his black mug. You’d think he’d wonder why everyone sniggered each time he drained his tea.
My heart rate returning to normal, I began to untangle my headset and made sure the footrest was tucked right away under my desk. Sky ended her call with “People in the third world would kill to live in a caravan, you know!” She jabbed the call release button on her turret and sighed. “I can’t stand all this negative karma today, it’s going to bring my hives up again. You’ve heard what’s going on, haven’t you?”
“No, what?”
She leant forward over the blue soundboard. “Someone’s only gone and shot their mouth off to the auditors. Told them we weren’t following procedures, didn’t record complaints properly and that there’s password sharing going on...” Sky broke off as she glanced over her shoulder to see if she could be overheard. “Joy and Kate are in a crisis meeting with their boss at the moment; he’s come down specially.”
I whistled. The Ginger Slug Balancer, as Tim called him, only made an occasional appearance, so things must be very bad indeed. “Who do you think it was, Sky?” I asked. “Who would say those sorts of things?”
“Hmmm, I’m not sure, but I take my bloody hat off to them - blowing the whistle on the fascist movement! I’d like to shake them by the hand.”
Everything fell silent as an ashen-faced Joy scurried into the department, rummaged around in her drawers for her inhaler and then hurried off again. Tim came over, still grinning. “You’re back from the dead then, Fogster? Or are you an apparition?” He peered at me. “Blimey! Kate’s had her claws into you already, I see; I had a feeling she might tear you limb from limb.”
“Oh no, that was Myra,” I said, touching my face gingerly. Tim didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Sky nodded sympathetically as she shuffled her pack of tarot cards. “I warned you about those hormones, didn’t I? Shall I do you a reading, Foggy, see what’s in store for your future?”
Tim snorted. “How many times can you turn up the grim reaper?”
Sky ignored him and spread the cards face down over her desk, closing her eyes as she waved her hands over the cards, ‘transferring her energy’. This was exciting! I held my breath as she slowly turned one of the cards over. The Fool. Tim snorted again. Sky frowned and concentrated hard on the cards. Her hands stopped at another and she was just about to turn it over when a loud shout made us all jump.
“THERE’S FORTY CALLS QUEUING! ANSWER THE SODDING THINGS!”
Kate was standing in the department, eyes bulging. Tim shot back to his desk and everyone else stopped texting or put down their magazines and whipped their headsets on. Gay Ray had a look of horror frozen onto his face; I saw Sky pass him a box of tissues. I took a call from a Mrs Chumbly about her flooding and when Kate finally stalked off, I leant over the soundboard and picked up the card that Sky had been about to reveal. It was The Fool again. I sighed. Perhaps Myra was right about this sort of thing, maybe it is all a load of mumbo-jumbo. I turned my attention back to Mrs Chumbly, concerned to hear that her damp patch was spreading.
I was feeling very perky when I arrived for my Sunday shift at Smokey Joe’s. Having just been paid by Perypils, I’d managed to get some Christmas shopping done on Saturday, although once I’d given Mum the additional house-keeping, I was already overdrawn. But not to worry - Joe owed me for the last six Sundays, so that should put me back in the black. Poor Myra couldn’t come shopping as her mum told me she was being sick when I called round. Her mum said, “That will teach her to drink eight pints of snakebite.” How funny! As if Myra would touch alcohol while she’s pregnant. Her mum was such a card, she was going to be a brilliant Granny.
I gave her some information to pass onto Myra that I’d printed from the Internet. It showed foetal development at ten weeks. “Look what it says about the reflexes!” I exclaimed excitedly. “It says he can curl his toes and clench his fingers!”
“Yep, I bet he’s shaking his fists right now.”
“He looks just like a peanut, doesn’t he?”
“That’s all we need; another nut-job in the family.”
