rolling rhythm, working the green mint oil into a large olivewood board. He wanted to look up and make sure the customer was really watching, but he didn’t. They might not be watching, might just have their face pointed in his direction. Anyway, he didn’t need their fucking approval to chuck a bowl of tabbouleh together.
He knew a lot of people came to eat here, paid the high prices, because of what was implied by eating in the Paddle Café. Organic, local, farmers’ market. Nose-to-tail. Seasonal. All the hollow pro-words he used to give a fuck about. It was an underground movement when Boyd got into it. At one time he’d cared with the same fevered certainty his minister father had for his faith. Past heresy, his father used to say, was the present orthodoxy: the food revolutionaries now found themselves unwilling high priests of a bland new consensus.
His wife, Lucy, got very drunk at a friend’s wedding once. Just before she threw up into a rhododendron bush that was older than her grandmother, she said that a café with a mission statement was utter bollocks. Boyd liked her that night. Not just loved her, he always loved her, but he really liked her. If they’d met for the first time that night he would have fallen in love with her, right there and then.
The mission statement was printed on the Paddle menus. Even the takeaway menu had a mission statement on it. Bringing organic eggs blah blah blah . Supporting our local blah blah blah . He knew that the blah blah was their profit margin. Customers only paid five fifty for six eggs because of the blah blah.
Boyd chanced a glance up. The watchful customer still had her eyes trained on him through the glass display case. An older woman, but everyone in this town was old. Sharp greying bob, cornflower-blue eyes, expensive sweater in mustard cashmere. She had a very long straight nose, pinched at the end. Her blue neck scarf was pinned with a Victorian brooch, opals and diamonds, inherited. She was smiling at him, her eyebrows raised in recognition. He didn’t know her.
Taking their brief eye contact as a prompt, she stood up and sidled around a display crate of organic local seasonal tomatoes.
‘Boyd. It’s Susan Grierson.’
He reeled at the sound of her voice. ‘Miss Grierson? For goodness . . .’ He stumbled around the counter to her, a boy again, thrilled to see his old Akela from Scouts, his very first sailing instructor. He sandwiched her hand in both of his, wanted to hug her but knowing it would be too much. ‘You’re back!’
‘I am,’ she said, the warmth of her smile meeting his. ‘My mother died.’ Boyd hadn’t heard that and he usually knew these things: the café was a hub of local news.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Me too. My father.’
‘Your father? Well, thatmust have been a well-attended funeral.’ She meant his father’s congregation, not friends, certainly not family. In fact, the turn-out was poor. Most of them were very old. ‘My mother’s funeral was pitiful.’
Miss Grierson looked tearfully at the floor, shaking a little, as if she had forced her mother to be old and lonely by going out into the world. Lots of people came back here after a death. Grief and dislocation took them all differently but everyone felt guilty. Sad and guilty. There was no use in it.
Boyd tried to help her out of it. ‘So, where have you been living?’
‘US. I was in the Hamptons for twenty years.’
‘What’s that like?’
‘Quite like Helensburgh, in fact. Lovely, gentle people. Changed a lot now, though.’ She looked sad but lilted her voice, as if trying to lever her mood. ‘Then London for a while.’ The sadness lingered, joined by what looked like wet-eyed anxiety. ‘So . . .’
‘Well, I was in London too,’ said Boyd kindly. ‘Fifteen years. Glad to get out in the end?’ He was leaving it open for her to denounce London, as people who left it often did. It usually cheered them up but she didn’t take
He knew a lot of people came to eat here, paid the high prices, because of what was implied by eating in the Paddle Café. Organic, local, farmers’ market. Nose-to-tail. Seasonal. All the hollow pro-words he used to give a fuck about. It was an underground movement when Boyd got into it. At one time he’d cared with the same fevered certainty his minister father had for his faith. Past heresy, his father used to say, was the present orthodoxy: the food revolutionaries now found themselves unwilling high priests of a bland new consensus.
His wife, Lucy, got very drunk at a friend’s wedding once. Just before she threw up into a rhododendron bush that was older than her grandmother, she said that a café with a mission statement was utter bollocks. Boyd liked her that night. Not just loved her, he always loved her, but he really liked her. If they’d met for the first time that night he would have fallen in love with her, right there and then.
The mission statement was printed on the Paddle menus. Even the takeaway menu had a mission statement on it. Bringing organic eggs blah blah blah . Supporting our local blah blah blah . He knew that the blah blah was their profit margin. Customers only paid five fifty for six eggs because of the blah blah.
Boyd chanced a glance up. The watchful customer still had her eyes trained on him through the glass display case. An older woman, but everyone in this town was old. Sharp greying bob, cornflower-blue eyes, expensive sweater in mustard cashmere. She had a very long straight nose, pinched at the end. Her blue neck scarf was pinned with a Victorian brooch, opals and diamonds, inherited. She was smiling at him, her eyebrows raised in recognition. He didn’t know her.
Taking their brief eye contact as a prompt, she stood up and sidled around a display crate of organic local seasonal tomatoes.
‘Boyd. It’s Susan Grierson.’
He reeled at the sound of her voice. ‘Miss Grierson? For goodness . . .’ He stumbled around the counter to her, a boy again, thrilled to see his old Akela from Scouts, his very first sailing instructor. He sandwiched her hand in both of his, wanted to hug her but knowing it would be too much. ‘You’re back!’
‘I am,’ she said, the warmth of her smile meeting his. ‘My mother died.’ Boyd hadn’t heard that and he usually knew these things: the café was a hub of local news.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Me too. My father.’
‘Your father? Well, thatmust have been a well-attended funeral.’ She meant his father’s congregation, not friends, certainly not family. In fact, the turn-out was poor. Most of them were very old. ‘My mother’s funeral was pitiful.’
Miss Grierson looked tearfully at the floor, shaking a little, as if she had forced her mother to be old and lonely by going out into the world. Lots of people came back here after a death. Grief and dislocation took them all differently but everyone felt guilty. Sad and guilty. There was no use in it.
Boyd tried to help her out of it. ‘So, where have you been living?’
‘US. I was in the Hamptons for twenty years.’
‘What’s that like?’
‘Quite like Helensburgh, in fact. Lovely, gentle people. Changed a lot now, though.’ She looked sad but lilted her voice, as if trying to lever her mood. ‘Then London for a while.’ The sadness lingered, joined by what looked like wet-eyed anxiety. ‘So . . .’
‘Well, I was in London too,’ said Boyd kindly. ‘Fifteen years. Glad to get out in the end?’ He was leaving it open for her to denounce London, as people who left it often did. It usually cheered them up but she didn’t take
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