She had not been altogether present for quite some years the morning she looked at the world from her window. Ecru lace and woodgrain framed the breeze-shaken leaves. Brilliant sky and flashes of sun danced and flickered. Down below, a small figure clacked heels on the pavement, clutching a shoulderbag and marching at an angle across the frame. This woman, brown hair glinting hot, did not move her head in passing check-shirted Mr Craig. He was leaning on his rake and talking over the fence to Mr Jones, grubby-gloved with secateurs in hand. The tops of their heads, pink and skimpy gray, waggled with conversation. Clack, clack, clack the woman went, and passed the child in torn jeans examining the bloodied knee beside the sprawling bike, wheels still gently spinning, limp plastic streamers entwined with blades of grass. Clack, clack, the woman got to the kerb just before the edge of the frame and waited for a car passing with a rackety purr and then she crossed the road out of sight. Mr Jones trimmed an errant twig; the child stood and dragged his bike upright.
Inside was dark as a box and very still. The bed and the chest of drawers were shadow-black and the old wardrobe louring and indistinct behind the bright oval, its mirror.
She moved from the window, over the sad carpet, soundless to the door. Hanging from her shoulder was her navy vinyl bag and she paused a moment to tidy the plain cotton blouse over the skirt. Small tugs all round. Smoothed where it strained over her breasts, at the buttons. Twisted the doorknob then and pulled, moved forward to the top of the stairs, a lightless space filled with the angled lines of stair and balustrade. Descended the cold shaft step by step to the front door that loomed thickly next to the waist-high vase full of sticks and umbrellas almost unseen in the shadowed corner.
When the door was opened the world began to speak. It spoke and whispered and buzzed and hummed. And the breeze blew a little, in the shadows cool on her skin, weakly warm in the sun when she passed through spilt patches. To her left, and over the road, Mr Craig and Mr Jones peered at Mr Jones’ regimented roses. Mr Craig shook his head, squeezed a bud. She turned to her right and walked tidily to the crossing, pressed the button and waited, taking up very little space. Another pedestrian, a young man in jeans and a check top, glanced quickly left and right and crossed, the pedestrian indicator still on red. A hesitation hovered in her face and body, then, slight as a disturbance in the air or a pond, a small, unsteady query, while the young man crossed and hurried away.
There was a settling then to the worry gathered on her forehead when the lights changed and she could cross with the tickety-tick-tick and the walking green man at last. She walked slowly, neatly, apologetic in the cleaving of space as she moved through it. Eventually, her hands found each other and joined across her waist.
She walked along the street and soon terraces with hanging baskets of miniature red rose and electric-blue lobelia gave way to glass frontages – shops and cafés with old tiling around the doors. Stopping at a window with one hand cradling the other, carefully displayed feet in modest heels. She faced the knickknacks benignly– silver cups and vases, decorative masks, greeting cards both lewd and uproarious. Someone paused next to her and glanced in. He squinted at a lava lamp, concentrating briefly with his chin forward and she said in her undertone What a lot of lovely things, with a social titter, but he only grunted, stared full-face at her big breasts and shouldered away. Her mild eyes and mild smile brushed bland and empty over items and she moved on, jerky with mortification.
At the intersection she stood hands gripped, tiny rigid smile, eyes blinking and scanning, until the sign flashing Café Comfort wanly in the bright day drew her to itself. She looked from left to right, left to right and crossed, each step careful, to the café, pushed open the glass door and slid into an empty seat at an empty table. Straight-backed, she passed a hand over her hair, then cradled the left in the right before her on the round table with the small spill of sugar and the metal ashtray. Someone sang Sunny, throaty through hidden speakers. A girl came and she said very low and pleasantly: A cup of coffee, please. But the girl asked: Capuccino, caffe latte… paused at the empty face, tiny rigid smile, and asked Flat White? so she could say Oh, and huff her little social laugh and say I suppose so. Thank you very much. Such a wide choice! Hehehe.
The waitress, slight-waisted child, padded to the counter. Sudden water rushed into an unseen sink; a tugging clunk; quick light slam of a cupboard door. At another table, a silver spoon knocked three times against a cup. Muted saxophone fused discords with swing.
