Page 9 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
And that’s when calamity struck. In slow motion. I needed both hands to unfasten the clip in my hair (the accessory that was currently holding up most of my Heidi milkmaid braids) and capture the stray strand, securing it back into place. For some unknown reason, my pea-sized brain had visualised me carrying out said hair maintenance move in a single, fluid motion before letting go of the giant stage panel. When faced with a split second decision between saving my hair-do or the show, there was never any question about my loyalty: the hair came first. I guess I figured the panel would just balance there on a knife edge for a second or two, patiently waiting for my attention to return to it, or at least one of my hands to grip it.
The point of no return dawned. Hair now secured, I lunged at the panel in vain, much too late to stop it catching Lauren sharply on the back of the head (Yeah, I couldn’t bring myself to reveal Lauren played Tallulah until this point… Too painful, in every sense of the word!).
Our parents were in the front row of the audience. They captured the entire sequence of events on video camera, as if it was happening to another family and we might have a fabulous opportunity here to send the offending tape off to one of those TV shows that rewards you with two hundred and fifty pounds for sharing your hilarious hiccup with the nation. Dad adored that VCR recorder. Dad had no shame.
Even at the point when Caitlyn ran onto the stage to hug both of her big sisters and check we were okay, just as the flutist broke out in a spontaneously comical melody, still he kept the lens steady, capturing everything for posterity. I was sprawled out, face down, like a starfish by that point, but ever the selfless sister, Caitlyn didn’t let that deter her from going in for a cuddle of teddy bear proportions. Meanwhile, the laughter levels in the school gym were off the chart. Lauren pushed Caitlyn away as she ran to her aid next, not before screaming, “How dare you ruin my moment like this?” at me at record decibels, and howling her way stage left, rubbing her head. I couldn’t blame her then for reacting like that and I can’t blame her now– although for obvious reasons, we never bring it up. She’d spent months preparing for her big moment and my impulsive behaviour had ruined it all. Damian’s face was thunder, hair poking out in every compass direction as he pinned his eyes on my guilty face from the wings and my stage peers flocked around him to shake their heads in disgust.
“You had one job!”
I may not have heard Damian but I could lip read well enough, even if I was still impersonating a sea creature, flat out on the stage.
“You’re a failure and a disgrace!”
“You’ve let the whole cast and crew down!”
The last thing I recall about that fateful night is my dear father (and this part is so wholly embarrassing, it’s almost worse than my initialfaux pas), marching up the steps to gather his girls in his arms, VCR still gripped in one hand. He turned to the audience to say, “Show’s over, guys! You’ve had your laughs.” But the curtains went down on his head, toppling him into the orchestra pit and onto the lap of the cellist, giving the throng one final, hearty guffaw.
It goes without saying that returning to school the following day was a scene plucked straight out of a Brothers Grimm book. “It’ll be fine,” Dad had assured me. “Like getting back on a bike after your first fall. You’ll soon forget it ever happened and so will everybody else.”
But I didn’t– and nor did they. Naturally, Lauren didn’t speak to me for weeks. And every one of my classmates turned on me, too. Even my best friends succumbed to the peer pressure and shunned me for days. And all of that was without anyone knowing the real reason behind me letting go of the scenery! I swear they’d have put scissors to my braids if I’d ever been foolish enough to reveal the truth.
If only my nightmare had stopped there. But history took it upon itself to give my teachers, fellow students and their parents a repeat performance later that summer term, and sadly I couldn’t blame Damian’s ineptitude as stage manager this time.
What can I say? There must have been something in the air. There was definitely something in my hair. Terribly bad joke at my expense. I guess I’m just trying– in vain, and in hindsight– to see the lighter side of the crappiest school term imaginable.
Now I may not have been an Olympian in the making, but I could knock out an impressive sprint when circumstance required. And the preparations for the annual summer sports day meant it did. As had long been tradition, the four school houses competed on the patchy green school fields to discover who would reign supreme, holding the shiny fake gold cup aloft on the podium by the cricket pitch amidst cheers of jubilation from a euphoric crowd.
