Halfway - Chapter One

Evey’s phone buzzed and vibrated, between her bed and pillow, at 6.45am. She switched it off, rolled to the other side and grabbed a glass of vodka-soda that was sitting on the shelf above her head. Downed her breakfast, reached the floor and grabbed the not-quite-white-anymore shirt that hung above the heater, still damp. Dragged her way out of bed, squeezed through the four inch gap between the bed and the wall. It still amazed her that they had managed to fit a double bed in there.
With every step her little home shook and the rodents stirred in the haystacks underneath. One day, she thought, she was going to lean against a wall and the whole thing would topple over. Rats and hedgehogs and insects, and possibly some snakes, would spill out from the hay and, hopefully, head straight for the backdoor to the kitchen, situated only twenty meters from Evey’s front door.  If her home was anything, it was convenient.
She stumbled past the bathroom to the hallway-kitchen combo where dust and glasses lined the counter. It was never used for anything but storage of said items because, as Evey discovered very quickly, it is a difficult task indeed to cook without water. There was water accessible to her, of course, in limited amounts. She proved this by sticking her head out the window, hacked up her morning blood and mucus deposit and grabbing the glass left out overnight. Beautiful British weather, it was full. She rinsed her mouth out, and then poured some of the water onto a cloth. This oily, worn bit of rag was then used to scrub down her face and pits, effectively redistributing the dead skin, dirt and sweat that had previously been taken off. She poured the rest of the water into a yellow-stained bucket at her feet, picked it up, swished it around and threw the urine water out the window too.
She pulled on her work shirt and consciously ignored the red shape of her bra showing through. She scraped her fingers through her hair, gathering the oily, kinked strings and piled them into a bun, then wiped the flakes of scalp onto her shirt. Her shoes, tights and skirt were eventually located in a dark corner beside the door, next to work-shirt number one, defined by a purple splatter across the front. With difficulty, Evey managed to pull on her stockings and skirt one handed while she held her cigarette in the other.
But she required both hands to tug on her shoes, which were one size too big, two shades darker, and half an inch taller when she’d bought them. She leaned against the door with cigarette dog-earing in the corner of her mouth and trailing ash onto her skirt. She was out of breath from the effort of hopping around on one leg and tugging at damp smelly clothing whilst simultaneously sucking in her nicotine fix.
Finally, she picked up her apron and wrapped the strings around her waist twice to secure it. Evey glanced out the window to make sure there were no farmers in the field before she reached into her apron and pulled out two twenty pound notes and a five. She threw them on the floor in the direction of her bedroom and hurried out the door.
Another cigarette and thirty-three steps past the shed and brewery Evey clocked in at 7.03am.
Evey could hear the crackling but could not smell the saltiness of the bacon and eggs cooking on the hotplate. The bowls were refreshingly cold in her hands and the bright colors revived her tired eyes as she carried them from the fridge to the breakfast counter but she could not smell the tart stewed fruit selections. She scraped off the green fuzz from the bread, switched on the coffee filters and searched around for an order pad and working pen. Orders were taken, food was served, places were cleared, bills were paid, and receipts were written. Evey polished glasses and cutlery, she wrapped napkins and changed menus.
At ten, Evey found a glass of orange juice beading at her station. The bar was officially open.
         Evey poked her head out from the kitchen. Teddy was wiping down the counter.
         “Alright, Evey?” The standard greeting in the Midlands. Evey struggled with it even after six months, always wanting to answer that she was fine. But that was not the correct response.
“Alright, Teddy.” She said. “Hey, Teddy. What do you call Postman Pat when he retires?”
         He paused midway through hanging glasses in the racks. He thought about it a moment but  finally admitted “I don’t know.”
         “Pat, Teddy. You’d just call him Pat.”
A burst of genuine laughter. Of course, his lips always tightened and his cheeks flushed whenever she told her Little Johnny jokes. Teddy had two nicknames in the kitchen. The waitresses called him Teddy Bear. The chefs called him Mommel. He was so named by the waitresses because he was a constant ball of sunshine: a blonde locked, baby-faced, twenty-four-year-old who always laughed and smiled and gave massive soft hugs. A mommel is a dimmer light.
