Leftovers

A Boxing Day Tale

She’d been watching drips of condensation racing one another for 23 minutes. I suppose that’s what you get if you open half an hour early because you’ve got no place else to be. At least here there’s a chance of company. And if she’s heating her café, there’s no need to warm a crappy apartment with its token apology for a Christmas.

Anyways, the drip on the left slid smoothly down the pane, while the one on the right got caught up in a peeling snowflake that was several festive seasons old. So old it had lost its stickability, a bit like her after seventeen years keeping her head above water and her business from repossession.

‘You’re not running a charity’, the accountant had said for the seventh year in a row. God, there must be one business account manager who wouldn’t trot out that same old line. Time to try and find one, she thought. Maybe if she wasn’t so damn tired all the time. It had been easier when there’d been two of them. They say love and business don’t mix. When she’d started asking him if he still loved her, he’d said it was none of her business so maybe they’re right. He took off with the loan the accountant before last had arranged - and the slim young accountant herself - which explained why she was with the one who currently didn’t approve of her profit margins or her clientele. Just her luck that the bean counter had visited on one of the days Terry and his plastic bag wardrobe had been kicked out the hostel, again.

As the clock ticked past 9, her usual Friday opening time, the café door flew open. An unmistakeable figure in hospital scrubs careened into the back of a chair, setting off a domino effect that ended when a tomato-shaped sauce dispenser hit the tiled floor.

“Sorry, June love, I should put a sign on the door to say it doesn’t stick any more.”

“No worries, Maeve, just me charging about the place, as per. Too much coffee last night. It was a helluva shift. You wouldn’t believe the emergency room mayhem at Christmas.”

“No coffee for you then, hon?”

“Maybe a hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, please. That should help me sleep.”

The door bell tinkled, opening without added dramas. To be fair, Rob had only done the repair on Christmas Eve. He’d tested it enough to be certain it would open smoother than it ever had.

“Extra marshmallows? Nice, I might have that myself.”

“Coming right up, Rob, and this one’s on the house”.

“That’s no way to run a business, Maeve. You already paid me fair and square. Charge me full whack and I’ll have the Full Leftovers Breakfast, darling. I’ve got a busy day of emergency jobs. There’ll be no time for lunch.” June was still clearing up her ‘crime scene’ red sauce, an irresistible opportunity for Rob to offer her well-stretched uniform a cheeky pat and a ‘ho, ho, ho’.

“Maeve, I’ll have one of those breakfasts too, and stick it on Rob’s bill. Extra sausage for me.” She hauled herself upright, punching her long-suffering husband playfully on the shoulder. “Always a good time for an extra sausage, eh, Rob?”

They took the corner booth, grabbing a rare moment to swap notes on the kindnesses they did for others. Maeve watched their easy togetherness, certain that her chance of such a loving connection had long passed.

By the time she’d delivered two groaning plates of bubble ‘n squeak to their table, they both had hot chocolate moustaches and their Christmas cracker jokes had turned borderline filthy.

Terry must have sneaked in when she was in the storeroom grabbing another tin of the Spanish chocolate drink that cost way more than she sells it for.

“I’ll have whatever they’re having, Maeve.”

“Literally or metaphorically, Terry love.”

“Woah, get you! Been overdosing on the festive quiz programmes?”

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Photo by Sebastian Coman Photography on Unsplash

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Half an hour later, on the dot of 10, Terry issued forth a monstrous belch that smelt of sprouts and garlic sausage, fussed with the faux fur lining of the hood on the overcoat they’d clubbed together to buy him, and rested his head against the picture wall that celebrated nearly two decades of café life.

She turned the radio up, soppy Christmas tunes preferable to his gravelly snores. But there was an indulgent smile too and at least today there’d be no judgement from a cold-hearted number cruncher. The tinkling doorbell made her anxious that she’d manifested the bloody accountant from a bad day dream. Her second indulgent smile of the day greeted the slumped shoulders and hangdog expression of her latest Boxing Day arrival.

“Dropped the kids back with their Mum, Matt?”

The mumbled answer and the redness of his eyes told her all she needed to know.

“Grab a pew, young fella, and we’ll get you sorted. Maybe don’t sit too close to Terry. He had extra sprouts and there’s no telling where the excess will emerge from. Better to be upwind.”

She could have sworn there was the hint of a smile. He was a good looking young man and she’d felt a motherly responsibility for him since the day the story had spilled out. Hard not to feel for a hardworking lad whose wife took advantage of his extra shifts to do the dirty on him with his so-called best mate. And he was the one who’d been kicked out of the family home. Living with his Auntie and working more shifts than ever to pay for his lazy-ass ex-wife’s home-shopping habit. The least she could do was feed him properly and stay on the lookout for the sort of kind girl he deserved.

Talking of which, she thought, as the condensation finally cleared enough to see the lane she was tucked away on. You have to feel for that young lady. Danica, such a pretty name for a pretty girl. Second Christmas without her husband, though it was cancer that did the dirty on them, and so soon after they arrived here. Now she’s helping others to settle into a community they’re not always welcomed into.

“Hey Danni, so lovely to see you. You must be exhausted. How many did you cook for yesterday?”

“Hello, Mrs Maeve, Happy Christmas, thank you. Twenty three in the end, and no leftovers”, she laughed.

“Well, that settles it, love. The leftovers are on me. You sit yourself over there with Matt and I’ll bring you both something good to tuck into - and Matt could do with a bit of cheering up”, Maeve whispered.

“Leave it to me, Mrs Maeve.”

Nice girl, that one, thought the older woman. Just lovely. Exactly what that young fella deserves. I bet his kids would love her too. She smiled that indulgent smile of hers. Maybe there won’t be so many leftovers this time next year.