Lennon.
“Len, is the delivery ready for tomorrow?”
I sighed heavily. I was beyond tired. I had ended up working five hours overtime, unpaid overtime that was too. Floyd could never say no to an order, especially when the client was willing to pay over a thousand pounds for some bread. Who needs over four hundred loaves of bread anyway? For the next day too. I had been stuck in the dingy bakery for over fifteen hours and I was beginning to hallucinate, two hours ago I could have sworn a loaf of bread spoke to me – it hadn’t however.
“Almost!” I called back as I continued to knead the last piece of dough of the day. I had already planned when I finished I would collapse on my bed and pretend the real world didn’t exist. Well for a couple hours until I had to get back up again and do it all over the next day.
“Are you okay to lock up? Taking the wife out to the West End tonight.” Floyd asked, popping his head through the door. He was already dressed in his coat and scarf, assuming my answer would be yes before he even asked.
“Yeah, sure.” I answered half-heartedly. It didn’t make a difference whether I locked up or not; the eerie silence of the empty bakery wasn’t one I desired though. He swiftly nodded his head and without another word spoken, hastily left.
Nia had left hours ago when the shop had shut for the public, lucky her. She had to deal with the customers but that was barely hard graft. Our friendship had been slightly off for the past month, ever since those customers she warned me about came in. She was always on edge ever since, she snapped her head up every time someone entered the bakery and I had yet to figure out why.
With my flour covered fingers I flicked the switch on the radio. The speakers barely worked but any noise other than the ovens dying out was enough company for me. You couldn’t change the radio station; the button was missing so you had no other option than to listen to the melodic tunes of BBC radio five. Not my preferred station but I could bare it. The only thing that bugged me was the presenters seemed to talk more than actually playing music.
I hated baking bread. I know I did it for a living but it was tedious, tiring and mind-numbing. I could handle twenty loaves a day, but four hundred? Next time I’ll refuse like any sane person would do. My arms were aching; I was going to have guns of steel in the morning. I could walk into the local gym and put all the heavily tattooed, burly men to shame.
I had on numerous occasions informed Floyd I would appreciate some hand in the kitchen but he insisted I was doing fine by myself and wouldn’t pay out for any unnecessary staff.
I turn the switches on the ovens off and gave the side a good, hard kick – otherwise they didn’t turn off. Floyd also refused to buy new equipment; if it still cooked food, it was perfectly fine. He would say that though, he didn’t have to use them. I winced as the pain shot through my foot and up my leg. “Bloody thing,” I muttered under my breath once it finally died and all signs of life were non-existence.
After wrapping my scarf tightly around my neck and buttoning up my parker coat I was finally ready to leave. I quickly double-checked to make sure all the ovens were properly off – I don’t think Floyd would appreciate a half burnt down bakery. I wasn’t aiming to remake the fire of London either.
Of course the locks to the actual bakery weren’t simple either. They were half broken and you had to hold the door handle in an awkward position so you were actually able to turn the key. My arms felt literally dead, the last thing I wanted to do was wrestle with an old, battered door. Nevertheless, after five minutes of muttering curse words and slamming my fist into the wood, it eventually locked.