I hadn’t been able to stop myself from buying another baby gift for Peanut when I saw an animal alphabet wall canvas, which was reduced to £4.99 in BHS. Some of the animals were a bit random - I wasn’t sure myself what an ibex was and the yeti was the stuff of nightmares - but at least it would introduce Peanut to his letters. I wanted him to grow up to be really brainy, to study hard and have a great career. Maybe he’d even follow in my footsteps and land a fantastic job in a call centre - what a brilliant future he would have! I caught myself; he might well be a she. I knew I shouldn’t care, but I had to admit I would love to have a son so I could replicate the close bond I had with my father. I’d do all the things with Peanut that Dad had wanted to do with me if only his work hadn’t got in the way: fishing in the canal, football in the park, camping in the back garden - hopefully, when Dad found out he was going to be a grandfather, he would move back to Shodsworth and join in with all the family fun he’d missed out on before. I’d send Dad another letter tonight, the last one must have gone astray. I heard Mum saying to the Inland Revenue that it was a very busy time of year for the post office, and that was probably why they hadn’t received her cheque yet.
It took me a while to realise what was missing when I flicked the lights on in the cafe. Where was the coffee machine? I stared at the huge gap on the counter, which was only partly filled by a yellow Kenwood kettle and a tin of Tesco’s Everyday Value coffee. I hunted all round the cafe to see if Joe was hiding from me again, but there was no sign of him. Gosh, this was tricky. It was the second Sunday of the month and the Shodsworth Scientology group would be in for their cappuccinos; some of them were extremely particular about the thickness of their froth and would accuse me of ‘limiting their material happiness’ if I didn’t get it exactly right. I found a whisk in the kitchen and washed something brown and sticky from it. It should be ok, as long as I whipped vigorously enough.
As I opened up, Freckly Girl appeared in the doorway. “Oh, hello!” I said. “You’re early today.”
She laughed. “I couldn’t sleep! How are you? How’s rehearsals?”
“Good thanks, but it’s the final run-through this week and I’m really nervous. I don’t feel nearly prepared enough.”
“I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. Can I book a ticket in advance?”
“Oh, just turn up on the night, there’s plenty of space in the hall. Bring a chair though, so you don’t have to sit on a broken one.”
I flicked the kettle on. “Where’s the coffee machine?” she asked in surprise.
“Um, I’m not sure. I think Joe might have taken it to be serviced, or something...”
“So, Joe’s not here either? But how are you going to-”
Three workmen bundled into the cafe and sat down with a noisy scraping of chairs, and, I think, a fart. “Three breakfasts and three coffees, mate,” one of them called, opening his Nuts magazine. “Fast as you like.”
“I’ve never cooked a full breakfast before,” I whispered to Freckly Girl. “It’s not difficult, is it?”
“I’ll do it,” she said, removing her coat. “You get their coffees.”
“No, I can’t ask you to-” I tried to protest, but she was already on her way to the kitchen. Could she cook? Shouldn’t she have a certificate or something before she served the public? Tim told me that all red-haired people suffered from something called gingervitus - was it transferable to the food chain? I waited for the kettle to boil as bacon smells started to waft through from the kitchen, causing the workmen to keep looking round impatiently. Freckly Girl eventually appeared with the breakfasts. “There you are guys!” she said brightly. “Sorry about the wait; I’ve given you all a free hash brown by way of apology!” They seemed perfectly happy with that and set upon the food like they hadn’t eaten in months.
“Thank you so much,” I said to her. “Where did you learn to cook so well?
”
“I used to help out in the kitchens at Shodsworth Manor, you know, the old people’s home. Voluntary, of course. It’s closed down now - Government cuts, you understand, not food poisoning!”
I laughed. Behind her, the door flew open and Barry lurched in. “Watcha Fog. Do us a bacon sarnie, will you? I’m hanging out of my arse.”
Freckly Girl smiled and returned to the kitchen. Barry peered after her. “Who’s that? Has Joe lost a lot of weight or am I still pissed from last night?”
“Oi, mate,” one of the workmen called to me. “This coffee’s shite.”
“Don’t pick on the coffee,” Barry reprimanded. “It’s too weak to fight back.”
“I’ll make some more,” I said, putting the kettle on again. “I opened up this morning to find the coffee machine had vanished.”
“Oh yeah? Along with Joe, by any chance? I wondered how long before he scarpered.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“Up to his neck in debts, isn’t he?” He took his sandwich from Freckly Girl. “And let’s face it, he was hardly going to win a Michelin star for this shit, was he?”
“But - he trained with Gordon Ramsay!”
Barry choked on the first mouthful. “Yeah, that’s true, he did! I saw it on the telly - Gordon Behind Bars it was called. Set in Brixton prison.”
“Oh no, they were at Claridges