wasn’t enough of a reason for her to stick around.
‘And because I’m an honest man,’ he went on, still smouldering, ‘I’ll pay you for the week. It’s more than you deserve.’ He grudgingly handed over a brown envelope.
Jo didn’t speak. She had nothing to say. With a final glance at the nasty plastic seats and the flowery café walls, she walked out, picking up Stuart’s fiver as she left.
She had walked for a couple of hours before Jo remembered to look in her pocket. When she did, despite her situation and despite her pulsating head, she smiled. It was an old five-pound note. Clearly Stuart had intended to use it to pay for his coffee. Across the front, in red biro, he had scribbled five words: ‘Dinner Thurs? The Grange, 8 p.m.’
Jo didn’t know whether to feel flattered by his chivalry or amused by the man’s presumptuousness. Clearly, Stuart was assuming that she’d accept the invitation. There was no phone number, no alternative, no information about where The Grange was or what type of place it was. The only thing Jo could glean from the note was a confirmation of something she had already suspected: Stuart was full of himself.
She stuffed the note in her wallet, then pulled out the envelope and transferred her week’s wages across. A hundred and eighty pounds. A hundred and eighty much-needed pounds. Jo still had over a hundred from Joe Simmons’ original stash, but she knew how quickly it would disappear if she couldn’t find somewhere cheap to live soon.
She massaged her temples, trying to alleviate the throbbing pain. She suspected the headache wasn’t just a result of yesterday’s drinking. The developments of the last few hours were also partly to blame. She was homeless and unemployed–again. Being constantly on the move, or constantly ready to be on the move, was tiring, and the uncertainty of her existence was beginning to wear her down.
In a way, she longed for the stability of a ‘normal’ life. Every once in a while–like now–she considered turning herself in and reverting to the life of Rebecca Ross. Every time–like now–she rejected the idea on the grounds that, for all she knew, Rebecca Ross’s life wasn’t ‘normal’ at all, and even if it had been ‘normal’, the turmoil of transplanting Jo Simmons back into it didn’t bear thinking about.
The houses petered out and she realised she was on a track that led to the turquoise lakes she had seen from Mrs Phillips’ guesthouse. Mrs Phillips. Jo cringed. Thinking back to the scene in the shop, she wondered whether she might have been a bit harsh on the old lady. Sure, Mrs P had been meddling in something that didn’t concern her, but still…Jo felt a twinge of guilt. Now she was sober, last night seemed like something of an over-reaction.
The lakes looked unnaturally blue, as though they’d been airbrushed for a holiday brochure. Jo guessed they were the flooded remains of a chalk quarry pit and her mind wandered