Ted's Cafe

Ted’s Cafe

Roger Sanders was born on the Isle of Wight and has lived there all his life. He is married with two sons and four granddaughters. Roger owned a sports shop and online store for over twenty-five years, before his retirement in 2016.

Roger’s interests include current affairs, local, social and family history, walking, reading and listening to a wide range of music. He is a life-long fan of Southampton Football Club.

Ted’s Cafe published by Beachy Books in 2021 is his debut novel.

Ted’s Cafe

Roger Sanders

First published by Beachy Books in 2021

(an imprint of Beachy Books Limited)

www.beachybooks.com

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Copyright © 2021, 2022 Roger Sanders

The right of Roger Sanders to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

eBook ISBN: 9781913894115

Also available in paperback ISBN: 9781999728359

For Teresa, Martin, John and the girls

I want to express my gratitude to my publisher, Philip Bell at Beachy Books, for his patience and tireless efforts to bring my story to life. Thanks to Vic King, my friend of fifty years, for his input during the early drafts and his enthusiasm and positive response. Thank you to my wife Teresa for supporting me as always. I must also mention Jonathan Coe, whose novel Middle England inspired me to write Ted’s Cafe.

Lastly, thank you to my late parents, John and Heather Sanders, for everything they did for me.

Contents

March 2019

April 2019

May 2019

June 2019

July 2019

August 2019

September 2019

October 2019

November 2019

December 2019

January 2020

February 2020

Review if you loved this book

March 2019

We meet every Wednesday at Ted’s Cafe.

It’s one of the few establishments from our youth that remains in town. From the exterior it looks like a greasy spoon; from the interior it looks like a greasy spoon.

Almost everything in the town has changed: the small independents are long gone, banished to history, an odd photo on a Facebook heritage group page, a small reminder of those distant days. Those businesses were run out of town with a force by customers’ hunger for big multinational chains with their larger choice and low prices—corporate shop fronts looking identical from town to town, selling the same goods, placed in the same order, in the same part of the store. The merchandising manual has exact instructions where the stock should be placed for maximum sales.

Ted’s hasn’t moved with the times very much. It’s now owned by a Polish couple, Jasiek and Danka Kowalski. Ted’s family sold out in 2017 when his son Kostos moved to Cyprus to escape post-referendum Britain. I find it ironic his father fled his homeland in the early seventies to get away from the conflict and segregation after Turkey invaded. That’s when he had to leave his home in the north of the island and decided to come to England. Now his son is moving in the other direction to avoid the Brexit backlash and unpleasantness that has become more fervent every day. Now all that remains at Ted’s is a framed photo of him behind the counter where he served so many hungry customers, his white apron barely covering his vast stomach, splattered with yellow spots, egg yolk—or is it the colours fading from the old photograph? I’m not sure, but from another time, a time when things were less complicated, calmer, friendly and not as angry.

Alan Grainger and I were in the same year at school. We became close friends when we met at a gig in 1975—a local band, now long forgotten, were playing at a local church hall. We both struggle to remember their name; we think it was ‘Storm Crow’, but we can’t be sure, and it doesn’t matter anyway, such a long time ago. We were young men, setting out on an adventure that would be the start of a lifelong friendship.

He’s always had a difficult life with regards to relationships. He has always struggled to get it right, often traumatic, disruptive and destructive, often all at the same time. Even when we were young, he would fall in love at first sight, normally with the wrong person.

When Veronica appeared I knew she would be the biggest mistake of his life.

He slumps down in the seat opposite me. That expression, so Tony Hancock—melancholy, troubled, confused.

‘Ah, Alan, how are you?’

‘Depressed, a bit down if you must know, David.’

I take a deep breath like I always do before I mention her name. ‘Veronica?’

He shakes his head. ‘Well, no, but yes, well… you know how things are, only bad or bloody terrible. It’s Brexit, bloody Brexit! It’s a thing of stupidity built on an ideological folly of nationalism. By the next time we meet it could be all over, us out of Europe, out in the cold. We’re completely buggered!’

So, how do I reassure him when I don’t know what will happen if we fall off that imaginary cliff everyone keeps talking about, especially if it turns out to be real? ‘I know these are troubling times, but we can only wait and see.’

He looks down at the ham and cheese panini Danka has brought to the table. Ted never served paninis, just sandwiches, baguettes. Along with a better range of food, the Polish couple has brought in a couple of new dishes on the menu from their native land: ‘Bigos’, a stew with sauerkraut and shredded cabbage, and ‘Zrazy’, a sausage sort of thing. They have irritated me with two items on the menu, though, referring to spaghetti bolognese as ‘Spag bol’ and macaroni cheese as ‘Mac n cheese’. To me, it’s lazy English, completely unnecessary, but then words were always my passion and how I made a living.

