No Way to Say Goodbye - Anna McPartlin [88]
Jessie emerged from the back and, pen and notebook in hand, strode over to take his order – as pleasant as always. “What do you want?”
“World peace!” he said, attempting an ice-breaking joke but she wasn’t about to thaw.
“In the event that I cannot deliver on that order, is there something you’d like off the menu?” she asked, without cracking a smile.
“I’ll have coffee, and a ham, cheese and onion toasted sandwich to go.” His weary tone conceded defeat.
“We don’t do ‘to go’,” she replied haughtily.
“To stay then.” He sighed.
“Fine,” she agreed, and strode back to base in the same military manner as she’d come over to him.
Now that she’d gone he realized that all eyes were averted and the buzz, although hushed, was returning. He wasn’t close enough to hear his fellow diners’ muted conversations but neither was he blind to the occasional eye cast upon him before a mouth was cupped and a head bent towards a companion.
Mary’s father emerged from the kitchen with his coffee and sandwich. He took the chair opposite. “I thought you could stand to see a friendly face,” he said, with a smile.
“Thanks, Jack. I appreciate that.”
“You have the whole town talking,” Jack said, absent-mindedly wiping the table.
“I get that.”
“Ah, what harm?” He grinned widely enough to reveal a gold tooth. “Sure wouldn’t it be worse if they weren’t talking?”
“Not really. No.”
“I suppose not. Still, it’s something to pass the day and, after all, it’s only talk and not the end of the world, now, is it?”
“I guess not,” Sam conceded, trying hard not to sound like a teenager.
Jack nodded and got up.
“So Mary’s not in today?” Sam said, hoping that any anxiety he felt was undetectable in his voice.
“She took a few days off.”
Jack had demanded she get some rest, having been informed of his daughter’s near-breakdown in Gemma Gibney’s beauty shop.
“Oh. OK.” Sam nodded. “Thanks.”
“Son?”
“Yeah?”
“She comes across as tough as old boots but she’s not. She’s had it hard enough.”
“Yes, sir,” he heard himself say.
Jack left him to his coffee and unwanted toasted sandwich. Luckily lunchtime for the workers was approaching an end and the place was emptying out. He was sipping his coffee when he felt someone stand over him. He turned to see a woman whose face and name he recognized but with whom he had previously had no contact. Bridget the Bike.
“Hi, I’m Bridget Browne.” She held out her hand and he took it. They shook. “Look, I just wanted to say that soon it will be somebody else’s turn.”
“You’re so sure?” He almost laughed.
“I was the previous occupant of those boots you’ve just stepped into.”
“Ah.” He was enjoying her turn of phrase despite the circumstances.
“So, thanks for that.” She smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
“It’ll be OK. It always is.”
At home that evening he attempted to watch a show from season two of The West Wing. Mary had presented him with the DVD box set on the day she’d helped him shop for a TV. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. Josh had just explained the super-string theory to Leo, and Toby seemed to be losing it with CJ but none of it was filtering through the haze that separated his visual cortex from his brainstem. The West Wing demanded the kind of attention that Sam couldn’t commit to it so he switched it off and went into the garden. He sat on a plastic chair and took some deep breaths, focusing on the wall that separated his garden from his neighbour’s.
He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew he was cold, had a crick in his neck and his watch revealed it was after ten. Mary must have returned because Mr Monkels was in the back sniffing a bucket.
He went and knocked on her door but there was no response.