‘Don’t rush me!’ Gaynor studied the paper docket in her hand, pulling it further away and then drawing it close.
‘Here’s the thing, I need to rush you because orders will start backing up and that leads to unhappy customers. If you can’t read your own handwriting, what chance do the rest of us have?’ Connie exhaled, tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear, and turned her attention to the row of bacon crisping on the griddle.
Gaynor held the slip of paper up to the light. ‘Right, let’s have a look. It could be four toast or no toms, meaning tomatoes, I’m not sure. I’d better go ask again. Morning, Taw.’
‘Morning.’ She smiled at the kindly woman who was good friends with her Uncle Sten. Rumour had it they were more than good friends and that she had stepped in to plug the gap left when Sten’s wife Wanda had upped sticks and set sail with a Danish skipper nearly two decades ago, but she was not one to overthink rumours. In a small town like this, where information was collateral and gossip currency, pondering on such tittle-tattle could occupy her whole day if she had a fancy for such things. There had been many theories swirling in the bottom of pint glasses when it came to her dad.
Probably did a runner . . .
I heard it was something shady ...
My mate reckons he led a double life and faked it all ...
He’s been seen, ain’t he? I’m sure he has ...
Yes, rumours were not to be given much heed in a small town.
‘Your mum was a hoot last night.’ Gay shook her head. ‘Had us all howling!’
‘Yep, so I heard.’ Tawrie put her hand up to stop the woman saying anything further on the topic. ‘Which reminds me, Con,Needle says he wants to take you out on his boat. And there’s only room for two.’
‘Yeah, and I want to wake up next to Zac Efron, but both are very unlikely to happen.’
Connie addressed the wall as she cooked. Tawrie smiled at her cousin’s back. Connie was pretty, sexy, buoyant, shapely, with a narrow waist and an ample bosom that strained against the bib of her apron. In the summer months, when shorts and vests were the order of the day, walking alongside her cousin only made Tawrie more aware of her broad shoulders and robust legs – the swimming had done nothing to change that; in fact, it had only made the situation worse. Not that she’d give up her morning rendezvous with Maudie and Jago for anything.
With her shoulders back and ready for the day ahead, she walked briskly to the rear of the café with its whitewashed walls, wooden nautical bunting and pale-blue, wipe-down tablecloths dotted with anchors. All eight tables were full. At least three with locals, keen to get their working day started and even keener for the fried fare that would provide sustenance. The couple she now approached held hands tightly across the table, holding on for dear life as if to be separated might be painful. She had never held hands with anyone like that and was fascinated by the act, wondering what it might feel like.
‘What can I get you?’ She found a smile.
‘Nick will have the full English, eggs scrambled, please.’ The upbeat woman, whose silk neck scarf was tied at a jaunty angle, spoke on her boyfriend’s behalf while he stared at her, as if she were an angel fallen to earth with the sole purpose of relieving him of the responsibility of having to voice his own breakfast choice.
‘Certainly.’ She jotted on the little notepad. ‘Is that with tea, coffee or juice?’
‘What drink would you like, Nicky?’ jaunty-scarved woman asked him directly, as if he were a dumdum and needed her intervention.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening. What are my options?’ He addressed his love directly as if Tawrie wasn’t there at all.
‘That’s okay, darling.’ The woman’s tone suggested he actually was a dumdum. ‘You have the choice of tea, coffee or orange juice.’
‘Oh, erm ... can you come back to me?’
‘Of course we can!’ The woman made it sound like she, too, was working there. ‘While Nick decides on his drink, can I order the poached egg on toast, but I like the egg well done and I don’t want salt on it, some places do that, don’t they, large flakes of the stuff, but I don’t want salt.’
‘Got it, well-done poached, no salt.’ She wrote slowly. ‘And for your drink, sir?’ She smiled at the dumdum, hoping to hurry him along.
‘He’ll have the orange juice!’ The woman spoke up. ‘Oh, and with the full English, can you please leave off the black pudding, he’s not a fan, are you, darling?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Liked it until I found out what it was and then ...’ He made out to vomit under the table.
‘Of course.’ She made a note. Jaunty-scarved woman wasn’t done.
‘And can you make sure that on Nick’s plate the beans are not in any way touching the scrambled egg as that turns his tummy.’
The man shuddered, on cue. ‘Always been that way, the thought of beans and egg mixing ...’ Again he lowered his head and made a spitting motion.
‘Do me a favour, Tawrie, can you tell Con that it was four slices of toast, and table six are waiting.’ Gaynor spoke as she passed with a single dirty plate in her hand.
‘Sure.’ She smiled back at the couple.
