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Authors: Sara Crowe
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in line for the government hand outs. I suspect Aurthur thinks that being privileged also means we can’t count.
Sue
Weds 25 February
I RECOVERED ENOUGH to go back to the Toastie on Monday, but what I didn’t know was that while I was ill Loudolle had been standing in for me, and it turns out that with Loudolle on the toaster there had been a steady swell in the gentlemen breakfasting. And as a good salary is Loudolle’s raisin d’être, and increased turnover at the Toastie is Mrs Fry’s, I was immediately consigned to the back kitchen for the remainder of the holidays.
Mrs Fry positively fawns over Loudolle, and says she is a little gold-mind. And wherever Loudolle goes, Icarus’s eyes follow. But it is a small comfort for me to know that at least I have his eye under my pillow.
I have also realised why Delia is so straps for cash – because Loudolle goes to a finishing school in Alpen. She’s developed an American accent, which considering she grew up in Ealing and spent one term at college, is really silly. I’ve known people who spend years abroad and still sound as English as Billy O. Everything about Loudolle involves a finish, even her name – after all she was born a Lucinda. By the time she has finished finishing there’ll be nothing left of the original.
The reshuffle at the Toastie, and the solitary hours that have become mine in the back kitchen, have allowed me too much time to reflect on the loss of mum. As I stood and buttered an army of sandwiches this morning, I recollected the moment it happened.
I was with some friends at the bus stop at the time Mum died, we were watching the rollerskating. The funny thing was that I did have a strange feeling, for I suddenly craved, for no good reason, a particular kind of sugar that Mum liked, which was out of all congruaty. By the time I got back home from the bus stop and Dad got back from his ‘conference’ with Ivana, the police were at our house.
The GP, Doctor Louden, asked if there were any other suicides in the family, as if it were somehow hereditary and not an act of despair. I explained that it was a freak act of despair, but the Doctor said that sometimes suicide’s not an act of despair, sometimes it’s an act of revenge.
‘Sue,’ said Joe’s voice suddenly. ‘Let me help you.’
He put his arm round my shoulder, and gently offered his hanky, because although my hands were still moving over the bread, I hadn’t noticed I had sodden the sandwiches. I had forgotten I was in the Toastie at all. I had regressed to an earlier time.
Joe’s just been such a nice guy to me, helping me re-butter and distracting Mrs Fry, and I felt so grateful that I asked him to come to Green Place for a bite this afternoon after his shift.
As soon as I got back home, in an unexpected move, I went straight up to my room and transferred Icarus’s eye from my pillow to my sock drawer, which felt like progress emotionally.
When Aunt Coral and Delia came back from shopping I told them Joe was coming over, which sent them both into a spin. They dashed to get doilies and put them on the table and selected some crisps and, after lengthy talks, Delia went to bake brownies. Before Joe arrived at 4.00pm they both went to their rooms and changed, Aunt Coral into a chiff-en-chiff dress and Delia into a kaftan. Their combined scent was of roses, lilacs and musk all mixed together in a blooming fusion. You could have smelt them in Addlestone – it wasn’t so much a waft as a punch in the face.
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I tried to tell them, a pro-po their great efforts. But it didn’t make any difference. A young man coming to the house was all the excuse they needed to turn up the volume.
When Joe arrived he had changed too, into a specialist floral shirt and turn-ups. This was spiralling from a casual on-the-cuff arrangement to a formal date with clean clothes. I took him into the conservatory and Aunt Coral kept coming in to check the temperature,
Sue
Weds 25 February
I RECOVERED ENOUGH to go back to the Toastie on Monday, but what I didn’t know was that while I was ill Loudolle had been standing in for me, and it turns out that with Loudolle on the toaster there had been a steady swell in the gentlemen breakfasting. And as a good salary is Loudolle’s raisin d’être, and increased turnover at the Toastie is Mrs Fry’s, I was immediately consigned to the back kitchen for the remainder of the holidays.
Mrs Fry positively fawns over Loudolle, and says she is a little gold-mind. And wherever Loudolle goes, Icarus’s eyes follow. But it is a small comfort for me to know that at least I have his eye under my pillow.
I have also realised why Delia is so straps for cash – because Loudolle goes to a finishing school in Alpen. She’s developed an American accent, which considering she grew up in Ealing and spent one term at college, is really silly. I’ve known people who spend years abroad and still sound as English as Billy O. Everything about Loudolle involves a finish, even her name – after all she was born a Lucinda. By the time she has finished finishing there’ll be nothing left of the original.
The reshuffle at the Toastie, and the solitary hours that have become mine in the back kitchen, have allowed me too much time to reflect on the loss of mum. As I stood and buttered an army of sandwiches this morning, I recollected the moment it happened.
I was with some friends at the bus stop at the time Mum died, we were watching the rollerskating. The funny thing was that I did have a strange feeling, for I suddenly craved, for no good reason, a particular kind of sugar that Mum liked, which was out of all congruaty. By the time I got back home from the bus stop and Dad got back from his ‘conference’ with Ivana, the police were at our house.
The GP, Doctor Louden, asked if there were any other suicides in the family, as if it were somehow hereditary and not an act of despair. I explained that it was a freak act of despair, but the Doctor said that sometimes suicide’s not an act of despair, sometimes it’s an act of revenge.
‘Sue,’ said Joe’s voice suddenly. ‘Let me help you.’
He put his arm round my shoulder, and gently offered his hanky, because although my hands were still moving over the bread, I hadn’t noticed I had sodden the sandwiches. I had forgotten I was in the Toastie at all. I had regressed to an earlier time.
Joe’s just been such a nice guy to me, helping me re-butter and distracting Mrs Fry, and I felt so grateful that I asked him to come to Green Place for a bite this afternoon after his shift.
As soon as I got back home, in an unexpected move, I went straight up to my room and transferred Icarus’s eye from my pillow to my sock drawer, which felt like progress emotionally.
When Aunt Coral and Delia came back from shopping I told them Joe was coming over, which sent them both into a spin. They dashed to get doilies and put them on the table and selected some crisps and, after lengthy talks, Delia went to bake brownies. Before Joe arrived at 4.00pm they both went to their rooms and changed, Aunt Coral into a chiff-en-chiff dress and Delia into a kaftan. Their combined scent was of roses, lilacs and musk all mixed together in a blooming fusion. You could have smelt them in Addlestone – it wasn’t so much a waft as a punch in the face.
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I tried to tell them, a pro-po their great efforts. But it didn’t make any difference. A young man coming to the house was all the excuse they needed to turn up the volume.
When Joe arrived he had changed too, into a specialist floral shirt and turn-ups. This was spiralling from a casual on-the-cuff arrangement to a formal date with clean clothes. I took him into the conservatory and Aunt Coral kept coming in to check the temperature,
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