[Daisy Campbell]

“Pouvez-vous s'il vous plaît passer du sel?”

Huffpufffrown. Scribblescribble.

If there was one thing Daisy hated about French, it was actually having to translate what you wanted to say into French. Put a translation in front of her, and Daisy could read it, translate it back in her head, she would know EXACTLY what you were talking about. But make her translate something herself and it was nigh impossible.

It was times like this, with her English-French dictionary clasped under her arm and her laptop programmed into an online translator, that she really regretted taking French as a minor to her Law degree. As if there wasn’t enough hard work involved already...!

“Passez s'il vous plaît du sel..”

Hmm.

It still didn’t sound right.

Daisy pressed the “stop” button on her Dictaphone and dropped the offending machine in the top of her over-sized leather bag. This just wasn’t working. Perhaps food – and coffee! – would cheer her up a bit?

She headed down the stairs from her French classroom, hoisted her books higher under her arm and took a left, into the Literature Building cafeteria, To Eat or Not To Eat. A very witty name, that. Only, you know, not. Daisy thought it was an academic’s attempt at humour, and they never turned out to be particularly successful.

Ever.

Daisy took a seat in the centre of the dead-quiet cafeteria, dropped her books and her bag on the table and headed over to the serving area.

What was on the menu today? Hmm. Jamaican chicken, lasagne, stuffed peppers.....ooh! What was this little treat, hidden away at the back of the hotplate? Was that chicken korma? It smelt like it, looked like it......

“Is that chicken korma? And rice? Oooh, and na’an bread?”

Daisy grinned despite herself. Just what she fancied. She took the plate from the cafeteria worker, ordered a bottle of water and a small side salad (what? A girl has to watch her figure, you know!) and headed back to her table. One sharp push with her hip meant her books toppled onto the chair that was tucked in beneath the tabletop. She put her tray of food down on the newly-cleared space and took a seat, fishing her notepad, pen and Dictaphone out of her bag.

Now.

Back to work.

“Passez du sel, de la chienne.”

[Jack Stratten]

“Closed? For what?” Jack bounced a hand in frustration off the door and turned around.

For no good reason the Arts College cafeteria was shut. There was a handwritten sign stuck on the glass door and all the lights were off apart from some in the back. There was a computer printed sign below it with an arrow pointing to the next closest cafeteria which happened to be the cheesy named; ‘To Eat or Not To Eat’ one over in the literature and language building. Haha. Yeah great name, give whoever came up with that a bonus. He didn’t really want to have to trek all the way over there either, his only reason being he was feeling lazy and didn’t want to have to walk that far for food. Though his stomach objected to this and demanded his feet take him that way, so off he went with only minor protest from his head which was evident with a sigh as he hooked his thumbs into his jeans pockets. It was a little drizzly outside between the buildings so Jack protectively tucked the hefty Nikon D70 under his black hooded jacket and stepped up the pace a little to get in out of the damp. Last thing he wanted going wrong was that camera, he loved that thing more than his right…hand. It was the symbol of doing something good with his life, he’d be devastated if the poor thing got wet inside and died on him.

Heading into the language and literature block Jack pulled the camera out from under his jacket and re-fixed it around his neck, pushing it back a little so it was out of the way and more towards his back. He could always have just picked up the case for it from his dorm but that would require common sense and Jack had been in a hurry not to be super late, therefore common sense was excused. Naturally. So he headed into the cafeteria which was…dead. And not really paying too much attention to any other occupants of the room meandered towards the food, didn’t look particularly impressed by anything and finally settled for a bottle of coke and lasagna. And keeping to himself as he usually did, Jack trundled towards an empty table, which was when he passed the other occupied table he heard a foreign language.

It was amazing the stuff you picked up when your drive was learn the language or don’t get what you really need want. What you desperately wanted. One of Jack’s suppliers had been half-french, his parents spoke the language fluently and more so than english and the man had a habit of mingling his English with his French. When he got impatient or annoyed his French side erupted forth and by god were you in trouble if you didn’t know what he was saying, most of it was insults and angry mutterings. Jack had witnessed several dozen of those rants turn to fisticuffs when some crack-head took offence and attempted to take a swing. By that point Jack hadn’t been that far gone, he dabbled sure enough, but by then he still had enough of his senses about him to pick up the language. There was a word Jack had just heard, one that he’d heard very frequently a few years ago in fact, he just didn’t expect a blast from the past in the campus cafeteria, nor for the word to be associated with someone asking for the salt of all things. He was pretty sure that was salt she’d just said, because Claude, one of his dealers, had often told him that there was salt and washing up powder along with a variety of other things mixed into what he sold. His only reasons for being so upfront about it was because if Jack’s older brother found out his little brother was taking anything impure there’d be hell to pay.

“I’m pretty sure they’d don’t teach you that in class.” He remarked as he passed by with an amused half-smile, “Or if they do I’m taking the wrong subjects.”

[Daisy Campbell]

Daisy pushed her fork around the plate, mixing the stodgy white rice with the...well, there wasn’t really a colour invented to describe the colour of this korma, actually. She speared a piece of chicken with the teeth of the fork, and captured it between her teeth as she turned the page of her French textbook.

What Daisy could not understand was why, in her first term at university, she was still being taught GCSE-level French. Asking someone to pass the salt was BASIC; they’d learnt far worse in her third year of high school, for goodness sakes.

Mind you, maybe that was just St Trinians.

Satisfied with her restaurant manners so far, Daisy scooped up some rice and popped it into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, then pondered. There was still nobody else in the cafeteria, though it was nearing the normal time for a British lunch, but Daisy fished a pound coin out of the pocket of her jeans as she made her way to the vending machines.

If the cafeteria was going to be this quiet all the time, she might just stay and study here more often. It was strangely relaxing.

She skipped back to her chair and ripped open the resulting apple juice, fresh energy coursing through her veins just from a couple of bites. Daisy ripped a little of her na’an b read apart and dipped it in the small puddle of sauce. She scribbled down a note on her papers, and then press the record button on her Dictaphone.

Ahemhemhem.

“Passez du sel, de la chienne.”

“I’m pretty sure they’d don’t teach you that in class. Or if they do I’m taking the wrong subjects.”

Daisy looked up, pressed down on the ‘stop’ button, and then investigated the intruder to her silence. She hadn’t actually noticed another person entering the room, and considering he was wearing a dark hoodie and a camera, which was stark against the bright colours on the wall.

“No.”

She smiled, pierced another piece of chicken.

“They taught me that in high school. The jewel in my GCSE crown, that.”

Daisy chewed, swallowed, and then took a sip of her juice.

“Raining, is it?”