The Bluebird Café (7 page)

Paul was thinking about Lucy and about their sex life. It had its moments but they never seemed to be able to sustain the good phases for more than a week or so. Peaks and troughs. They never seemed to talk about it. He wouldn't have minded, but Lucy would probably have been embarrassed.

Lucy wouldn't have expected Paul to want to talk about it. He was such a shrugger. She would also have been worried about saying something hurtful. She knew that she did have a problem with sex. She often seemed to lose the thread. She was easily distracted; a creak too many of the springs, a glimpse of something over Paul's shoulder, new ideas about other things swimming into her mind. Paul didn't know that some of her best recipes had come to her during their lovemaking. Worst of all, funny things often occurred to her. A few giggles could be disguised, but Paul didn't know that Lucy often had to suppress the urge to shout: ‘Stop! Stop! From here you look like Michael Portillo!'

‘It's her. From the
News,'
Lucy hissed at Paul.

‘Who?'

‘Her. In the pinky-red jacket and red glasses. She's from the
News
. She might be reviewing us. I recognise the glasses from her picture. I thought they were just using an old photo. She's called Sue Sholing, except she spells it S O O.'

‘Like in Sooty,' said Paul, and they sniggered.

‘What did they order?'

Paul was being the waiter that day.

‘Chef's salad, fries, aubergine ravioli,' he said, consulting the pad.

‘That should be all right then, I'll make them extra large ones. Do you mind if I use those artichoke hearts your mum brought us, that jar from France?'

This was a big sacrifice. Artichokes, hearts of palm and leeks and those French
carottes râpées
were Lucy's favourite foods.

‘I don't mind. Thought we'd eaten them already,' said Paul.

The woman with the tight grey curls was Soo Sholing's mum. She was proud of her daughter and chuffed to be the My Companion in the review. She couldn't wait to show it to her friends, and she'd been thinking of lots of comments to make for Susan (as she still thought of her) to put in the paper. Things like ‘a little dry', and ‘slow on the palate', and ‘over-seasoned'. Her friends must be thinking that Susan would end up as famous as that Jilly Goolden on
Food and Drink
. But anyone else
who took a good look at the pair of them tucking into their lunch, dabbing at greasy pink lips with Lucy's soft blue napkins, gripping their knives and forks with big, veiny, manicured hands, sniffing at the sauce with identical turned-up noses about which they were similarly vain, could see that Soo was turning into her mother, and that all the fuchsia-coloured jackets in the world couldn't save her.

‘Do you think she'll write something horrible?' Lucy asked Paul.

‘I don't like her jacket … but I suppose she might still be nice,' said Paul.

‘I think she's a big cheese on the
News
. I'll talk to her when she asks for the bill.'

Half an hour later: ‘Compliments of the house,' said Lucy, putting down a wooden disc tray bearing two pretty blue-and-white cups of coffee and a jug of cream and Lucy's own sugar bowl with its pattern of daisies. She'd decided against using her granny's sugar tongs, Soo Sholing might be light-fingered. Lucy remembered her granny telling her that if a member of the royal family admired anything the owner was expected to give it to them. Perhaps this rule applied to restaurant critics from provincial newspapers too. Lucy didn't want to chance it.

‘Oh, thank you,' said Soo.

‘I did recognise you,' said Lucy. ‘I'm Lucy, the chef.'

‘It's a very nice café, Lucy. Very homely.'

Lucy had always thought that ‘homely' was an insult. Anne of Green Gables had always hated being called ‘homely'. Perhaps it was a compliment for cafés.

‘The rolls were lovely.'

‘Oh. Thank you. My own recipe. The herbs are homegrown.'

‘Very nice ravioli,' Soo's mum said. ‘A lovely finish on the palate.'

‘Thank you. My own recipe too.'

‘You should write them down,' said Soo.

‘I do. I have. I've got a bulging notebook. I love inventing things, changing them, adapting them. I always have.'

‘Have you been cooking for a long time?' Soo asked, reaching for her notebook.

‘Ever since I could hold a wooden spoon.' Lucy had been planning that line for a long time. It had been destined for the
Independent on Sunday
. ‘I taught myself, well, with my mum's help, but I haven't been to catering college or anything. I came to Southampton to study English, and I just stayed here and opened the Bluebird.'

