Zorbus to the Sun HTML version

Autumn is never late in Falmouth and on that October night Ben could feel its
withering chill settling over the harbour once again. Perhaps it's something to do with the
lordly Atlantic sharing its cold or maybe it's the way the old seaport sits foaming at the
mouth of the English Channel. Either way, the dampness hung in the nostrils and made
him sniff. He wondered why he'd resisted the sweater. Now he couldn't wait to fire up the
ovens. Just a small cellar restaurant so it wouldn’t take long to warm it up and anyway, it
would be quiet. The first night since the bulk of the trippers had gone and as far as he
knew they had no bookings.
When he got in Jane was busy laying the tables with her right hand, occasionally
sipping her usual vodka and orange, a fag waving from her left as she hummed along to
the music in her head. Jane had great panache. She always seemed to be on her way to
some gala pageant in glittering slinky black dress and tottering around on impractical
spiky heels littered as usual in cheap sparkles. He remembered how once, when asked
why she never wore gold, she pulled a face and said, „What? Gold makes me look
cheap!’ But Jane could wear anything and always look gorgeous. She had shiny flaxen
hair styled in a pony-tail and the kind of smile that defied every other female who came
within ordering range to keep their distance.
Ben liked Jane. She didn't take nonsense from anyone. On the last night of the
season one lady diner had remarked in tortured home county's drawl, „My deah gal, it
must be awfully demeaning for a girl like you, with such obvious pizzazz, to find yourself
reduced to waitressing.’
- 1 -