The large TV on the wall has live coverage from Westminster. Wednesday lunchtime is Prime Minister’s Question Time. The set is on mute with the subtitles keeping us up to date with what is being said. There’s a slight delay between speech and words so we try and guess the reply. Theresa May is so predictable: she never answers a question with a clear response, often none at all. She irritates Alan, reminds him of Edina Swallow, the principal at the academy where he taught. He should be grateful to her for giving him his freedom, but he couldn’t forget her rigid, pragmatic, soulless manner. She was always right; you were always wrong. You could have an opinion as long it was the same as hers. I can see the connection with the PM.

Sometimes we are joined by other friends: Charlie Cheek, a builder, womaniser and staunch Brexiter, and Eric Snow, a solicitor who owns a practice in town. You would think the only thing we all have in common was the past: growing up in the seventies, parties, gigs, festivals, drinking, girls, but our friendship is much more than that. I think of us as a band of brothers who have reconnected in later life.

As it’s just the two of us today I know Alan will, at some point, mention his ‘little friend’, as I refer to her. He gets the hump when I mention her but, within minutes, the emotional turmoil, deep inside, boils over and he starts to talk. I’m the priest as he takes confession, the agony aunt trying to suggest an answer, a direction he should go to find peace and happiness.

Alan’s biggest problem has always been his wife Veronica. Alan’s other big problem has always been the other woman in his life: Dawn Cunningham, Veronica’s friend, as well as Alan’s best friend, ahead of me and even Veronica.

‘Have you seen Dawn?’ I ask, trying not to appear too interested.

He perks up dramatically, eyes more alive. He looks over his shoulder and scans the room like a Cold War spy in an old black and white movie. ‘Shush! Not too loud, David,’ he says, as though it were a state secret. ‘I went around her house on Monday—a leaky tap.’

‘Alone?’ I ask.

Before he can reply, Charlie comes through the door and joins us, the moment lost. Alan tries to hide his disappointment. I roll my eyes. We’ll talk about Dawn and her ‘leaky tap’ another day.

Post-Brexit Britain is a very different place since the referendum. Charlie Cheek—never interested in politics up until now—has become connected and energised. Charlie voted ‘Leave’. Charlie hates Europe. Charlie hates Jeremy Corbyn. Charlie hates Theresa May. Charlie wants out, with ‘no-deal’ at all cost, even though he knows the economy may struggle, and it might impact his building company. That’s Charlie.

‘If you ask me we need a strong leader—Farage as Prime Minister to sort it out!’ he says.

Alan looks at me and shakes his head.

‘He can’t be the PM because he’s not a member of the House of Commons,’ I say, trying to remain calm.

‘He failed seven times to be elected,’ chips in Alan. ‘That’s why he’s in the European Parliament, a body he hates but is happy to take a sizeable salary from, plus expenses!’

Charlie doesn’t seem to understand why some people don’t want Nigel in Parliament. Alan and I are all ‘lefty snowflakes’, apparently, too politically correct. I’m dreading Charlie mentioning immigration, especially with our hosts in earshot. Fortunately, his phone rings—there’s a problem on the building site, something about a ruptured gas main. He makes a retreat, and we decide to head our separate ways.

Walking home, I feel a bit down. How has it come to pass that friends can be arguing over something unworkable and so badly planned? Never for the good of the country, but a tool used by Cameron to silence the noisy anti-Europeans in his party and to kill off Farage and UKIP. I think Cameron failed hideously, walking away like a spoilt child leaving a terrible mess behind him. When Alan and I meet next we may not be members of the European Union any longer.

Perhaps he will tell me what is going on with him and Dawn Cunningham. I will message him later and try and meet up somewhere quieter than Ted’s, probably The Artisan Coffee House on the High Street. We’ll moan about the prices, but at least we can talk without being interrupted.

April 2019

It’s been two weeks since Alan and I last met at Ted’s. We are still part of the EU. Theresa May is still Prime Minister and has returned to Brussels and secured an extension that could last until November. The fiasco continues with the country in turmoil. Farage has reappeared, fronting yet another party: the Brexit Party. Like the bunch of Labour and Tory defectors who have formed the Independent Group, it’s been hashed together quickly as, unbelievably, there might be an election for the European Parliament in June if the UK has not left by the end of May. It’s all a bizarre, political satire.

