‘Oh yes,’ I reply, realising she’s making polite weather chat.
‘You on holiday?’ She holds out her hand for the note.
‘No, I’m, er, I’m working here.’ I hand over the money.
‘Oh, where?’ She taps the money into the till and it opens.
‘At the oyster farm, with Sean Thornton,’ I reply. Her eyebrows shoot up and she cocks her head to one side.
‘Well, welcome and good luck,’ she says, handing me my change. But her eyebrows haven’t come down to meet the rest of her face yet. ‘I’m Rosie, by the way. Me and my sister Lily run this place. Give us a yell if there’s anything you need. What’s your name?’
‘Fi,’ I say, gathering up my tea and milk.
‘Well, Fi, like I say, if there’s anything you need …’
I look down at my change. The last of my money is going quickly. I skirt round the man in the queue behind me.
‘Hello, Seamus, it’s promised rain,’ she says as she rings in his goods.
‘Aye, it is.’
I know they’re both looking at me.
I step out through the sliding doors and the promised rain hits me horizontally in the face. I grab Grace’s lead and put my head down. I’m making my way back out of town when I practically fall over a sign in the road for The Tea Pot Café. There’s an awning outside the little café that was once red and white. The need for tea gets the better of me. It’s a long walk home and this way I can avoid a soaking at least once today. I tie up Grace under the awning and dive in for a quick cuppa while the worst of the rain passes.
The warm café is full of steam and the windows are misted up with condensation. The steam’s coming from a big silver urn behind the counter. I feel like the Doctor stepping out of the TARDIS, waiting to discover if he’s landed somewhere hostile or friendly. There’s a ripple of gossip; it’s practically tangible. The room’s warm but the atmosphere is frosty. I shouldn’t have come in, I should have headed straight back to the cottage. I thought it was going to be like The Coffee House back home. No one takes a blind bit of notice of each other in there.
‘Is that her?’ someone whispers. I turn to see a chubby woman in a delphinium blue crocheted hat with a large pink and blue flower on the side, a poncho and fingerless gloves, all in matching blue. She’s knitting. I recognise the woman next to her as Evelyn from the pub. She has sharp, small features, like a ferret. She givesme a stern stare and leans into her friend as if I can’t hear her.
‘Yes, crashed a camper and is now living with Sean Thornton up at Tom’s farm.’
There’s a round of tutting. I’m not ‘living with Sean Thornton’! I look around at the others shaking their heads. I recognise some of them from the pub. The one Sean referred to as Frank is there, tucking into a sorry-looking cooked breakfast. And there’s one of the barflies, in the shell suit and baseball cap. He’s drinking from a mug that looks like it’s been sitting there some time, judging by the dried drips down the side. They both nod in my direction.
John Joe, Evelyn’s husband, leans over and adjusts his hearing aid.
‘Wassat, my love?’ The hearing aid makes a high-pitched whistling noise.
‘Shh,’ Evelyn says in unison with the crocheted woman, who smiles at me and nods and carries on knitting, her eyes on me and her ears on Evelyn.
‘It was never like that in my day,’ John Joe says in a loud voice but with a look that says he thinks he’s whispering. ‘Families and communities stuck together. You didn’t go bringing in outsiders to work for you. Typical of that young Thornton,’ he tuts. My cheeks begin to burn and my eyes start to smart. That familiar feeling of death by embarrassment is creeping round the back of my neck and into the pit of my stomach.
‘In my day this place was the oyster capital of the world, the very best,’ says a man in a wheelchair, waving his hands around expansively.
‘Yes, yes, Grandad,’ Evelyn silences him with flapping hands.
I look around the café. It’s full of bits and pieces and they look to be for sale: ‘a pair of slippers, worn, 50 cents’, the little white label says; ‘a make-up bag, very worn, 50 cents’. There’s even a dressing gown, fadedpink velour, hanging on the door into the toilets, 2 euro.
‘Urn’s been playing up.’ A big man appears from behind the counter in a puff of steam and points a thick thumb behind him. He’s got a Marilyn Monroe tattoo on his forearm and a triangular beard. ‘What can I get you?’ He rubs his hands together.
‘Er, tea, to take away please,’ I add, desperate to get out of there.
He turns to the steaming urn and over one shoulder says loudly, ‘So, you’re the new girl they’re all talking about. How do you like things?’
Stunned that I’m the focus of so much unwanted attention, I don’t know whether to nod or shake my head and sort of do both by rolling my head in a circle. I manage a quick glance over my shoulder to see all eyes staring back at me. I just need to get out of the gossip coliseum as quickly as possible without being rude.
Suddenly there’s a thump.
‘Ah, feckin’ urn.’ The café owner gives it another thump as it makes a whining, dying sound and the steam disappears. Looks like my quick exit has just become a slow and painful one. ‘Won’t be a tick. Just need to boil the kettle. Take a seat.’ He points to the tables covered in wipe-down tablecloths.