Students battled it out in the athletic disciplines of track and field. Javelins were launched torpedo-style, shot puts were hurled with aplomb and long jumps were nailed, with new school records achieved in a number of age groups. Then came the finale and my part; the part which would put my schoolhouse (Tide) ahead of the perennial favourites (Rock). Yes, the four school houses had been baptised with the most imaginative of names way back when at the school’s formation: Tide, Rock, Pier, and Sand. I guess they still embody Weston-super-Mare’s chief characteristics, overlooking wannabe Ferris wheels and custard tarts…
I was number four in the relay team. I waited in my crucial spot with my fellow competitors, willing myself to think of nothing but the impending baton exchange with faster-than-lightning Fay Fox, relay team member number three. We’d practised our brisk handover every lunchtime that week. We knew it like the back of our hands– pun not intended but perfect. And I tried to ignore the encroaching irritation that threatened to knock me out of the all-important athlete’s zone of concentration. But I’m sure you know how the story goes by now. A gust of wind came from nowhere and a wisp of hair escaped that sunny June afternoon’s hairstyle. Can you believe I had made the fatal mistake of wearing Heidi milkmaid braids again? No, neither can I. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to learn it was their very last outing.
Even Dad refrained from charging to my rescue this time. Only Caitlyn squeezed me hard later that day, after mopping my tears as I lay on my bed and stared wordlessly at the ceiling, hoping it might reveal why I had made the same mistake again.
“I get it,” she’d tried to console me. “It’s like… if one of my Barbies has a sticky-outy bit in her ponytail, I’ll undo the whole lot immediately and start again and everything else will just have to wait. Even if Mum calls me for chocolate chip cookies or there’s something amazing on TV.”
“It’s sweet of you to say so, little sis… but these things shouldn’t even enter a person’s brain when they’re supposed to be focused on the vital task of grabbing a baton at the key point in a relay race, and their school house is currently tied with the favourites, so their very actions determine whether this year Tide might finally seize the victory. And they shouldn’t cross their minds when they’re supposed to be propping up a giant scenery frame on the opening night of a school play, either.”
“Well, there should have been someone helping you with that scenery,” Caitlyn sprang, as ever, to my defence. “And I’m not just saying that ’cos you’re a girl and most boys have stronger muscles…. Or ’cos you’re my sister and I love you. That Damian’s a big stinky turd. He’s lucky I didn’t kick him in the arse.”
Caitlyn had been right on that front. Damian was a dowfart; another word that had sprung up in conversations with Reggie ref. my poor choice of boyfriends (modern day translation: a lazy, useless sod). There should have been someone else there to help me the first time, but the second time my absent-mindedness couldn’t be put down to coincidence.
If only both events that frightful summer had been a dream, like the bad one I’d just woken up from. But I couldn’t even brush over things by calling myself clumsy. And nobody could label my obsession with my hairstyling as OCD. That is a whole different matter, a very complex different matter, which is all too often misdiagnosed and trivialised. At least on the dark stage I could run into the wings after my mishap. Out there on the open field, I was guilty as charged. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
“And the legend does it again!”
That was Damian, who’d taken it upon himself to dart around me like the most annoying mosquito as I hobbled back to the changing rooms, head down.
“You had one job!”
And that was from my teammates, every single member of Tide from every single school year, the PE teacher, and Lauren– every single hour of every single day until the bell rang out for the holidays. Damian’s catchphrase from the catastrophic Wednesday night production of Bugsy had caught on so beautifully, that ‘you had one job’ became my new name– often abbreviated to YHOJ for short. Even when I returned to study for my BTEC the next year. I could still hear the chorus of cackling kids as the teachers reached Willow Schofield on their registers.
I swear Caitlyn and I have a telepathic thing going on. My heart skips a beat as my phone rings, bringing me back to the relative cocoon of the present, and Caitlyn’s name and number flash up. I take a deep breath. I’m grateful that I’m not still sitting at a wooden desk and using my exercise book as a tent to bury my head, from the shame I failed to live down until the day I walked out of the school gates for good. I look at the clock in my kitchen instead, realising I really don’t have time to answer this call since I’m already running late for work.
But then I remember it’s Sunday. Tim’s running the kitchen on his own today. I feel guilty at getting him to shoulder that responsibility, without us knowing just how busy June’s first weekend might be, but I let it ebb away. Technically this is the work call I should have made to Caitlyn when I came to my senses last night, anyway. I’m not cut out for running my own business and I need to let my sister know this morning, before she feels settled and sees this stint at the end of the pier as an annual thing. I need to let her down very gently and explain. This will be her one and only summer working at TCTC.
CHAPTER FIVE
It doesn’t takelong for Frank and me to have our quiet afternoon together. The post-lunch exodus, plus the pre-school pick-up lull, have left me with a virtually empty café. I can’t say I mind. It’s only mid-June but business has been relentless and it’s a breath of fresh air– quite literally– to stand outside at the pier’s edge and grab great lungfuls of sea breeze (and smaller intervals of sunshine) between serving a handful of customers. I don’t even care if the gusts tangle today’s bouffant ‘power’ ponytail.
