Milkshake

He had already visited the Mermaid Cafe twice that week when he arrived on Friday just before lunchtime. Immediately he realised he had made a mistake. He had avoided Thursday as he didn’t want to come three days in a row, but today was busy. His usual corner spot under the stuffed seagull was taken and he was forced to sit marooned in the centre of the café, at a table already occupied by the annoying old woman and her dog. He had seen her feeding it from her plate earlier in the week, the dog resting its paws on her lap, spraying its doting owner with flecks of food and spittle.

Carefully he wiped his side of the table with one of the slippery paper napkins from the little metal holder, before studying the menu. A button had come off his shirt cuff, but he managed to pull the sleeve of his blazer down over it – navy, to match the striped nautical tie he had retrieved from the back of his wardrobe that morning. He looked up to see Catherine smiling at him from behind the counter and felt himself flush. Glancing down he adjusted his tie pin. He placed his hands on the table in front of him and inspected his fingernails. They weren’t as clean as when he’d set out from his flat. The long bus journey had left him slightly grimy.

“Here again?” the woman with the dog asked. Her tone wasn’t warm.

“Yes,” he said defensively.  “It’s handy isn’t it. And the fish and chips are pretty decent.”  He tapped the picture of a mermaid on the menu as if explaining the café’s nautical theme to her. Fishing nets were draped above their heads, hardly leaving her in any doubt.

And then Catherine was there at the table – her notepad in her hand, her curls slightly softened by steam, and her lovely mouth curved in a smile.  “Hello again,” she said. “We missed you yesterday. What can I get for you today, love?”

Blood pounded in his ears as he absorbed the fact that she had remembered him. Better than that, she had thought about him when he wasn’t there. Elated, he couldn’t trust himself to speak, and had to simply point awkwardly at the menu. “Fish and chips on a Friday. Got to be done, hasn’t it?’

She smiled approvingly. “Nice pot of tea and a slice with that?”

“Do you know what?” he ventured. “I might not have tea today. Might push the boat out.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right the right place to do that,” she replied.

So this was how it felt. Batting little jokes back and forth, smiling – flirting even. He felt suddenly reckless, alive, as if anything was possible. “Can I see your wine line list please?” he said.

“Sorry, love, we don’t do wine. All our drinks are on the back.” She reached out and flipped the menu over for him, the way you would for a confused, elderly relative. He felt himself burning with shame. Of course they didn’t do wine. It was a caff. He tried to focus on the drinks list but the words were swimming in front of him. He could feel his face burning.  Catherine was waiting, her pen poised over her order pad. He had to order something – anything – just not tea. The mist cleared for a second, and words floated up at him. “I’ll have a strawberry milkshake, please,” he said.

“Ooh nice to ring the changes isn’t it?” she said, scribbling on her pad. “Strawberry milkshake coming right up!”

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. What on earth was he thinking? He wanted to call her back but she had swept off to the counter. “Cod and chips and a strawberry milkshake!” she shouted into the back.

The woman opposite looked at him as she fed her dog a chip dipped in runny egg. He busied himself with the menu until his food arrived, Catherine hurriedly putting the plate down on the table so that the peas rolled dangerously towards him. For a moment he dared to hope she had forgotten the milkshake and that he could ask for a cup of tea instead. “Sorry, love,” she said. “I’ve been rushed off my feet – but I haven’t forgotten your special drink. One strawberry milkshake coming right up.”

He could only watch in mounting horror as she dug down to the bottom of a chest freezer and retrieved a tub of ice cream bearded with icicles. She wrenched the lid off and attempted to scoop some out, but the ice cream was clearly set rock hard. He tried not to stare as she held the spoon in the steam from the urn before trying again. His fish and chips congealed untouched in front of him as he was forced to witness activity involving a blender and a bottle of lurid syrup. Catherine waved cheerfully at him. “Just coming!” she called out. “Won’t be a tick.” Which of course meant all eyes were on him as she carried the brimming sundae glass to his table.

“Here you are, love,” she said proudly, placing it down in front of him, and waiting for a reaction. It was a sickly pink colour, with a frothy head and two soggy paper straws bent at an angle. It was a drink for a child. He couldn’t speak.  “Everything alright?” she asked.

The glass it was served in was none too clean.  This was his opportunity to escape from the horror of having to consume this drink. “I’m sorry to be awkward,” he said. “But the glass isn’t terribly clean and I’d rather . . .”

“Not a problem,” she said and whipped it away, splashing pink milk on the table. “I’ll get you another one.” She was gone before he had a chance to say he would much rather have a cup of tea after all. He dabbed at the spilt milkshake ineffectually with more napkins, and busily studied the décor as she prepared his fresh drink. The stuffed gull on closer inspection was moulting, the plaster starfish was chipped. He could feel the eyes of the woman opposite boring into him.

Catherine put the second milkshake down in front of him with enormous care, not spilling a drop. The glass was sparkling but the milkshake had taken on a much stronger puce hue. “I’m so sorry about the first one, love,” she said. “I gave you extra syrup to make up for it. And some whippy cream on top.”  Eyes were burning into him now from nearby tables. Someone stifled a titter. “You haven’t touched your food love. Are you alright?”

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I don’t feel very hungry now actually.”

“Oh,” said Catherine, looking a bit put out. “Well, never mind. You’ve got your milkshake.”

“Yes,” the doggy woman said. “It looks lovely.”

He couldn’t quite recall how he had ended up with this wretched drink in front of him, but it didn’t matter now. He had to drink it. He put his lips round the straws and sucked so hard that the paper collapsed into a soggy pulp. Nothing was coming out. It felt as if the whole café was watching as he removed the straws, dribbling milkshake across the table which the dog promptly lapped up. Picking up the glass, he took a swig. It wasn’t about impressing Catherine anymore. He sensed that dream had died.  It was about preserving his dignity at all costs. But the milkshake was far worse than he had feared. Sickly sweet, fatty tasting, slightly warm.  He could barely swallow it without gagging. Getting through it was unthinkable.

“Can I have a cup of tea instead?” he heard himself say. “I don’t really like it.”

“Oh dear,” said the woman across from him.

“I’ll just bring you the bill then,” said Catherine. She snatched the glass up, turned on her heel and, marching across to the counter, poured the milkshake down the sink.

Miserably, he wiped the table yet again. She was back swiftly, plonking down a cup of tea and his bill on a small saucer with a sweet on it. Unthinkingly, he unwrapped the mint and popped it in his mouth before reading the bill.  His meal was listed like evidence on a mortuary slab.

Fish and Ch.

2 Straw M.

T.

The bill wounded him deeply because it showed he had wounded her. She had charged him for both milkshakes. “I’m sorry, Catherine,” he said but she refused to meet his eye and stood by the table, head held high.

“Cash only,” she said.

“What a waste,” said the dog woman, regarding the wreckage of his meal, of his hopes.  He pushed his plate across the table towards her wretched dog.

Even after Catherine had walked away from the table he spent minutes torturing himself about whether to leave a tip.

Deborah says: I work for a charity in Whitstable, Kent. Living by the sea is a great source of inspiration, and alongside writing I enjoy procrastinating as much as possible with cold water swimming, singing and travel.