Gillian and I have just returned from a break in Gran Canaria. We booked it at last minute and saved a fortune—another benefit of being retired: no commitments and not having to book time off or return to a huge backlog of work. I’m feeling energised after the break, ready to comfort Alan and his issues. While we were away, he messaged me on several occasions, rambling and incoherent. I worry when he’s like that.

‘Nice tan, David. You look well,’ Alan says, looking slightly jealous.

‘Thanks. It’s easy to tan with the sun and wind out there,’ I reply, then tentatively ask if he and Veronica are planning a break.

‘God no. I couldn’t tolerate being stuck in a hotel room with her—besides she’s decided flying is dangerous! She’s been watching the news about Boeing 737 MAX. It’s become an obsession with her.’

Our coffee arrives, both of us sat in The Artisan Coffee House. It’s all very rustic. The owner who attends us is in his thirties. ‘Can I get you any cakes or pastries gents?’ he asks. We decline. His cheese scones are £3 each; double the price of the Fairway Garden Centre where Gillian and I go some afternoons. He scuttles off.

‘Some beard there!’ I say to Alan.

We laugh. The owner’s what you would call ‘well-groomed’, facial hair his pride and joy, waxed, curled and trimmed to perfection.

We spend ages discussing the state of the nation and the terrible scenes from Paris, of the Notre-Dame burning. It’s strange that in such an ungodly world people have so much affection for buildings like that, now more symbols, historic monuments, rather than places of worship.

The bearded owner starts hovering, but we finished our coffees a while ago. No doubt he expects us to order another, but too much caffeine gives Alan headaches, and I end up visiting the toilet every five minutes. We make a retreat. He’s a pushy bugger—‘Any cakes can be purchased for takeaway if you fancy a nibble later?’—‘Not at your prices mate!’ mutters Alan, under his breath.

There’s still a cold edge to the wind, but it’s quite pleasant in the sun. We look for somewhere to sit. There’s a bench against the church in the square. The place is shabby, litter flowing from a bin that hasn’t been emptied for days. The raised flower beds have not been replanted for the spring and are full of weeds and even more rubbish. The cutbacks in local council budgets, shovelled down from central government, are taking their toll.

We sit and watch the world go by. People watching is something I like to do on holiday; the German dress sense is a topic of conversation; the Brits stand out a mile in their faded polyester football tops, beer bellies and tattooed arms.

The town is quiet; it’s always quiet. No one is spending much money except at out-of-town stores with free ample parking taking the bulk of business these days.

I’ve not mentioned Dawn. I’m trying a different tactic this time. I always mention her first, which puts Alan on the defensive. I had better be patient and let him make the first move. He starts talking about Janice, his first wife. They were married around the same time as Gillian and I.

‘She’s not been well,’ he tells me. Alan has a son, Adam, who Janice took away when she left in 1987. ‘Adam rang to tell me his mother has breast cancer. Hopefully, they’ve caught it early.’

Alan has not played a real part in the boy’s life. His mother got involved with an Australian guy, and when they moved to Perth Alan didn’t see his son for five years. Since then, meetings have been rare. Adam is an IT genius and travels the world. Veronica doesn’t like him visiting. I’m not sure why; maybe she wants Alan’s undivided attention.

Janice was an amazingly beautiful girl: Dark skin, long dark hair. She enjoyed having a good time and loved to party. Alan was the opposite: quiet, reserved, bordering on antisocial. That was their downfall.

‘I thought a lot of her, but we were too young. It just wasn’t meant to be,’ says Alan.

I nod in agreement. ‘Adam’s done well, though. You must be proud, mate.’

‘Earning massive money,’ he replies, smiling. ‘He’s coming to London later in the year. I’m going to meet up with him, hopefully,’ he sighs. ‘Veronica is not impressed. She thinks, if he wants to see me he should come here. She’s just so bloody difficult. Dawn says, she has got worse, can’t believe why she behaves so badly.’

I decide to take the conversation further. ‘Alan, does Dawn know how much you care about her?’

‘I don’t know, mate. If she has feelings for me, other than friendship, I’m frightened to push the subject. I couldn’t stand not having her in my life. Her and you are the only two real friends I have. I wouldn’t want to lose her. I just couldn’t bear it.’

He looks like he’ll cry.

