Snowflakes at Lavender Bay. Sarah Bennett
fish and chips for the rest of her life. The future she’d mapped out for herself lay under this roof, and her dream was to turn the chippy into a café and bakery. But those plans were for other days, and she was happy to bide her time until her dad decided he’d had enough and was ready to hand over the reins.
In spite of it being the hottest day of the year so far, lunch club had proven as popular as ever, and without Eliza’s help, Libby would’ve been rushed off her feet. With the fryers on, the heat inside the shop had been punishing, even with the little air-con unit on the back wall running at full blast. With the last customer served, she clicked off the power to the fryers and the heating cabinet then moved to stand beneath the air-con and let the cold air wash over her. Eyes closed, she stood there until the combination of the frigid air and her sweat-soaked T-shirt sent a shiver through her entire body.
‘Oh, that looks good.’ Opening one eye was almost too much effort, but Libby cracked a lid and watched as Eliza propped the folding chairs she’d been carrying against the wall then came to stand beside her. ‘Okay, I’m never moving from this spot.’ Eliza dragged the hygiene covering from her hair and gathered the mass of curls spilling loose in one hand to expose the nape of her neck to the chilly blast.
Since they’d been little girls, Libby had always envied Eliza for her hair. The curls always seemed full of life and vitality, not like the limp, brown mop her own hair would be without all the dye and gel. Picturing the horror show lurking beneath her hat, Libby shook her head. ‘How is it possible for you to work non-stop for two hours in Lavender Bay’s own version of Dante’s Inferno and still look like some pre-Raphaelite goddess at the end of it?’
Eliza laughed. ‘You must be joking. I caught sight of myself in that mirrored sign over there as I walked past, and my face is glowing like a neon sign.’
Libby didn’t agree but was too hot and tired to argue the point. With a healthy flush on her cheeks and a bit of life back in her eyes, Eliza looked better than she had since returning home. ‘Have you thought any more about what you want to do?’
Laughter fading, Eliza scrunched up her face. ‘Not a clue, but I’ll have to find something soon before Mum and Dad get too used to the idea of me being behind the bar again. It’s great to be home, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t fancy the idea of pulling pints for the rest of my days. Do you know what I mean?’
Not really. With the death of her mum, it had been only natural for Libby to step into her shoes and help her dad with the business. At first it had been a case of pitching in around their two-storey home above the shop, keeping the place clean so her dad didn’t stay up half the night doing chores after being on his feet all day. It had progressed to prepping the batter, stocking the cold drinks fridge and taking orders whilst Mick manned the fryers. The day he’d deemed her old enough to work them herself was still one of the proudest moments of her life. Not a grand achievement to most, but it had been a milestone on her path from adolescence to adulthood. She loved the shop, loved the ebb and flow of people’s lives through the door. Shared their triumphs and commiserated their disasters as she shook, and salted, and wrapped the food which kept them going at the end of a long day.
It was the people she loved the most. Her people. They came through that front door in good times and bad. If someone was having a hard time, it showed in the way their orders changed. When a regular customer reduced their order, her dad would often slip them an extra piece of fish or add another scoop of chips to their standard portion size. He greeted each and every customer with the same ‘What’ll it be then?’, even those whose order never deviated in the dozen years she’d been helping him out. She’d asked him about it once, and his answer stuck with her.
‘When we started out, your mum and I made a point of learning what people liked, thinking it added a personal touch when we asked someone if they’d like their usual order. Then one Thursday Bill Curtis came in, same as he always does, and when I said “the usual?” he burst into tears. Poor sod had just been laid off and he didn’t know how he was going to pay for supper, never mind tell his wife when he got home. Your mum took him out the back and told him in no uncertain terms that until he was back on his feet, Thursday supper was on the house. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I agreed with her. Took him four months to get a new job, another year after that to catch up on overdue bills and the like. The moment he was square again, he insisted on paying us back for those free suppers, not that we expected him to, but his pride had taken enough blows so we didn’t argue.’ Mick wiped his hands on his apron then put an arm around her shoulders. ‘This place is more than a chippy. We’re a community centre, a safe haven for people in trouble. I don’t have a lot, but what I have got I’ll share with anyone that needs it. Asking people what they want rather than assuming I know gives them the space to change their order without any sense of embarrassment, do you see?’
She did, and her heart swelled with love for his big, generous soul. Libby leaned into the reassuring bulk of his body. ‘I see what you do, Dad, and I think it’s brilliant.’
With that memory warm in her heart, Libby took a deep breath, then opened her heart. ‘I’ve found my place in the world, Eliza, and it’s right here.’ She gestured around the shop. ‘I love what my parents built here, and I want to keep playing my part at the heart of our community, but I want to do it my way. Ignore the smell of hot fat and vinegar and picture little wooden tables painted in pastel shades laden with pretty plates full of cakes and sandwiches, sparkling cutlery and real cotton napkins. Replace the fryers with a glass-fronted refrigeration counter holding fresh-baked quiches, flaky sausage rolls and glass bowls full of salad. Shelves along the back wall full of specialty teas and coffees and a fridge full of traditional bottles of lemonade, ginger beer and elderflower water. I’ll paint the walls soft lemon and buttermilk with watercolour paintings of scenes from around the bay, and hang frothy lace curtains at the windows.’
A long silence followed the tumble of words and butterflies began to chase each other around Libby’s stomach. It was the first time she’d let anyone else in on her plans for the future, and she could hardly bear to meet Eliza’s gaze. Her best friend had the kindest heart and would say all the right things, but would she mean it? If she looked into Eliza’s eyes and saw pity, it might break her heart. Needing to keep busy, she took a cloth to the already spotless counter and began to clean it.
‘Libs?’ Soft fingers touched her arm, stilling her hand mid-sweep. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around. It mattered too damn much. Eliza released her only to slip her arms around Libby’s waist and prop her chin on Libby’s shoulder. ‘God, Libs, it sounds wonderful. Just perfect.’
The husky warmth in those words eased the tension holding Libby’s frame rigid. ‘You really think so?’
Eliza gave her a squeeze. ‘I know so. Watching you today was a revelation. Feeding people, taking care of them, it’s in your blood.’
Blushing, Libby stared down at the cloth now wound between her fingers. ‘I’m not exactly in Sam’s league. A few sarnies and cakes won’t hold a candle to the Cordon Bleu experience he’ll be offering.’
A finger jabbed in her ribs, making her turn with a yelp to meet a soft scowl from Eliza. ‘Don’t do that,’ she admonished. ‘Don’t talk yourself out of it before you’ve even started. Sam’s restaurant will be for people wanting a one-off experience, somewhere to celebrate a special occasion. What you’re talking about is a place people will return to time and again for everyday comforts.’
Everyday comforts. Libby liked the sound of that. She’d never seen herself as in competition with Sam, that was just her insecurity digging in its claws. Deep down, she knew her plan was a sound one. The café would fill a gap in the current market, offering healthier alternatives alongside luscious cream teas. Friday lunch club would continue, but she’d offer salmon quiche or tuna melts and salad in the summer, and thick bowls of hearty chowder or fish pie in the winter. She also had plans for a pensioners’ afternoon tea special once a fortnight. Lavender Bay had plenty of takeaways and pubs serving hearty meals and one or other of them would likely expand their menu and add fish and chips—and good luck to them. The day she never had to wash the smell of