‘Can I take a menu?' Soo asked.

‘Please do, and come back soon.'

‘I will,' said Soo, although she didn't really look the Bluebird type.

‘Yes, we will,' said Soo's mum. Lucy guided them towards the door.

‘I wouldn't usually say this,' said Soo, ‘but you could try sending me a recipe or two for the Women's Page. I don't promise to use it, but we might. Put in some background. You said you did English. You know, when you first made the dish, where to shop, calories and so on …'

‘Oh, I'd love to!' Lucy gushed.

‘Well, here's my card.'

‘Thank you!'

‘This could really be something,' Lucy told Paul and Abigail. ‘I might even get my own Cook's Column. I'll be a celebrity chef.'

‘Well, Delia Smith started out in
Swap Shop,'
said Abigail.

The next week the Bluebird was reviewed in the
News
.

The Bluebird Café, 105 Bevois Valley Road

Lucy Brookes, the charming young proprietress of the Bluebird Café, says she has been cooking ever since she could hold a wooden spoon. The menu, prettily illustrated with birds and flowers, features many of her own creations. Lucy came to Southampton as a student and liked it so much that she stayed! Situated in what some people might call one of the city's seedier districts, the Bluebird is a little oasis of sophisticated home cooking at reasonable prices. Meateaters beware though, it's all vegetarian! There are about a dozen tables painted in pastel shades with old-fashioned chairs and a mural of birds and clouds. Portions are generous.

We enjoyed the complimentary rolls, which were freshly baked that day and flavoured with home-grown herbs, and the big helping of good old-fashioned thick-cut fries. My companion's aubergine ravioli were pretty parcels, fragrant with basil and that sort of thing, swimming in a classic Italian tomato sauce with a generous sprinkling of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. I munched my way through the chef's salad, and was impressed by the generous quantities of pricier ingredients such as artichoke hearts, asparagus points, olives, and by the many brightly coloured leaves.

My blackcurrant sorbet was delicious, velvety and smooth, and my companion's Inca pie was chocolate heaven. It certainly filled her up! Our bill with a bottle of mineral water came to £15.95. A real treat and quite a bargain too.

The Bluebird Café is open from 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., Monday to Saturday.

‘It's a rave! Look, Paul!' Lucy waved it at him. She made copies to send to her relatives and to her friend Vicks and other people she wanted to impress.

‘Do you think it would be tacky to put copies inside Christmas cards?' she asked Paul.

‘Yes.'

They framed a copy and put it up in the window. Business did pick up.

‘
Southampton News
readers can be your new target diners,' sniggered Abigail. ‘You can be a stop-off on the coach excursions.'

Lucy stayed up late that night, looking through her recipe notebooks, writing her first column for Soo Sholing's Women's Page.

‘I'm just nipping to Vir and Vir for some Felix,' said Lucy.

‘OK.'

John Vir was alone in the shop. He was bent over a huge box of packets of nuts. Lucy saw the Cash and Carry price on the outside.

‘Wow! Where'd you get it that cheap?'

‘Cash and Carry, near Basingstoke.'

‘That's loads cheaper than the Wholefood Co-op we use.'

‘Well, it would be, wouldn't it?' said John Vir.

‘I don't use cashew nuts much because of the prices.'

‘Oh, this one's good. Cheap prices. They have pistachios, peanuts, spices, everything. You give me a list if you like …' he offered.

‘It sounds wonderful. But I don't want to put you to any trouble. You don't have a price list or anything, do you?'

‘You could get your rice and yoghurt there too. Why not come with me and see yourself?' he said.

‘That would be lovely,' Lucy said. ‘I mean, very useful for the café. Paul will be pleased.'

‘I'm going on Wednesday. How about four?'

She walked back to the Bluebird with a can of Felix in each hand.

‘Paul,' she said, ‘I'm going up to this really cheap, interesting Cash and Carry with the people from Vir's. Cheap nuts, rice, loads of things. Isn't that nice of them?'

‘Yeah. Did you get any samosas?'

‘Just catfood.'

