Preston's Pedicurist

The sky had been filled in using a 4B pencil. The street lamps were still lit, and their glowing orbs reflected on the surface of the shining wet car park. Light rain was falling, its course to the ground impeded by a gusting wind.

A brick-built structure with a flat roof stood at the corner of the car park. The interior lighting was visible through two large plate glass windows on either side of a door, above which were a pair of lamps that shone onto a wooden sign that bore the legend Diamond Cafe. An illustration of a hand of cards showing a royal flush in that suit was on the right of the lettering. A large white van pulled in below the sign.

Inside, the eight o’clock news bulletin ended, and the radio station returned to its guess the year show with Matthew and Son by Cat Stevens. Forty-five-year-old Avis stood behind the counter, wrapping cutlery in napkins. Her friend, Jeannie, sat at her usual table up by the counter so she could converse freely with Avis.

The only other customer in the cafe was George Oliver Ogle, who was the same age as Avis. A black beret sat above a drawn face with sunken cheeks. Blue eyes looked through circular tortoiseshell spectacles onto a newspaper crossword. His elbows rested on the pale yellow formica surface, and a large mug of tea stood within reach.

That gentleman is much in demand at local pub quizzes, as he is the proverbial mine of information for trivia. It was inevitable therefore, that G O Ogle would become Google. And that is the name he now answers to.

As Jean and Avis laughed at an anecdote the latter had just narrated, the door opened, and what looked like a father and son entered. The man, Stan, was in his late-thirties, and the young lad, Eric, a shaver of sixteen. They wore clothes suited to outdoor work.

“Tea for me, please, Avis,” Stan said, “and a bottle of pop for the lad.”

“Ooh,” Avis said, “what have we here, a new starter?”

“Aye,” Stan said, “the latest addition to the happy family of P J Henshaw, roofing contractors. He embarked upon life’s great labour only yesterday.”

“Bless him. I hope he does well,” Avis said, as though addressing the lad himself was forbidden.

“He’ll be all right.”

“I was just telling Jeannie there,” Avis said as she set about the order, “I’ve never felt such a chump as last night.”

“Oh,” Stan said, “do tell.”

“Well, I was on my way home from here on the bus, you see, and when we came to my street, I pressed the bell and stood up. A man, a stranger to me, was standing in the aisle with two bags full of shopping, and he said to me, ‘Would you ring it again for me, please, love, only my hands are full.’ Well, without thinking, I rang the bell again, and this man started chuckling. And then others joined in, and by the time the bus stopped, the entire lower deck was in kinks. My face was as red as the bus when I got off.”

Stan laughed. “You know, Avis,” he said, “I think in your case, the mould was broken before you were cast.”

“You could be right,” Avis said, laughing and handing Stan a mug of tea.

Stan and Eric sat at Google’s table. After exchanging greetings, Google said, “How did he do on his first day?”

“Well,” Stan said, aiming a wink at Google, “I’ve never seen such insubordination in all my days. Not from a new starter.”

“Did he work his ticket?” Google said.

“Refused to do as he was told. Folded his arms and outright refused.”

Google tutted. “Dear, oh dear,” he said, exaggerating outrage, “we can’t have that.”

“I told him to go to old Henry and ask for a slate knife and break iron, and he shook his head.”

Another tut.

“Give me a chance to tell my side,” Eric said, his face colouring at being the centre of attention, “My dad told me to beware of being sent on a fool’s errand on my first day. He said not to go for tartan paint or a long stand or anything that sounded fishy. You have to admit a slate knife and break iron sounds a bit iffy.”

“I asked him a second time, and he shook his head. Had to take him over by his coat sleeve.” Stan said.

After murmuring exasperation at the bare-faced cheek of today’s youth, Google reimmersed himself in his crossword.

“Why have we come to a cafe this morning?” Eric said, keen to steer the topic of conversation away from himself.

Because,” Stan said, “yesterday we went to the depot to load up for a new job. Today we go straight there. But Preston lives at the bottom of a cul-de-sac with a rather narrow turning point at the end. Getting our long-wheelbase van turned around in that tight space is a ticklish job, and after a brush with a gatepost last month, I threw in the towel. Now, we meet here and have a cup of tea while we wait for Preston, who comes out the back gate and across that field. Here he comes now, look.”

“Parsimony,” Google said. And he wrote that word into the crossword grid.

The door opened, and the absent Preston entered. In a fine baritone voice, he sang:

Oh, what a beautiful morning

Oh, what a beautiful day.

The lyric was not an accurate depiction of the weather; it was still dull and drizzly outside.

“Oh, Gawd,” Stan said, “How can you tell it’s Tuesday without asking?”

“I don’t know, how can you tell?” Eric said.

“Because every Tuesday, Preston comes in singing.”

“Why does he do that?”

“He’s asking why Preston comes in singing on a Tuesday,” Stan said to Google, “Shall we tell him?”

“He’s a working lad now. I suppose he’s old enough.” Google said.

“Preston comes in singing every Tuesday morning because every Monday evening he has a visit from his, ahem, pedicurist.”

“What, he has his toenails done?” Eric said.

“Indeed. And a bloody fine job she does as well, the way it cheers him up.”

Preston laughed at Avis’s bus anecdote and then carried a mug of tea to the table. He sat down.

