He’s got a laptop with him, and is utterly uninterested in anything as tedious as making conversation, despite my best efforts. He even refuses the cuppa that Marnie offers him, although maybe that’s sensible considering he’s only here because of complaints about the quality of our food.
He looks over the food safety documentation, inspects the condition of the main shop, and I hover while he goes to look around upstairs. He inspects every surface to check on the quality of the cleaning, and even looks in the cupboard under the stairs to check for adequate cleaning supplies. He checks every seal of the display unit, and every joint in the counter where bacteria could lurk. He checks the temperature of the refrigerator and the cupboards and takes photographs of the inside to go with the photos he’s taken of everything else.
‘Your toaster crumb tray needs emptying,’ he says when he’s inspected every millimetre of the food preparation room.
‘Everyone’s toaster crumb tray needs emptying,’ I say, hoping it might elicit a smile.
No such luck.
‘I’ve never even seen my toaster crumb tray,’ Marnie offers.
Still nothing. I can’t stop my mind going to how Bram would’ve handled this – if anyone could’ve got a smile from the uptight man, he would have. I don’t know why I care if he smiles or not. Is he any less likely to order us to be closed down if we make him smile?
He’s been here for over an hour when he finally says, ‘Right, Miss Jordan, now I’ll need to see the kitchen where you make the food, and your arrangements for transporting it.’
I don’t know why, but that was the last thing I expected. ‘Well, the sandwiches are made right here. So are the drinks. And things are toasted here.’
‘Toasted teacakes are very popular.’ Marnie tries to back me up but the scowl doesn’t slip from his face.
‘And everything else? You serve cakes and baked goods, so I understand? They’re made in your kitchen at home, presumably, and then transported in?’
‘They’re made… um…’ I can’t mention Bram’s kitchen now, can I? After everything that’s come between us, I can’t rock up with a food safety inspector like nothing’s happened.
‘She’s actually using my kitchen now,’ Marnie says.
He jumps on it like a hawk that’s been gliding above ground, waiting to grab an innocent vole going about its day. ‘Is there a problem with your own kitchen?’
‘No. Not at all. It’s just… um… I no longer have access to the kitchen I’ve been using, and…’
‘We live together.’ Marnie wraps an arm around my shoulders in solidarity. ‘My kitchen is her kitchen. Our kitchen.’
No one needs to know that she means I live in the caravan. He’d have a field day if he saw the kitchen in that. And the woodlice would have a field day if they saw him.
His suspicious eyes flick between us. ‘Right, and this really should have been made clear before now. How am I supposed to check on your handling practices and food monitoring equipment? How can I possibly inspect your food preparation area if your food preparation area is not here?’
‘I didn’t know you didn’t know that.’
‘We’ll now need to make a second appointment for a further inspection of those premises, and I do warn you, Miss Jordan, although I see very few issues with these premises, there is room for improvement in your food safety management practices. There seems to have been no staff training in food hygiene provided whatsoever—’
‘There are no staff!’ I interrupt him. ‘It’s just me now. I’m alon—’ I get choked up and can’t finish the sentence.
‘As the manager, you should be carrying out four-weekly reviews and daily checks. I see no evidence of these in your paperwork. Furthermore, I don’t know what exactly is going on here, but it seems like you’re trying to hide something, and I’m afraid I have absolutely no confidence in your management skills, and as I can’t complete my inspection today due to your omissions in information, I cannot confidently allow you to continue trading at this time. We shall make a further appointment to inspect your kitchen, and following that, I’ll update my food hygiene score and we’ll go from there.’
This is it – my worst fear. The realisation that I am not good enough to do this. The imposter syndrome that’s finally been proved right. Listening to Marnie and Bram tell me I’m good enough is one thing, but the moment a professional health inspector claps eyes on me, they’ll realise the truth – that I’m fooling everyone, including myself, by thinking I can do this, and probably putting public health at risk too. What did I expect to come from this? Is this why no one has told me to stop this week – because it was blatantly obvious what was going to happen today anyway? This dream was going to die this week one way or another – it may as well be in the most humiliating way possible.
My thoughts are cut off by a hammering on the front door, and I glance through from the back room, but I can’t see who’s there.
I swallow hard. ‘Probably an eager customer wondering why we’re closed. They’ll go away in a minute.’
Marnie meets my eyes when the hammering comes again. ‘You may be surprised to realise how popular this place is. There will probably be loads of people knocking to come in before the morning is out.’
‘I need to type up my report before I leave, Miss Jordan, and I can’t hear myself think. Please ask them to leave, and make sure to prominently display a “closed until further notice” sign to prevent confusion.’
The hammering is insistent and whoever it is doesn’t seem to be going away. I steel myself for letting a disappointed customer know that we won’t be reopening, unsure of how I’m going to do it without sobbing, and walk across the shop floor on unsteady legs.
‘I’m sorry, we’re closed,’ I shout without opening the door.
Instead of replying, a hand bangs on the glass again, even louder this time. I can see the outlines of two figures outside through the frosted glass.
‘We’re closed,’ I say again, more forcefully this time.
One of them hits the flat of a hand on the door again, even though they can surely see I’m standing here now, and there’s no way they didn’t hear what I said.
I put the chain on for safety and open the door just wide enough to tell them to go away, and then gasp in surprise.
Bram and Mr Hastings are standing outside.
21
‘’ello,’ Bram says with his high-pitched voice and bright Hatter grin.
‘It’s not a good time,’ I hiss, both overjoyed to see him and frustrated at the truly horrible timing.
‘You’ve got seventy-two clocks in there. It’s a good time by one of them.’ He flashes the wide grin my way again, but now I know how much he hides behind that grin, I know the difference between his real smile and the one that’s part of his character.
‘The food safety inspector is here, and it’s not going—’
‘And that’s exactly why we’re here. We’re not going away so you may as well open up.’