John Vir called for Lucy at exactly four o'clock. She had been about to walk round to the shop to see if he had remembered their arrangement, when suddenly he was there in the doorway. His van, a strange, dolphinish-green, was parked outside.

‘Oh God,' she thought, ‘I can't think of anything to say.' She wished that she'd listed a few conversational topics on her cuff for easy reference. Then there she was, sliding on to the leatherette seat, belted in next to him, and his van was lumbering up The Avenue, the A33, towards the motorway. Lucy loved The Avenue, it was so impressively tree-lined and the views of Southampton Common were beautiful. She loved walking up it, driving up it, riding up it in a van. It made her think of Judy Garland dressed as a tramp with a smudge on her nose, a broken hat, and a blacked-out tooth. She could remember all the words. It had been her moment of glory as a Young Stager, singing ‘We're a Couple of Swells' with her friend Sally, before some blonde Miss Piggy ballet-type had danced to ‘Evergreen'.

‘What are you humming?' asked John Vir.

‘Was I?' Lucy had thought the song was just playing in her head. Now she was embarrassed. ‘Can we have the radio on?'

He switched it on. It crackled. Lucy hated trying to tune in other people's car radios. It was impossible. John Vir found Radio Solent.

‘And in
Scene South
today we have a special report on Southampton's Fluoridation Debate.'

‘Oh, honestly,' said Lucy.

‘Blah blah blah,' said John. He twisted the dial and the van was filled with music and sunlight. It was ‘Natural Woman'. Lucy had to stare out the window in embarrassment. The light from the sun streamed through the clouds in golden shafts. As a child Lucy had thought that these were the ladders for dead people to go up to heaven, and for the angels to come down to earth. The road glistened ahead of them. John Vir pulled down his sun-shield, dazzled.

‘So what are you looking for?' he asked.

‘Oh God, well,' said Lucy, thinking that he meant in life.

‘I get the same stuff every week. Customers just want the same. Crisps, nuts, spices, flour, oils.'

They waltzed around the Cash and Carry together, loading their trolleys. When Lucy reached the checkout she realised that she was spending much more than she'd planned; but John Vir's bill was five times the size of hers. She fumbled in her bag for more money, pulling out her salsa-stained chequebook with its embarrassing NatWest otters and weasels. John Vir pulled a wad of crisp twenties out of his back pocket. He had a little gilt money clip, and peeled off thirty notes.

They loaded up the van. The space between the two rows of back seats was filled with boxes and sacks, on the top was a layer of packets of crisps, all the Monster Munch and Hula Hoops and Skips and everything that his customers would want in the next week.

‘Looks quite comfortable,' joked Lucy, as they put the last few twelve-packs on top.

He pictured them lying there. He had to stop himself from taking her and pushing her down on to that soft bed of packets. He was that close.

John Vir unloaded her boxes from the back of the van and stacked them up in the doorway of the Bluebird.

‘I can bring them inside for you,' he offered.

‘No, they're fine here, but' – she realised that he had never, ever been inside the café before – ‘if you'd like a cup of tea …' then Paul appeared and began to carry the boxes inside.

‘Thanks,' he said. ‘See you.' John Vir turned and left.

‘Paul!' she said, annoyed. ‘I was going to ask him, he might have wanted to come in. What's that?'

Somebody had shoved a note through the door.

‘I thought I might have heard someone. I was upstairs. There weren't any customers, so I locked up … There might have been someone knocking.'

‘But you didn't think to answer.'

‘Not really.'

She unfolded the note, her face crumpled.

‘CAT UNDER PLANT IN FRONT GARDEN'.

She was biting her lip. Fennel.

‘What's wrong?'

She handed him the note.

‘Stay here,' said Paul, but of course they went together. Lucy thought, ‘This is my punishment,' and then hated herself for thinking about John Vir and not Fennel. There was a bulkylooking Safeway's bag poking out from under the morning glory.

‘I can't look,' thought Lucy, but of course she would have to. She had lost a cat before. She remembered the damp fur that had lost its shine, the beloved body gone stiff, paws frozen.

Paul knelt and gently parted the tangle of fronds. Blue trumpets sounded a silent blast. There was a copy of the
Next Directory
inside the bag. A CATalogue.