She was sitting awaiting coffee, up straight and hand lying in hand, gazing at posters on the wall, when the glass doors swung and a young woman entered with two young men. Robust, mid-laugh, gusty, talking across one another, glancing around for seats. At the table next to where she sat so nicely they pulled out chairs as their voices and hands played. One of the young men was David, while he called the young woman Shelley, who glanced up just as she was sitting. Oh, hello, Shelley said, You’re Sophie’s mother aren’t you? In another place of hot red brick and tarmac and hundreds of children careering at waist height calling mum, mum, Shelley was a teacher. So, Oh yes, she said just above a murmur to Shelley, How lovely to see you, and I hope Sophie’s not too much of a bother, and with hands clasped and head a little to one side: She can be such a handful. She clicked her tongue for Children!, a rattly little simper and the mannered tiny smile. Shelley shrugged and said No, Sophie’s a very quiet little girl, and introduced David, who sat next to Shelley, and Nick, who sat opposite. They called for coffee; the girl behind the counter called back You wait your turn, David, and they laughed, all pushing energy, a whiff of sweat. She said with a tiny sing-song graciousness: It’s a lovely day, isn’t it! They turned to her so she said: It’s so nice to see young people enjoying themselves, and Shelley said into the pause: But you’re hardly older than me!
David muttered something to Shelley. The teacher turned to him, stretching until the pulse on her smooth neck was noticeable, warm and ticking, and the material on her sleeveless top pulled taut with a hidden weight so the black strap underneath showed, stretching into a hint of lace. From the next table, she hovered a moment leaning towards Shelley the teacher, mouth open to speak, but David was saying What session were we aiming for? and Shelley twisted so fuzzy wisps of hair could be seen behind the pink ears. And at the next table, she, to whom no-one was speaking, closed her mouth and straightened slowly, brushed at the cotton on one short sleeve, ambiguous, pleasant-little-smile, hands enfolded all as if there were an audience. The music had become piano, sad bluesy notes like an abandoned night.
The waitress brought the coffee on a tray, four cups, set hers there so she said: Thank you very much, and then the girl set cups and a glass in front of Shelley, David and Nick, and said: Jeez, haven’t seen you guys for ages! There was talk about how long that might have been, and Shelley wanted to know if Morty still hung out here in the evenings, but the girl didn’t know because that wasn’t her shift.
She poured sugar but the pourer had been overfilled and sugar rushed out to lie a thick sugar-mat on the thin froth, soaked, slid to the side and plop, disappeared. She picked the spoon up too late for rescue. Her smile slipped. Then she stirred twice as if for an audience, lifted the spoon to its waist in froth and looked at its messiness, eyes flicking to the rest of the room before she licked the spoon, put it on the saucer shakily with a high pitched tinkle.
Shelley’s lazy tongue curled and licked froth creamy from her own spoon.
The posters on the wall were about comedy, theatre or music, stark and maybe sometimes startling: winsome men in twisted-rubber faces; women with mouths like bursting fruit so urgent in grainy black and white; many strained, staring figures angular and perched in shadow. Dates for sometime last week, a season half over or towards the end of next month. Paper stuck with clear tape or lumps of Blu-Tack and wide strips of packing tape over and over. The piano and the saxophone meandered quietly hand in hand and a voice was wordless with yearning and huskily sang mmmmm.
Nick was talking about a Molly. Where did you meet her? Shelley asked, and Nick said it had been at a party a couple of weeks ago, but he didn’t think it would last much longer because he’d nearly had enough. She wants to talk about stuff, y’know, then she says ‘you’re not listening, Nick’ and he pitched his voice high and waved his hands like Molly, before he dropped back with And she’s right, ‘cause a bloke can’t listen when there’s a pair of tits like that in your face. Nick was spreadlegged back in his chair and looked over to where she sat at the next table but his eyes missed her face and fell to her breasts and suddenly he was laughing. He pushed his hand into his jeans pocket saying, Beg your pardon, giggling, pulled out coins and said Anyway guys, gotta go, this is for the coffee. Nick pulled open the glass door while Shelley was saying Look, I’m really sorry about that. Never know what he’s going to say and David said Yeah, so she made moues with her mouth in the hot red face and held up her hand in appeasement, a weak flap, mouthed and murmured No, no, really…., laughed the little laugh with frantic eyes skirting coffee, spoon, table, and eventually sat hunched as if protecting the cup.