I am about to comfort him when a commotion starts across the square. Four chavvy youths. A girl, with a beer can in hand, is shouting abuse at a guy wearing a dirty grey hoodie and matching jog pants: ‘You fucking start on me, Leon, and I’ll smash your head in ya cunt!’ There’s pushing and shoving, and the girl is being held back as she attempts to hit the young man.

‘What a sorry state we are in. Why haven’t these kids got jobs?’ I say.

‘Too much time on their hands and cheap booze readily available,’ says Alan.

‘Yeah, but then, how did they get into this position?’

Alan is uneasy, recognises one of the boys—a troublemaker at the academy. ‘Another lost generation devoid of hope, ambition and a future. What’s this wretched country become?’ says Alan.

We leave and head to the High Street, go our separate ways. I head towards home, stopping off to buy a copy of The Advertiser. I don’t have any real feelings about it anymore. The content has deteriorated, local features are down and editorial weak. The typos are less than acceptable, but thankfully it’s not my problem anymore.

As a journalist I always had great admiration for my colleagues in the wider media that put their lives in danger to report the news during conflict. The news that Lyra McKee has been shot dead during a riot in Derry, Northern Ireland, comes as a reminder of what a dangerous world we live in. Her death on Good Friday was so poignant. The ‘backstop’ and Irish border, so relevant during the Brexit negotiations, have been together for the last twenty years since the Good Friday Agreement. Like the death of Jo Cox, Lyra’s seems to be connected to the environment of bigotry and hatred that blight our world. The boundaries of common debate and decency have been eroded. It’s all very worrying.

Alan messages me that he will be at Ted’s this morning at noon. ‘Lots to talk about David, can’t wait,’ he explains. I’m intrigued and head off to the cafe. There’s so much in the news to discuss. Brexit has been off the headlines over Easter, Parliament in recess. Not much there to get our teeth into. The bombing of the churches in Sri Lanka claiming hundreds of lives is on everyone’s mind. Religion, once again, at the heart of it all. Will mankind never learn?

I order coffee for myself and Alan, and then Eric arrives. He comes to give us invitations to a bash he’s throwing to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of Grist & Snow, the company founded by his grandfather. ‘Snowy’ is one of our gang, a true friend and you would not meet a nicer more honest man anywhere. He is more intelligent than Alan and me, and light years ahead of Charlie. He plays the guitar and sings in folk bands—he’s not bad actually, but it’s not my thing. He is obsessed with Nick Drake, the singer-songwriter who died before he was famous. Eric plays his albums every day; he loves the guy’s voice. Veronica used to work for Eric, and that’s where she met Dawn, who is now the office manager at Grist & Snow.

Eric departs for the magistrates’ court. He doesn’t say why he’s going, and we don’t ask because he usually cannot tell us due to client confidentiality.

‘Fuck it!’ says Alan abruptly, when Eric is long gone. ‘I hate these social things, not my thing at all.’

‘At least Veronica will have her old friends to talk to and you can see Dawn,’ I say.

Alan nods. ‘True. I do enjoy her company. We text several times a day, you know. She is a wonderful caring person.’

I nod. I’ve only spoken to Dawn once on the phone when she told me he was having a breakdown. She has a nice tone to her voice, came across as bubbly, friendly.

Greta Thunberg has become a household name in the last few weeks. The sixteen-year-old Swedish schoolgirl has become the voice of a generation concerned about climate change and the impact we humans are having on the planet. Her visit to the UK coincides with huge protest marches in London organised by the Extinction Rebellion group who are taking on the establishment with several stunts including super-gluing themselves to various objects.

Protesting has always been part of our democracy. Women wouldn’t have got the vote without taking action. The poll tax riots halted the Thatcher government’s plans to change the way households pay tax. In America, activists played a huge part in getting troops out of Vietnam.

The bigots that seem to be growing by the day on social media have been particularly horrible about Greta. If I read one more comment like ‘Bunch of tree huggers, dirty hippies, middle-class brats’ I’ll scream. Intolerance is at its worst. I’m certain that Brexit has played a part in the development of this behaviour. Charlie believes climate change doesn’t exist. Although he was in our year at school, he wasn’t in the same sets as me, Alan and Eric. Because of his attitude he was placed in the lower tiers of our academic years with the ‘no-hopers’ and ‘weirdos’, as he called them. He was actually very bright, and it was only later in life that he was diagnosed with dyslexia. The only time we were in the same class was for PE with the sadistic Mr Bartholomew, or ‘Bart’ to us, a vile, nasty, spiteful man who loved to mock and punish the weaker members of the group. He took great pleasure in hitting anyone who displeased him by slapping them