Chapter 6

“Come on, guys! Put some elbow grease into it. I want to be home by four, having tea with my wife!” It was a deep muscular voice, coming from outside.

I jumped out of bed, disoriented for a moment, wondering where I was. A quick scan of my surroundings brought me back to reality. I grabbed my smartphone, which was next to me, besides my pillow. That is another habit I have; sleeping with my mobile next to me. I pressed the power button, bringing the device to life. It was six in the morning. There wasn’t much light in the room but enough for me to manoeuvre about without knocking into the furniture.

‘Open the curtains,’ I said to myself.

I made my way to the window, where a stream of light flooded through the side of the curtains. Taking the two drapes, one in each hand, I spread them apart. The bright light forced me a step back. Through half-shut eyes, I saw the commotion that woke me up. There was a garbage truck reversed near the wheelie bins. Two dustmen were struggling to pull the large green bin to the back of the lorry, while the driver had half his body stuck out of the driver’s windows, bashing the palm of his hand on the door while screaming at the dustmen, “come on, get a move on.”

“Thanks for the wake-up call,” I said. The driver looked up towards the window as if he heard me, which I doubt he did with all the noise the garbage truck engine was making. He made a head gesture by nodding his head. I nodded back.

Grabbing what I was going to wear, I opened the bedroom door. It was dead quiet. After scanning the corridor, I tried to remember which one of the doors led to the bathroom, as I didn’t want to walk into someone’s bedroom. Bingo, the bathroom was labelled with a small wooden plate hanging on the door, it read, ‘Bathroom’. I rushed into the room. After a shower and a fresh set of clothes, I was ready to go.

By seven, I was in the kitchen. Barbara was over the cooker. She had a spatula in one hand and a saucepan lid in the other. While moving the sausages around with the spatula, she shielded herself with the cover, avoiding the spit of oil caused by the sizzling sausages. Tina was at the kitchen table, dressed up in her school uniform again. She had her head buried in a bowl of cereals. Tina noticed my presence. She stopped what she was doing and looked up at me. The shy innocent look that you give someone you don’t know.

“Good morning, Tina. Your mum is a true warrior, fighting off those sausages,” I said.

“Good morning,” the young teenager replied, with a round of giggles loud enough to get her mother’s attention.

“Good morning, Michael. You’re up nice and early. Sit down breakfast is almost ready,” Barbara gestured with the spatula towards the table.

Once I was seated, it didn’t take Barbara long to slide a plate in front of me or a small mountain of food. The round porcelain plate consisted of two fried eggs, sausages, baked beans, hash brownies and toasts on the side. It was a full English breakfast. I stared at the food for a moment.

“Dig in then, Michael,” Barbara said as she sat down opposite me with two mugs in her hand. “If I remember correctly, it was one sugar in your coffee.” She slid one of the hot beverages next to my plate.

Halfway through my breakfast, I asked Barbara, “Where is Tim?”

“Tim has been up since five this morning. He went downstairs to prepare to open the café.

As I finished off my breakfast, I got up. I said, “I should have gone downstairs to help Tim.”

Another set of stairs took me downstairs to the back of the shop. Once on the ground floor. On the right stood a large emergency exit door, which led to the backyard. On my left was a small corridor that led to the café’s kitchen. I went that way towards the cooking area. Tim and another man in full chefs clothing were preparing food for the waitresses beyond the counter. The two ladies would quickly grab the plates and take them to the waiting customers. Every table in the cafe was packed. All you could hear was clutter from the cutlery on porcelain. I stood there for a moment, watching Tim, waiting for him to see me, to tell me what to do.

A few moments later, he acknowledged me.

“What do I do,” I said, gesturing my arms by spreading them apart.

He gave me a confused look before he came over. “You didn’t have to come down this early,” he said.

“I’m here now. How can I help?”

He looked over my shoulder. “Let’s start with the pot wash.” He gestured me towards a large sink with a pile of greasy plates stacked up on top of each other, which looked like the leaning tower of Pisa. He handed me a rubber apron and showed me how the water spray gun worked and where the washing liquid was. “Between six and nine in the morning, we call it rush-hour. Will you be ok with the washing for today?”

Once I slipped on the yellow rubber apron, I looked more like a fishmonger than the kitchen porter. Grabbing the water spray, I began my challenge to keep up with the waitresses as they dumped the dirty dishes next to the pot wash. The first hour was a losing battle. Once I got into the rhythm, I had control of the situation. The plates kept on coming until after four in the afternoon. With a couple of breaks between the eight hours of work, I was ok. After four, when I took off the yellow apron, the water was dripping off it, but my clothes were dry. Hanging it up next to the pot wash, I looked at the apron. I said, “You and I are going to become best friends.”

Tim called me over and adequately introduced me to his staff. The waitresses who were both from Romania, I already knew their names, Bianca and Roxanna. They were the only two members of the team I had contact with all day. The chef George was near enough the same age as Tim. He was a big man; he was from Liverpool with a strong northern accent. He was in the army as a cook for twenty years. The waitresses called him Mr Grumpy.