A short silence and David cleared his throat. Shelley said: So where’s Sophie today? With her Dad? Awkward hands now flapping in front of the breasts, a shield, protection level with the second button on her blouse. She whispered: No, she’s at the camp the nuns have, lovely place in the country, grasped the cup and straightened. First time? and she said Yes, well not exactly because when Sophie was littler we would both go but the nuns say she’s old enough now to go on her own and she laughed like the clacking of an automatic toy.
David sighed. On a chair behind him was a newspaper and he reached for it, shook it open, flicked it to the next page.
Shelley looked at him and then away, leaning forward on her elbows. Sophie’s very quiet, isn’t she?
Like her mum, I suppose, she answered, dipped her head, semi-smile back on the face.
Yes. Shelley ran her finger slowly around the cup where the froth was crusty now. They looked at the finger travelling. I’ve tried to get through to her but she doesn’t say much, Shelley said and licked her finger. She just smiles. Shelley glanced at Sophie’s mother, and the eyes slipping off sideways to the walls, to her hands, the cup, the spoon.
He he he the little laugh desperate for cover.
You’re very kind. I think all the teachers at the school are lovely. Especially with the little preppies, with the neat head coy and social and tipped on its side, So beautiful, he he he. David snapped the broadsheet open, turned a page, folded it in midair. The music stopped, the silence a cold thing.
Do you come here a lot? Shelley was asking, just as she was sipping coffee syrup, just tipping the cup to her lips in the silence, so she put the cup down and said: No, no, this is my first time. It’s very nice, she pointed to the wall, What a lot of posters! Very gracious smile though pinched at the ends very like pain.
Shelley sighed.
Oh, are you alright? Is anything wrong? So very concerned with a hand on Shelley’s arm. Shelley laughed and shook her head: No no no, and waved her hands around. I think we have to go now. We’re going to the movies, so David folded the newspaper with two sharp rustles, dipped his head at Shelley with an eyebrow raised, but when Shelley looked back to Sophie’s mum there she was with the vacancy on her face again and the tiny rigid smile.
So we’ll be off, Shelley said as David said: I’ll pay, and slid from his seat to walk to the counter. I guess I’ll see you at the school, Shelley was saying just as she said: It was very nice to meet you, and there was a short moment where they both said oops and ha ha before Shelley left.
The music was back, wistful but it filled up the spaces so she sat facing the posters tapping her hand with no rhythm and face arranged as if for an audience, the smile denoting appreciation.
Soon her head bobbed gently around, face bland with gazing, and she saw the clock with the minute hand lurching. A thought occurred: Not enough time gone yet and she blinked at her empty cup. She twisted around in her seat to where she could see the waitress all gangly with youth slipping from behind the counter holding a check washcloth. Excuse me. She was quiet but the girl was near and heard and turned so she asked for more coffee though she was sorry to be a trouble. No probs said the girl, sauntering back to the space behind the counter.
She turned back, sat erect and folded her hands until it dawned that the hissing of the coffee machine and the sharp clacks and tapping from the girl were in her service and she felt something that may have been discomfort or not. Singled out like that, she sat very still until the coffee came and only just remembered to say thank you very much and the waitress nodded and strolled off.
The fat cup sat with a modest froth on its saucer with its spoon on the table with the plastic salt and pepper shakers and the sugar shaker in the room with the very few customers and the posters on the wall and outside the people passing to and fro in their shirt sleeves or sleeveless because the weather promised to stay warm. And here was she, herself, in a café. While he, the husband, who would not stay away though he had left so many times, was shouting, she could just see it since he’d said he would be there today for his rights – he called it that when she lay face averted and shut tight while he churned at her and grunted and grunted – and hammering on her door with those fleshy hands, unhandsome, meaty hands, flexing, she supposed, then bunching into great knuckly slabs, though she wasn’t there and neither was Sophie who was with the nuns.
She let out a great breath before she realised she had taken one, then took another and did it again. Her face was quieter without the tiny rigid smile and she reached for the cup, warm and round and smelling of comfort, with the coffee steam playing around her nose before she put the cup to her lips and sipped.
Just right, she thought, and returning, closed her eyes.
© J. Crozier