Teddy had a canary yellow convertible, a soft spot for the bad girl (but only when she was being good), and an acute fear of the kitchen when the chefs were in. He lived with his parents, spent his nights playing computer games and held down a part-time job getting paid minimum wage to work the morning bar shifts. He had absolutely no desire to fly the nest and get a real job, make a real life. He was boyishly good looking in a way that would make the girls swoon if he weren’t so sweet and naïve. It was incredibly hard to believe that he was just graduated from university with a Bachelors in Criminal Law.
Evey figured there was a very deep rooted problem tucked away in the recesses of Teddy’s mind. There was no way someone could be that cheerful all the time without being cracked.
“Alright, Evey.”
A giant hand landed on her backside with a SLAP and a sting. She turned around to reciprocate with a punch to the arm of her pink-haired friend. The chefs were beginning to arrive. The other three were still outside smoking, and would maintain that position the majority of their shift but Ashley stood by the waitress station with pink hair, pink eyes, a dopey grin and Evey’s drink in his hand. He laughed his little hyena laugh.
“You punch like a girl.”
“You slap like a fag,” she tried to take her drink back. “Now get off it.”
Quick as, Ash downed the drink, handed her the glass then fled to the change room. Evey mourned the loss of a nip and some vitamin C with a shrug. She rubbed her sore arse. Couldn’t be offended by the gangly pothead who was, and had been for over five years, the only gay in the valley. He’d moved from Wales to begin his chef’s apprenticeship at seventeen-years, and was now the assistant head chef, on eight pounds an hour. His adopted parents were Doctors, softly spoken Middle Class Welshmen. His real mother was a Scottish drug addict. He had been child number four – father unknown. 
He winked at Evey when Teddy stuck his hand around the corner with another drink.
The lunch crowd rolled in and rolled out. Evey took the tips out of her apron and put them in the box behind the kitchen door, minus the fiver she’d pocketed from old Evan. The chefs clocked out at 2pm; Evey, at 2.30. She trudged across the lot, patted Zig and Zag, and went into her caravan. She smoked three cigarettes, lighting the next with the cherry of the previous, and slept for two hours. Phone went off again at 5, back to work.
Sarah already had the menu board down and was rewriting it.
“Alright, Evey?”
Evey pulled up a seat beside her and started changing the lunch menus out for the dinner ones.
“I’ve switched course again. Business wasn’t working out. Psychology now. That’ll tack another four years then, but it’s alright … “
Sarah rambled on in the background of Evey’s mind. She spent the evening as background noise.
“…I might just drop it all and do a you.”
Evey stepped back onto the planet. “Sorry, what?”
“You know … What’s Australia like this time of year?”
10.30 came around, drink time.
Traditional English Pubs are divided into two sections: the back bar and the front bar. The front bar was used only by the upper classes, it was where they dined with their families or smoked cigars and drank expensive scotch. The local peasants drank cheap beer in the back bar. The class system was supposed to be less prominent than it used to be. Evey and Sarah walked into a cloud of smoke and a gang of rowdy locals in the back bar. They pilfered free drinks from the boys and smoked Ashley’s joints. They got through half of Evey’s tobacco and called it quits at 2am. Evey snuck behind the bar when Joel, the evening shifter, wasn’t looking and stole two vodka-sodas – her nightcap and morning pick-me-up. She called it a night and stumbled out back trying not to spill her drinks. She peeled off her shoes and stripped down her stockings and skirt with the two drinks cradled in one arm as she stumbled through the front door. She got into her bedroom and took off her shirt, now stained with beer and condiments. Poked her head out another window, where a bucket of rainwater was hanging. She dunked her shirt in, rinsed it out, and splashed some of the water on her face.
Evey hung her shirt on a hanger over her heater. She downed one of her drinks and left the other sitting on the shelf above her bed. She smoked three cigarettes, lighting the next with the cherry of the previous, and fell asleep or lay awake or read or wrote.
Sometime just before dawn, Evey’s world reset.