Page 26 of Love in Tune
A few days of abstinence from Hal did little to make Honey’s heart grow fonder.
She hadn’t knocked on his door, and he hadn’t shouted obscenities at her as she came and went through their shared lobby.
If there was one thing she was sure of it was that she wouldn’t be the one to back down this time.
She knew he’d never offer her an explanation for his behaviour but he owed her an apology at the very least. If he didn’t give it, then he could consider their friendship over.
It wasn’t usual for Honey to be so bloody-minded, but Hal seemed to bring out both the very best and the very worst in her; he made her lighthearted and sexy and even culinarily capable, and he made her stubborn and furious and frustrated.
It was a lot of extra emotion to handle, and Honey was almost glad of the time out afforded to her by his most recent bout of silence.
Besides, the campaign to save the home was gathering pace daily, especially since the residents had begun their daily vigil at the railings.
Honey leaned back on her stool at the till and glanced out of the window of the shop.
It was Billy’s day today, and unlike Elsie yesterday who’d sat sedately humming to herself and smiling benignly at passers-by and the reporter from the paper, Billy was approaching his stint in the manner of a union leader whipping up a rally.
He’d managed to find a pair of prisoner-style orange overalls, which clashed violently with the lime cuffs he’d used to chain himself to the railings by one wrist. In his other hand he brandished a loudhailer, and for most of the morning he’d been entertaining passers-by and the growing clutch of reporters who’d come from further afield as word of the story spread.
From her vantage point, Honey saw Patrick appear in his chef’s apron, ambling down the path with a tray laden with lunch for today’s activist. Soup, from what she could make out, and a plate of sandwiches.
Billy laid down his loudhailer and sat down in readiness.
A moment later, Christopher flew down the path behind the chef and bobbed in front of him, a human barrier between Billy and his lunch.
‘No. No feeding residents off the premises please, Patrick. I’m afraid it breaches our health and safety regulations.’ He waved his hand away towards the tray, his other hand holding his hair down as he leaned in and hissed for the chef’s ears only. ‘And you’re only encouraging them.’
‘I’m old.’ Billy had picked up his loudhailer again, his voice suddenly thin and wavering. ‘And I’m hungry. Please let me eat my lunch, sir.’ He all but doffed his cap at Christopher.
Honey stepped out of the shop to keep an eye on proceedings.
‘No can do I’m afraid, Mr Hebden. What if you were to choke on food prepared inside the home whilst you’re out here?
You could get the place closed down. You’re more than welcome to come inside and eat in the dining room with the other residents though.
’ Christopher turned and smiled at the photographers.
‘The place is being closed down anyway, you numpty,’ Billy boomed into the loudhailer, and Patrick started to laugh.
‘He’s got a fair point there, Chris. Out of the way so I can put this down, eh?’
Everyone knew that Christopher hated his name being shortened. Even Honey winced.
‘I absolutely refuse to permit eating on this pavement,’ Christopher said, reaching out and placing a warning hand against the edge of the tray. ‘Observe the law.’
‘“Observe the law”? Observe my bloody front door! It’s being slammed in my face!’ Billy wailed. ‘I’m being made homeless, I’m old and I want my soup!’
Honey wondered if Billy had ever been on the stage – he was a natural.
‘It’s coming, Billy,’ Patrick thundered, tussling to get around Christopher who refused to take his hand off the tray. ‘Let go,’ the chef muttered, and Christopher shook his head quickly.
Honey watched as they seemed to tug the tray back and forth between them, each man entrenched in winning the battle.
Billy peered hopefully between them. ‘Is it tomato?’ he boomed, still holding the loudhailer.
Christopher clenched his teeth and yanked hard at the tray, sending the food flying, the soup landing all down the front of Billy’s overalls. It was hard to say if it was deliberate or not, but either way Billy made the most of the situation, turning to the press, virtually in tears.
‘It’s burning,’ he moaned into the loudhailer, loud and pitiful, even though it had at best been lukewarm and he could barely feel it through the boiler suit and his clothing beneath it.
Honey ran across the pavement to help but found her way blocked by Patrick, who puffed himself up to Popeye proportions and swung a left hook at Christopher’s chin, sending him sprawling.
‘You just assaulted an OAP!’ the chef thundered, puce in the face.
‘And you just assaulted your boss!’ Christopher yelled back, sliding around the pavement on his backside in the sandwiches.
‘Up yours! I resign, ya great streak of piss!’ Patrick shouted, louder than Billy even without the aid of a loudhailer. He unfastened his striped apron and dragged it over his head then threw it at Christopher’s head before storming back into the building.
The press pack scribbled furiously and flashed their cameras, hardly able to believe their luck.
This was turning into the story that just kept on giving.
Honey stepped around Christopher to help Billy step out of the soup-covered overalls, revealing the slogan-painted t-shirt beneath it.
‘You say old, I say experienced. Fancy dinner?’
‘How do I look, darling?’ he winked.
Honey grinned at how much Billy was obviously enjoying himself. ‘Never better, Billy.’
He turned to smile winsomely for the cameras, and Honey stepped back into the shadows, hoping it was all going to be enough. Billy might seem clownish to the passers-by, but behind all of his showmanship was an elderly man who was genuinely frightened for his future, and that wasn’t funny at all.
‘We’re all starving, Honey. Skinny Steve is trying his best, bless him, but he’s wet behind the ears and burnt all the toast this morning. Old Don almost broke his false teeth trying to eat it.’
Honey grimaced in sympathy at Mimi and pushed a pack of shortbread towards her.
Patrick’s dramatic exit from the home had seen his seventeen-year-old apprentice, Skinny Steve, elevated to head chef overnight.
Wet behind the ears and eight stone on a fat day, he was never going to be up to the job of caring for the delicate diets of a bunch of fussy elderly residents.
It was Christopher’s job to sort out a replacement, but as he’d been last seen sitting on the pavement in a pile of sandwiches the day before, it clearly wasn’t on his priority list.
‘What will we do at dinnertime? It’s alright for me and Mimi, we’re as strong as oxes,’ Lucille said, her face pinched as she sipped the sweet tea Honey had made for her. ‘But some of the others are really frail, Honey. If they go without food, well … it just doesn’t bear thinking about.’
It was a problem alright, and despite her assertion Lucille and Mimi were nowhere near as strong as oxes, despite their sprightliness.
‘Okay. Look.’ Honey smiled at the sisters with more confidence than she felt inside, noticing that they’d already eaten half the packet of biscuits between them. ‘You ladies hold the fort here and I’ll nip across and make sure Skinny Steve’s on top of lunch.’