‘Things do change. People change.’ Fiona drops the used wipe into the bin. She comes and stands beside me and brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. ‘We miss you.’
‘I know. I miss you and the kids too. And Mum.’ I study the bottom of the pan as I tamp down the unchecked emotion churning in my stomach. Confident I have it under control, I look up at Fiona. ‘Just meeting Jody Wright again and the mention of the Marshalls is bad enough. And then I bumped straight into them.’
‘Oh no, did you?’ Fiona’s face creases into a wince. ‘Did you speak to them?’
‘Didn’t have much choice. They were parked right next to me. I just explained about Dad.’
‘Are you okay?’ There’s real concern in Fiona’s voice.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, as much to convince myself as my sister.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me,’ says Fiona.
I should have known it wouldn’t be easy to hide anything from her. She has always had this uncanny knack of being able to read my moods, my body language, or whatever it was.
‘Erin! Erin, your phone’s ringing!’ Mum’s voice comes from the hallway.
‘It’s okay,’ I call back, about to add that I’ll leave it to go to voicemail, when Mum appears in the kitchen carrying my handbag. I dry my hands and take the bag, but by the time I’ve fished around for the phone, it has stopped ringing. I check the screen. ‘It was only Ed. I’ll phone him later.’
‘Are you ready, Fiona?’ asks Mum. ‘I want to get back up to the hospital before it gets too late.’
‘Sure,’ says Fiona. ‘Have you got your coat?’ She turns to me. ‘We’ll chat tomorrow. It will be okay, whatever it is. Trust me, I’m your big sister.’ She gives me a brief hug before ushering Mum out to the hall to find their coats.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t hesitate to believe her. She’s never let me down in the past, but this…this thing with Roisin, well, it’s bigger than anything either of us have had to face before. Certainly since I left Rossway as a teenager. For the first time in my life, I have doubts about Fiona’s ability to make things right.
Normally at six in the morning, I would be going for my morning run or sweating it out in the gym. Today, however, I’m standing inside the doorway of Seahorse Café wondering if I’ve stepped back in time. Nothing has changed since I walked away as a sixteen-year-old.
The easy-wipe Formica tables with their padded bench seats are lined up and down the café in three uniform rows of four. Each table is set the same as it has always been. I remember cleaning the tables every night and arranging the red and brown sauce bottles to stand behind the salt and pepper with the plastic menu slotted between to keep it upright.
The counter at the rear of the café looks the same too. A cold cabinet for cakes to one side and the cutlery and napkins to the other, next to a small selection of crisps and biscuits. Behind the counter is the tea and coffee making machine, together with a fridge for the milk and cold drinks. Through the serving hatch where the orders are pushed, I can see the stainless-steel kitchen equipment, all exactly as I remember.
Before I can do anything, I need to move the four silver bistro tables and their chairs from inside the café, where they have been stacked overnight, and take them outside. They aren’t so much heavy as awkward and once accomplished I can tick that task off the list Mum gave to me last night.
Consulting the list, I continue to prepare the café for opening.
In the kitchen, I am just tying my apron when I hear the little bell above the door jangle to announce the arrival of the first customer.
‘Right, here we go,’ I say, as I tuck the order pad and pen into the front pocket of the apron. However, my breezy morning smile slips as I see who my first two customers are.
Kerry and Joe Wright.
‘Morning, Bunny,’ calls Joe as I make my way round the counter and walk down towards them. He grins broadly at me.
‘Morning. How’s your dad?’ says Kerry. They sit down at a table.
‘About the same,’ I reply. I take the order pad and pen from my pocket, not wanting to get into small talk. Not with Joe, anyway. Kerry’s okay. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Two house breakfasts, one tea and one coffee, please,’ replies Kerry.
I head straight back to the kitchen and I’m just putting the bacon on to cook when I hear the bell jangle above the door. Peeking through the serving hatch, I see two more customers arrive. Painters, judging by their overalls, followed by another chap, who is probably some sort of tradesman too if his work clothes are anything to go by.
Three more breakfast orders later, I’m back in the kitchen hurriedly putting more sausages and bacon in the frying pan, whilst stirring the beans in one pot and cracking eggs in a pan for the first order.
Taking out the two breakfasts for Kerry and Joe, I’m greeted by yet another customer. I didn’t realise the café was so busy this time in the morning.
I spend the next twenty minutes rushing round like a whirling dervish but, despite my best efforts, I manage to burn one of the orders. The scrambled eggs have stuck to the bottom of the pan.
‘Sod it,’ I say out loud as black bits begin churning up into the yellow egg. I try to pick out some of the bits and wonder whether I can get away with serving it. In all honesty, not: it looks like the scrambled eggs have freckles. Dumping the pan down into the sink, the clatter resonates around the kitchen. I grab some more eggs and break them into a clean pan. Glancing through the hatch again, I sigh inwardly as I see Joe standing there.
‘Just want to pay,’ he calls through to me. ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run…’
‘You should do them in the microwave. A lot quicker and less chance of burning.’ A voice behind me makes me jump and I swing round. I watch, lost for words, as Kerry casually strolls over to the hob, turns the heat off completely then washes his hands in the small sink next to the fridge.
‘Don’t worry, all nice and clean,’ he says as he dries them on a paper towel. ‘I’ll send Joe on his way. I’ll settle up the bill.’
‘Right, thanks.’ I watch as he motions to Joe through the hatch then begins to rummage around in the cupboard. Surely he doesn’t think he is going to help out in the kitchen. He takes out a plastic bowl and puts it on the counter.
‘Yep, this will do,’ he says. ‘Pass the eggs and milk.’
‘I’m not sure my dad would approve,’ I say, as I open a fresh box of eggs.
‘We won’t tell him, then,’ whispers Kerry conspiratorially in my ear. ‘It will be our secret. Why don’t you get on with the drinks? I’ll keep an eye on this lot here.’ He picks up the order slips, arranging them
