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An extract from my latest novel, Fallen Star.
A story about the price of fame, the blindness of prejudice and the redeeming power of love.
Business always seemed slow on Wednesdays. Halfway through the morning and there had only been five customers. Lizzie had finished wiping down the tables and had begun chalking up the lunchtime specials on the blackboard, when the young man came in again. Since yesterday she’d secretly nicknamed him ‘the godson’ after the habit of sitting with his back to the wall.
Lizzie had an indistinct feeling from his first visit that she’d seen him somewhere before, yet she couldn’t quite place him. He had soft brown eyes under long lashes, carefully tousled brown hair, and a boyish smile. There was a mole on the side of his neck, she almost wanted to reach out and brush it away to complete the perfection. Anyway he’s bound to have a girlfriend, she thought.
Plus he was probably a good three years younger than her. “You don’t want to be accused of cradle snatching, Lizzie Keating.” She put down the chalk and brushed her hands as she turned to face him.
“What was that?” the godson asked, with a raised eyebrow.
Realising with a start that she had spoken her thoughts aloud, Lizzie felt the heat of a blush invade her face. “Oh, nothing . . . I talk to myself all the time. It’s the only way you get any sense in here.” She looked down at her hands and took a deep breath before raising her eyes to his. “More comfort food, is it?”
“Yeah, they repossessed my car yesterday.” He ran a nervous finger round the neck of his T-shirt.
“Oh no, skid-row one step closer?”
“You could say that. At least the flat’s safe. ‘Put your money in property, Son’, that’s the one piece of my dad’s advice I listened to. Though don’t ever tell him I said so.”
“Don’t worry, my lips are sealed,” she said a little wistfully. If only her own father had been around to give her advice. “Now, chocolate cake again? Or could I tempt you to apple pie and cream?” She ran her tongue over her lips after the word cream. Then watched as the godson’s features melted slowly into a smile.
“Apple pie,” he said, “and a black tea, with lemon, please.”
“Coming right up, Sir.” She watched his fluid, assured movements as he crossed the room to sit; with his back to the wall, facing the door.
For a time he was the only customer. Lizzie busied herself behind the counter – straightening things that were already tidy, wiping things that were already clean – and stole fleeting glances at him as he ate. He’d almost finished his apple pie when Dexter came in.
Dexter had become part of the fabric of her Wednesdays. The part that would cause it to be rejected by the quality controller as it rolled off the loom. She didn’t quite know why Wednesdays were significant. He could be seen around the streets, pushing his old pram and wearing his revolting greatcoat – home to stains which would defy scientific analysis – all week. But only on Wednesdays did he try to scrounge a cup of tea at the Corner Café. Maybe he had a rota for annoying different people on different days, Lizzie mused.
She saw him first through the window, parking his pram – piled high with plastic carrier bags – neatly next to the door. She was about to call Stan from the kitchen – Stan had a way of getting rid of Dexter, honed by years of practice – when she remembered he’d gone to the cash and carry for supplies and hadn’t yet returned. She’d have to deal with the situation herself.
Dexter lurched through the door and tacked his way to the counter like a galleon in a gale. Lizzie could smell the alcohol on his breath from four feet away.
“Cup o’ tea for an old soldier, darlin’?” he rasped.
“You know you’re not welcome in here, Dexter.” Lizzie put her hands on her hips and tried to sound firm. “And I’m not your darlin’. Now, on your way.”
“You wouldn’t throw an old man out on the street, would you?”
“Sure, that’s where you came from. That’s where you’re going back to.” Lizzie, heart beating a little faster, but determined not to back down, lifted a hand and wagged a finger at Dexter for emphasis. “And you’re not scrounging any tea.”
“Miserable cow, I only want a bleedin’ cuppa.”
Her confident front sagged a little at Dexter’s retort, then from the corner of her eye Lizzie saw the godson rise to his feet.
Dexter continued his weekly rant, “It comes to something when a war veteran can’t even get a cuppa.”
“The lady asked you to leave,” the godson spoke, his voice soft but serious.
“An’ who the ’ell are you?”
“I’m asking you to leave too.”
Dexter drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very far, and stuck out his grizzled chin. “You can’t push me about, Sonny. I fought for my country,” he said, pointing at a row of faded medal ribbons on his greatcoat. “I’m a bleedin’ hero, I am.”
The godson looked at the ribbons for a moment, then met Dexter’s gaze. “Which war?”
“What?”
“Which war? It’s a simple question.”
Dexter stayed silent.
“You’re too young to have won that fourteen-fifteen star.” The young man gestured at one of the ribbons. “And what kind of soldier gets a Distinguished Flying Cross?”
Dexter’s eyes dropped and his chin sank towards his chest. “All right, I’m going.” He began to shuffle towards the door, mumbling as he went. “Bloody know-it-all . . . never liked the tea in here anyhow . . . always weak as gnat’s piss.”
The godson followed him across the café, waiting until Dexter was safely outside. Then he walked back to his table, drained his cup and brought it and his plate to the counter. When his back was turned Dexter made an obscene gesture from outside the glass as he retrieved his pram.
“Thanks,” said Lizzie, “he can be a real pain.”
“No problem.” The godson reached into his pocket and produced some money.
“No, have that on me, you saved my life.”
“Thanks, but I can pay.” There was the hint of a blush, Lizzie was certain of it.
“Really it’s on me, I owe you.” She watched as he slowly returned his cash to his pocket. “You were very clever with the medals, how did you know that?”
“My dad used to be in the army, he had a big book with all the decorations in it. When I was little we’d sit and look at it together. I guess some of it stuck.”
“I’m glad it did.” Lizzie smiled her warmest smile.
“I’d better be going. See you again.” He waved a hand toward the plate. “And thanks.”
She had been going to ask his name, only he was already halfway to the door. As he opened it two schoolgirls came in and he stood aside to let them pass. The girls did a comedy double-take as they saw him and turned to watch him walk away. Then, giggling they approached the counter.
“Was that really him?”
“Yeah, I’m sure it was. And I touched his jacket as he went past.” They dissolved into more giggles.
“Was that somebody famous then?” asked Lizzie, feigning disinterest.
Both girls looked at her as if she’d landed from another planet. “It’s Karl Weston,” said one, wide-eyed in awe.
“From the Fallen Boys,” added the other.
“Oh,” said Lizzie, “I’m not into these teeny-bop bands.”
In their excitement the girls took no offence at the teeny-bop reference. “Does he come in here a lot?” asked the first.
“No, never seen him before today,” lied Lizzie. “Probably never see him again.”
*****
Extract from Fallen Star Copyright (c) Ian Barker 2008
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