my teeth, I offer them cutlery wrapped in serviettes. ‘Once again, I apologise for the wait, madam, and I’ll certainly pass on your feedback to the owner.’
‘Make sure you do and you can also inform her we’re not paying for my meal.’
‘You tell her, Mawgan,’ says the father to his older daughter, while the young goth sister glances down at the ground, embarrassed. I feel sorry for her.
‘I’ll have to ask the owner about your bill.’ I feel faintly sick. I can’t just give away Sheila’s food. She’s only the tenant at the cafe and her profit margins are wafer thin as it is.
‘I don’t care … and what’s this? Coleslaw? I specifically asked for no coleslaw.’ Mawgan wrinkles her nose at the pasties.
‘I’ll have it removed immediately and bring a fresh plate, madam.’
Mawgan snatches the plate back. ‘If you do that I’ll be waiting until Christmas.’
‘Whatever you wish, madam.’
Gritting my teeth, I take the tray, desperate to move on to new customers but dreading what Sheila will say about their refusal to pay the bill. It was my fault that the coleslaw ended up on the plate; I must have taken down the order wrong in the rush.
‘Would you like anything else?’ I ask in desperation. ‘Condiments? A jug of water?’
‘Some mayonnaise,’ Mawgan grunts, leaving me wondering what the objection was to coleslaw anyway.
Wondering how I’ll break the news to Sheila about the discount, I head for the condiments alcove at the side of the kitchen, and scoop some mayo from the catering jar in the fridge into an individual pot. Maybe Mawgan will change her mind when she tastes the homemade pasties that Sheila and I slaved over this morning? While I carefully place the pot on a tray, I can hear the odd yip from above but I have to harden my heart.
I reckon no one will hear Mitch anyway above the squawking of seagulls and head back outside. A large group of them has already gathered on the beach wall opposite the cafe, eyeing the lunchtime chips and pasties with their beady eyes and sharp beaks. They’re a menace all over St Trenyan, but the tourists will keep feeding them. The gulls must think Sheila’s is a drive thru.
Make that a dive thru. I’m almost at Mawgan’s table with the bowl of mayo, when I spot three of the big birds circling low over a young family at the edge of the terrace. The mother is trying to manoeuvre a buggy with a baby down the steps to the beach while a little girl clambers down beside her. She can’t be more than four and she has a bright pink ice-cream cone clutched in one hand. Her tongue sticks out in concentration as she negotiates the stone steps onto the sand. I’m in two minds whether to leave the mayo and give the mother a hand when there’s a deafening screech.
Wings beating like pterodactyls, two large gulls launch a double-pronged attack on the little girl. The birds are probably only after the food, but they could do some serious damage by accident.
‘Look out!’
Too late. The mother looks up from the bottom of the steps, there’s a flapping of wings and screeching like nails over a blackboard. The toddler lets out a wail as the gulls attack her ice cream. Dashing forward to try and chase them off, my shin connects with someone’s beach bag, I stagger forward and the pot of mayo flies through the air. It lands, smack onto the back of Mawgan’s jacket, just as if I’d aimed right for it.
Ignoring Mawgan’s shriek and my throbbing foot, I run over to the mum. The toddler stares at her empty hand which thankfully is still in one piece. Pink gloop trickles down her chubby arm, while the seagulls tear the cone to pieces on the sand.
‘Are you all OK? Is the little one hurt?’ I ask.
Her mum crouches down and hugs her. ‘She’s fine. You scared them off just in time. I was so busy with the buggy I hadn’t realised what was happening.’
‘I’m glad she’s OK.’
‘Thanks to you. Nasty things. Don’t cry, Tasha! I’ll get you another ice cream, darling.’
‘You! Waitress! Have you seen my suit?’
‘Sorry,’ I mouth to the mum. ‘Have to go.’
On the terrace, Mawgan holds up her jacket, her mouth set in a fuchsia line. It’s spattered with mayo, just like a seagull pooped on it.
‘I’m so sorry, madam, you can see it was an accident.’
She thrusts her jacket under my nose. Mayonnaise dribbles down it. Her gaze scythes through me. ‘Maybe it was, but my suit’s still ruined.’
‘I – I’ll pay for it to be cleaned,’ I say, though every word kills me to say it and it will take most of my savings.
‘Cleaned? It’s ruined. This suit cost over three hundred pounds. I expect you to pay for a new one. You or your boss.’
The words leave my lips before I can stop them. ‘Three hundred quid? You’re kidding?’
She gasps. ‘What did you say?’
The hipster lowers his Times and stares at us. His dark eyes glint in the sunlight. He frowns, seems about to speak but then raises the newspaper again. A woman nearby giggles nervously and faces look up from their lattes and pasties at the unexpected free entertainment.
‘I … didn’t mean to be rude, madam.’
‘Oh, really?’ She lowers her voice so that only I and her family can hear her. ‘You do know I can make sure you get the sack and never get another job in this town? I don’t let anyone speak to me like that.’
I hesitate, anger bubbling up in me like the fizz in a bottle of pop. Then my cork blows. Just as quietly I say: ‘Neither do I. Madam.’
I’m on the point of fetching Sheila when loud barks ring out from the side alley of the cafe. They sound exactly like Mitch’s barks but he’s supposed to be safe inside the flat. He can’t have escaped, but seconds later a hairy ball of energy hurtles from the rear of the cafe and onto the terrace. Two Pugs and a Cockerpoo start yapping and before I can blink, Mitch leaps at me, barking joyfully. Mawgan’s eyes flick from Mitch to the back door of the cafe and back at me.
‘I take it that’s your dog?’ There’s ice in her voice.
‘Yes.’
‘And it lives here?’
‘Um. Not as such. He’s just staying in the attic temporarily while I’m at work but he wasn’t supposed to get out.’
‘So, you live here too?’
My stomach swirls with unease but I don’t want to let Mawgan see that she’s rattled me and I’m getting annoyed now. The customer may be always right but she also has no right to interrogate me about my private life. ‘Yes, but I really don’t see what it has to do with you.’
She smirks. ‘Rather a lot, actually. I own this building. Your boss is my tenant so she shouldn’t be subletting