“I was just telling the lad here about your pedicurist.”

“Oh, aye?” Preston said.

“I said she must be a bloody good one, the way you burst into song after she’s visited.”

“Well,” Preston said, spooning sugar into the mug, “Petula does pamper me. I get my feet soaked and washed, and then my toenails clipped and the hard skin pumiced. After that, she dries and powders my feet, and I slip on a clean pair of socks, warm from the radiator. It would make the Venus de Milo sing.”

“But, every week?” Stan said. “I don’t clip my toenails anywhere near that.”

“On average,” Google said, “a man will cut his toenails once every six to eight weeks.”

“You see,” Stan said, “the Oracle has spoken.”

“Well, I have particularly fast-growing nails,” Preston said.

“What are they, bamboo?” Stan said.

“Petula says it’s all down to virility,” Preston said.

“Hey, lads,” Avis said from behind the counter, “there’s half a loaf here that’s too dry to make sandwiches, so I’m going to toast it. Would you like some?” The motion was passed unanimously.

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” Stan said quietly to Preston. “We all know that your Monday night visitor is giving you a damn sight more than a pedicure.”

“Information regarding my extra-work activities is held on a need-to-know basis,” Preston said.

“Corncrake, of course,” Google said, jotting on the crossword grid.

A hi-energy tune suddenly burst forth, and Preston pulled a phone from his pocket.

“That’s not your ringtone,” Stan said.

“It’s not my phone,” Preston said, showing Stan the gadget.

“What have you been up to?” Stan said, laughing.

“Hello,” Preston said. The others listened to his side of the conversation, which ran thus:

“I’ve been expecting you to call.”

“Yes. Of course I have it. You just rang me on it. I have it here with me at the caff. The Diamond Cafe.”

“It was on the bedside table.”

“You can collect it from here, but please be quick. We need to set off for work.”

“I won’t.”

“Yes, I promise.”

“OK, bye.”

After hanging up, Preston filled in some of the missing details from the call. “This is Petula’s phone,” he said. “She left it behind last night, and she’s on her way here to pick it up.”

“So we’re going to see the mysterious Petula in the flesh?” Google said.

“I wonder what she’ll be wearing,” Stan said, “will it be a crisp, clean tunic as worn by beauticians, or perhaps fishnets, heels and a leopard print coat.”

“I take it,” Google said, “that you all picked up on the phone being left on the bedside table.”

“I did,” Stan said. “The smoking gun.”

At that moment, Petula’s phone rang again.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Stan said.

“I promised I wouldn’t,” Preston said.

“Go on,” Stan pressed, “at least have a peek. The client’s name might come up on the screen, and we may know him. You’ll not be breaking your promise by looking. Besides, it might be Petula again.”

“Yes, you must have a butcher’s,” Eric said.

Preston gave in to peer pressure and looked at the screen on the singing phone. “Charlie P,” he said. “Anyone know him?”

“I know a Charlie Palmerston,” Stan said, but he moved away years ago.”

The phone fell silent, and Avis came over with a trayful of buttered toast. As she laid it on the table with a stipulation that the new starter should get his fair share, Petula’s phone rang again.

“Have a look, then,” Stan said, grabbing a slice of toast. Preston obliged.

“Edwin K,” he said.

“Edwin K? That’ll be my Eddie,” Avis said. The three men and the youth squirmed in discomfort. “But what would he… ? No, it can’t be. He goes to the library every Tuesday morning to study his family tree. Genealogy, they call it. He’s well into it. Never misses a Tuesday session.”

“That’s interesting,” Stan said, relieved that the conversation was shifting, “how far has he got?”

“Only up to his grandfather so far, but he says it’s quite a difficult task.”

To the relief of the male contingent, Avis went back behind the counter. Then, to the dismay of that quartet, Jeannie kept the subject alive.

“I think you need to look into this, Avis,” she said, “I mean, Edwin isn’t a common name, and with the surname, well, there can’t be many Edwin Ks around.”

“I don’t know,” Avis said, gripping her chin between thumb and forefinger.

The door opened, and a woman in her late thirties entered. She wore a gleaming white tunic, light blue trousers, and trainers. She went over to Preston’s table.

“I hope you didn’t peek,” she said. Preston crossed his heart. She picked up the phone and thanked Preston for returning it. “See you next Monday,” she said, winking. She left the cafe.

“Well,” Stan said, “colour me corrected.”

“See,” Preston said, “I told you so.”

“I’d never have believed it. I take it all back, Preston.”

Preston leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. “You see, she dresses like that so it looks legit and above board, you know, like a bona-fide home visitor. But, you should see what she wears underneath.” He winked, and the others laughed, and Stan aimed a playful punch at Preston’s arm.

“You old dog,” he said.

The men finished the toast, drained their mugs, rose, and bade goodbye to Avis.

“That was her,” Jeannie said to Avis after the men had left. She was disappointed at how low-key the woman’s visit had been; she’d hoped for fireworks. Avis appeared to be in a trance. Then she piped up.

“No,” she said, “it couldn’t be my Eddie. It must be someone with the same name.”

“How can you be so sure?” Jeannie said. “It’s not a common name at all.”

“My Eddie’s never been near a pedicurist in his life. His toenails are like great bloody talons. Claws at my legs all night in bed he does. No, it can’t be my Eddie.”