Michele Gorman - The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square

She’s pretty relaxed about being incarcerated. She and Dad do everything together these days and she’s as much a help to him as he is a minder for her. At least Mum doesn’t have to worry about either of them when she’s at work.

By the time we lock up the pub we’re full of fish, salt and vinegar. Daniel’s portion is soaking through the bag under the sleeping twins’ pushchair. His phone keeps going straight to voicemail.

‘Are you worried about him?’ Kell asks, walking beside me.

‘No, not worried,’ I say, rubbing the phone in my pocket. ‘More like disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, Kell. I don’t begrudge him having a night out. Lord knows, I wish I could do it any time I wanted too. It’s just that, I feel like–’

‘He’s having his cake and eating it, the bastard,’ she finishes for me. ‘I’d be pissed off too.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Kell. I didn’t say pissed off. I said disappointed.’

‘Really? Not pissed off when he gets to have these gorgeous children, the perfect family, plus you to look after it all while he goes out on the lash whenever he feels like it. Why does he get to be the only one? Shouldn’t you get to do it too? I say hand the twins over to Daniel for a few hours and let him be the one to sit at home covered in sick, being jealous of you while you dance on the tables.’

‘Kell, when have I ever in my life danced on a table?’ She is right, though. He should be the responsible parent for once. At least for a few hours. ‘You know what? I will.’

‘Tomorrow. Do it tomorrow,’ she says. ‘We’ll go out.’

‘I can’t tomorrow. I’m not sure what Daniel has on after work.’

‘You mean like he didn’t know what you had on tonight, yet just assumed you’d be there to look after the twins? Have I got that right?’ Her stare challenges me to disagree.

‘Fine, tomorrow night then. I’ll tell Daniel.’

Daniel was home by eight o’clock. Not out on the lash, just working late with a dead phone. But I’ve avoided Kelly’s questions anyway. She’s been too prickly about him lately. Besides, I’m supposed to be having fun tonight, not whinging about my marriage.

It’s crowded as usual at the Cock and Crown, with Uncle Colin and Uncle Barbara pulling pints behind the bar. The vicar is tinkling sing-a-long show tunes on the piano and we’ve squeezed on to the end of a table where a couple around our age are either on their first date together or having a job interview. It’s kind of hard to tell. So far there’s no sign of a CV, but he just asked her where she thinks she’ll be in a year.

‘What’s that for?’ asks Kell.

‘What’s what for?’

‘That sigh?’

‘Oh, did I? Just happy to be here, I guess.’

The pub has been my home from home literally since I was born. Every picture, poster and random piece of football memorabilia on the walls is familiar, and I could sing most of the jukebox songs in my sleep. Like the green swirly carpet, they haven’t been updated since the eighties.

Uncle Colin took over the business from old Fred nearly twenty years ago when he retired without an interested heir or successor. Colin had paid his dues behind the bar for years by then. The only consistent thing about Fred’s managerial style was his bad mood. It seemed to be a trait he carried home too, judging by how few people turned up at his funeral, even with the free beer on offer.

Mum and Dad had their wedding party here. Uncle Barbara did too (before he started wearing dresses, when he was still Uncle Mark). And I used to fall asleep in Mum’s arms transfixed by the blinking lights on the fruit machines.

This is exactly the kind of atmosphere I want the café to have – where people will feel a connection. They can stroll in with friends or on their own and always find someone for a conversation or at least a smile.

Not that most of the punters in here are what you’d call fans of the café culture. Somehow, I can’t picture Uncle Colin or the vicar sipping skinny soy lattes from dainty cups. And the men downing pints along the bar probably won’t trade their ales for Assam tea. But the atmosphere. That’s what I want.

‘Feckin’ hell, will you watch it!’ Kelly shouts at a shaven-headed man who’s just jostled the pint in her hand.

Without the language, ideally.

‘So, how’s Daniel doing?’ she asks.

I check my phone. ‘Twelve minutes since the last text. I guess he figured out how to open the talc.’ Just as I say it, my phone buzzes in my hand.

Sorry! Does it matter which twin gets which onesie? Dx

I sigh again. This time it’s not from happiness.

They have their own clothes. Get one from each of their drawers. x

Which drawer is which? Dx

I turn my phone for Kell to read. ‘Bloody hell,’ she says, snatching it.

Figure it out and stop bloody texting, Daniel!

She presses send.

‘He’ll think that’s from me.’

‘Puhlease, when do you ever swear? You’ve got to put your phone away. It’s up as loud as it can go. You’ll hear it ring. Because you know it will,’ she murmurs.

I tuck it into my bag. ‘Is Calvin meeting us?’

I watch the bashful smile sweep across her face. A boyfriend has never had that effect on her before. No one would accuse Kell of being a romantic. Where I’ve always jumped head first into the deep end, she wades around with the water around her knees. Sometimes she doesn’t even bother getting wet.

‘Nah, it’s just you and me tonight,’ she says. ‘I can see him any time I want. Who knows when I’ll get you to myself again?’

‘That’s not fair, Kell. I see you almost every day.’

‘Not like this, sans children, like the old days.’

She’s right. We hardly ever get to talk now without the children. Which means we hardly ever finish a conversation. Sometimes we don’t even get to start them. Dancing on tables. Hah! Falling asleep under them, more like. I’m yawning into my beer and it’s not yet 9 p.m. It’s not exactly like the old days, and don’t think I don’t miss them too. I can’t remember the last time I felt like my normal self. I might look like any other twenty-something woman sitting in the pub with her best friend. I’ve even got make-up on and my top has no visible stains. But it’s a façade. My head is back at our house worrying about whether Daniel will remember not to pull down the blinds all the way in the twins’ bedroom or that Oscar sleeps with a blanket but Grace doesn’t. I can’t stop thinking about them. And Daniel’s texts aren’t helping.

When do mothers get to turn off their worry? Just give me some kind of time frame, so I’ve got something to look forward to.

‘Things are good between you and Calvin?’ I ask, as if the smile hasn’t already told me.

Calvin came like a bolt from the blue thanks to his gran, one of Kelly’s most devoted customers at the fish van. He had moved from Manchester to live with her for a year, because she’s not as steady on her feet as she used to be. He took one look at Kell – with her white coat smeared in fish guts and her no-nonsense ponytail tucked up under the dorky white fishmonger’s hat her father makes her wear – and now he’s most devoted to her too.

Kelly blushes, again out of character. She’s never been a girly girl, and not only because she wears jeans all the time and doesn’t usually bother with make-up. Being the youngest of four daughters, all a year apart, she didn’t get the luxury of being the pampered baby of the family. There wasn’t a big enough age difference to make her siblings feel like protecting her, or enough attention to go around. She had to hold her own early on, and that means she doesn’t show her soft side to many people. I only get to see it because we’ve known each other all our lives.