Almost.
“Yes, Jasper, yes! That’s much better!”
The door to the café has been propped open to let in some much-needed air. It gets stifling in here during the peak hours otherwise. That’s why the rich tone of the Italian’s voice is drifting in, clearly audible from across the park as he cheers on his enthusiastic young pupils.
Maggie’s had a dopey grin painted on to her face all morning. It’s obvious she’s got a crush on him. She even left her usual spot in the kitchen earlier to peer out of the main window and watch the youngsters dribbling grubby mini footballs around a line of orange plastic cones. When I innocently asked what was keeping her attention she’d given a noncommittal response about how nice it was to see children enjoying the first truly warm day of the year. I didn’t believe a word of it, of course, but hadn’t questioned Maggie’s reply, instead getting on with taking the plateful of fluffy scrambled eggs on toast over to the young man sat in the window, the sunniest seat in the whole café. He’s waiting on a pot of coffee too, which Maggie’s preparing.
After the eventful night at the hospital I’m glad to be busy. It stops me worrying about Luke and waiting for Kelly to turn up. Nerves are churning in my stomach. I don’t know how I’m going to say what I need to say to her.
The scrambled egg on toast guy must be new to these parts: if I’d seen him before I’d have definitely remembered him. He’s got this sort of edgy look that’s slightly out of place in the park. Most of the people here are decidedly mainstream – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m hardly Lady Gaga myself – but this lad stands out from the crowd. His blonde hair’s a fraction too white to be natural, as though it’s aided by a touch of bleach, and he has a small silver hoop pierced through his bottom lip. It keeps quivering as though he’s moving his tongue against it in the hollow of his mouth, which is kind of distracting.
He’s so far removed from the kind of boy I usually go for that I can’t decide whether he’s good looking or not. I never fancy anyone, except the same person I’ve had a painful crush on since the first day at secondary school. I’d fallen so hard and so deep that I’d never wavered. My heart had one not-so-careful owner who couldn’t care less that he held it captive.
I cast my eyes around the café for the edgy boy’s skateboard, assuming he’s one of the hip kids that hangs out at the purpose-built skate park on the other side of the boating lake. The stuff they do is frightening: dangerous flips and tricks that look like they belong in a music video. Just watching them makes my stomach turn with fear. I can’t see a board though, not even tucked under the table.
“Can you serve this to the gentleman in the window, please?” Maggie asks, snapping me out of my daydream. I carefully carry the gleaming silver coffee pot over to the man.
Ah, there’s a flash of navy blue polo shirt peeping out beneath the red and black flannel of his shirt, a giveaway that he works in the park. All the sports coaches, maintenance staff and gardeners wear the same style. They’re standard-issue, regulation and dull.
Memories of the uniform I wore at secondary school flood back to me. I’d hated it. The other girls had dressed in miniskirts that barely covered their tiny, shapely bottoms, with socks pulled up to their knees in a bid to look sexy. I hadn’t. I’d worn a knee-length skirt with an elasticated waist, the only grey skirt on the High Street that fit my large frame. It was hideous and unflattering and saddled me with the cruel nickname ‘Fernephant’ for all five miserable years I was there.
Thankfully Maggie’s stance on workwear is fairly laid back. As far as she’s concerned staff at the café can wear whatever we like, so long as it’s white on top, black on the bottom, and clean and pressed. I’m still fat, but black trousers are easy enough to come by. School uniforms are difficult to buy for those of us who carry extra weight, unless you accidentally click on those dodgy fetish websites that pop up when your laptop protection expires. At least black trousers are a wardrobe staple.
I place the coffee pot down on the table in front of the guy, cringing at the dull clunk it makes as it lands on the shiny surface of the tablecloth. It goes right through me, setting my teeth on edge.
“Thanks,” he says, not looking up from his phone. He’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading, silently mouthing words I’m unable to decipher. Lip-reading’s not a skill I’ve mastered.
I stand awkwardly for a moment, shifting on the spot as I wait for eye contact that doesn’t come. Most customers offer at least a cursory smile, but not this one. He doesn’t even look up.
Eventually I give up waiting, but still smile politely even though I know he won’t see. I wish I could be a bit less well-mannered, replying with a clipped “Enjoy,” or something, because it’s downright rude not to acknowledge the wait staff, but it’s too ingrained. I’ve been brought up to be civil regardless of how I’m treated, which is probably why I was such an easy target for the bullies at school. They knew they could say whatever they damn well pleased because I’d never have the guts to fight back.
As I walk back to the counter I wonder about his role. Most of the staff at the park have been here for years, the same familiar faces as much a part of the landscape as the imposing bandstand and the large boating lake. I remember Carrick Braithwaite, the friendly gentleman who tends the walled garden near the main entrance, from when I was young. He’d share interesting snippets of information about the roses he carefully pruned, such as how there were over a hundred species of roses and that it was England’s national flower. Maggie said he’d done the same for her when she was young too, and some mornings on my way to the café I see him passing on his wealth of knowledge to the next generation of curious children. The familiarity in the scene cheers me and although over the years Mr Braithwaite’s hair has changed from mousey brown to silvery grey to the brilliant white it now is, he’s still as friendly and upbeat as ever. He’s part of the park. I selfishly hope he’ll never stop clipping those plants with those secateurs of his, even though he must be closing in on retirement age.
I sneak one last look over at the edgy boy. It’s likely I’ll see him again if he’s working here all summer. Most of the park staff are much older than I am, but he looks a similar age, twentyish. Even if we never become best buddies, it might be nice to have someone else around who knows about chart music and the latest films. If he ever bothers to speak at all, that is, I think sulkily. Maggie tries her best to keep up with the trends but it’s not the same, and although Kelly helps out with the odd shift she’s not around enough. She’s always got her head down, revising for her exams.
I can’t stop the sigh that escapes me. What’s going to happen to Luke now? He won’t be able to sit his exams if he’s recovering from brain surgery, and without A-levels he’ll not be able to take up his place at Nottingham. The letter had been very clear – ‘conditional offer’. Will they let him defer until next year instead, if he’s well enough? Or is that it, his one chance blown because of some freak of nature that he can’t control? It doesn’t seem fair, but having never had any desire to go to university I have no idea how it works. Maybe that’s something I can ask Kelly when she arrives.
Moving towards the window, I tap Maggie on the shoulder with the tip of my index finger. She throws me a look, a warning, as she turns, spotting the knowing smile that’s playing out on my lips. I can’t help it. It’s so cute how enamoured with the handsome coach she is. I can tell by the rosy pink glow of her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, so she can deny it as much as she likes – I still won’t believe her.
“Tell me the truth this time,” I say with a grin, “is it the kids you’re watching or the coach?”
Maggie’s cheeks flush further, until they resemble two red apples on the sides of her face. That’s my answer right there. She’s smitten.
“No, no, I was just looking…” Maggie