The Christmas Café (10 page)

From: BeaG

Subject: Hello Again

This is the firstemail I have sent you are honoured. My granddaughter wrote lastbutshe is no longer here and the flatfeels rather empty. No I don’t have a cat, not really a cat fan. Winterhere is lovely I have never been toscotland but would very much like to go. I once knew someone who spoke veryhighly of it. It’s on my list. My team are marvellous Tait and Kim both brilliant. I’m fiftythree, my husbandied about a year ago so it’s a sad time of year for me what does vbw mean. I seem to have missed some gaps, sorry. Still getting used to keyboard, nothing like a typewriter, my husband used to deal with all technostuff for me.

Bea x

With her tongue lodged between her teeth in concentration, she clicked on the little arrow, which she now knew meant ‘Send’, and heard a very satisfying whoosh as her letter travelled out from the screen and across to the other side of the world. Like magic.

Having Flora stay with her in Surry Hills had reminded Bea of when Wyatt was the same age, an adventurous teenager who’d brought joy and a different perspective to her world. Peter had parented him at arm’s length, seemingly always wary of the fact that he was not his father; perhaps because he was so much older, he’d been unwilling to intrude on the special bond that she shared with her son, forged in their six years of living hand-to-mouth, just the two of them.

She glanced out of the balcony door, drinking in the bustle of Reservoir Street below, still fearing that one day she might look out and find herself staring at the dingy streets of Kings Cross instead, as if she had dreamt her lovely life and was still stuck in the bedsit she’d shared with Wyatt all those years ago. It was hard to shake the memory of the slum-like room, the many unsavoury characters that worked the streets around them, how she used to wake at the slightest noise, always on the alert, before Peter had saved them.

When she had first arrived in Sydney from Byron Bay, evicted from the family home, pregnant, single, lonely and broken-hearted, everything had been a struggle. It felt as if she was on a permanent hunt, a never-ending quest to find enough food and work just to get by. Wyatt had been the golden ray of light in a dark world: he was the reason she never gave up, never submitted to the despair that threatened to engulf her. He was her focus, her reason for living, and for him she wanted a better future. For six years she stoically made her way from job to job, taking whatever she could, reluctantly leaving Wyatt with her neighbour, Ginny, who worked in the cigarette kiosk outside the train station and was Bea’s only friend in the city.

The big turnaround had come one day not long after Wyatt’s sixth birthday. The instruction from the temping agency had been brief: turn up on Monday, look smart, don’t mention the kid and report to the second floor of Greenstock and Greenstock, the cloth manufacturer.

As she made her way to the Surry Hills address that morning, Bea had surveyed the other girls walking in the same direction, heading for the typing pools and secretarial desks of the bankers, solicitors and advertising agencies that were springing up all over Sydney. They looked similar, wearing bright jackets with shoulder pads, sporting bouffant hair and too much eyeliner, all trying to catch the eye of a particular boss. She might have looked like them, but she wasn’t like them. They chattered about boyfriends and music, fashion and films, but her experiences set her apart, made it hard to make friends. How could she gossip about Midnight Oil when her head was preoccupied with worries about the landlord’s latest rent increase? How could she bear to discuss boyfriends when the man she craved was gone for good?

At the top of the Greenstock and Greenstock stairway, Bea found herself in a tiled floored hallway with an incredible view over Surry Hills. The streets wound their way to the water behind her and the whole scene looked strikingly beautiful. She pulled the creases from her tweed skirt, borrowed from a girl who lived with her mother across the landing from them. She ran a hand over the navy, pussy-bow blouse and twisted her large gold-hoop earrings before stepping out onto the second floor as per her instructions. She continued down the corridor, taking in the wood-panelled doors and trendy chrome detailing, until she came to an open door.

Behind it sat a bespectacled man in his late forties, relaxed in a leather chair, reading a document and smoking a big fat cigar. A triangular chrome ashtray on a stand was within ash-flicking distance. He had short dark hair that sat on his head like a cap and his white shirt was immaculate against his sharp navy suit and tanned skin.

‘Can I help you?’ He looked, looked away and looked again, this time holding her stare. His voice was gravelly and still bore the faintest trace of his childhood in Germany. The leaves of paper twitched in his palm, which remained poised. She had clearly interrupted him.

‘Yes, hello, I’m Bea!’ she said with more gusto than she felt, hoping that her bright smile might hide the quiver in her voice. She badly needed this job.

‘Well, good for you. I’m Peter!’ His quip was made pleasant by his open smile.

‘I’m your new person,’ she added.

‘My new person? What happened to my old person?’ He looked behind his chair to see if they might be hiding.

‘I don’t know, maybe she quit because of your sarcasm?’

‘Or maybe I fired her because she was too damn cheeky?’ He was quick.

‘Maybe. Or maybe she just scared easily.’

‘Maybe she did. And what about you, do you scare easily?’ He drew on his cigar and blew the smoke out into the room.

Tempted though she was to tell him the truth, she held his gaze and fronted it out. ‘No, no I don’t. In fact you’ll find I’m quite hard to get rid of.’

‘Right. Well, that told me. If you’re sticking around, how about a cup of coffee?’

‘I’d love one, thank you,’ she fired back with a lot more confidence than she felt. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

The two had laughed about their auspicious meeting over the years. Stick around she did, quickly learning that Peter’s acerbic wit and dour delivery hid a heart that groaned with love and a nature that was gentle, generous and kind. She continued to work with him in the family textile business for many years, until he sold up and experimented with retirement. And then in its place rose the Reservoir Street Kitchen, which was her domain, with Peter pottering supportively alongside.

In the early days she had felt torn, secretly pining for the man she had lost, while daily reminding herself that she had made the right choice in not tracking him down. The older she got and the more established she and Peter grew, the better she understood the devastation that her contact and revelation could bring to that other family far away. She kept the information from her young son too, not wanting him to be burdened with such a big secret. And as time went on, it got harder to broach the subject that had lain dormant for so many years.

Wyatt was only a young boy when she and Peter had married in a simple no-frills ceremony at the Registry Office on Regent Street. Peter’s brother and sister were reluctant witnesses, making their excuses before the ink had dried on the page and scampering off to gossip over a cup of tea, no doubt. Bea had worn a lemon-coloured shift dress and Peter his best suit with a yellow rose in the lapel. Afterwards they had supper in Chinatown, where they ate noodles with plastic chopsticks in the street.

Wyatt seemed happy as the three stood under the swaying red lanterns, eating their chop suey and joking about it being the cheapest wedding reception in history. He had been a little scrap really, but at nearly seven already a determined character. His childhood on the tough streets of Kings Cross had taught him how to hold his own and rebuff any comments designed to hurt or undermine, but despite his cool delivery and streetwise stance, what Wyatt actually needed was a father figure.

Peter, however, found it hard to pierce the steely shell Wyatt had acquired. He had no experience of children and behaved with the self-consciousness of an older single man desperate not to get it wrong. The result was that he often came across as aloof, remote. Keen not to presume on Wyatt’s affections, he waited for Wyatt to come to him. Wyatt, on the other hand, felt that Peter didn’t make enough of an effort with him. It was almost like a stand-off, a no-win situation with Bea caught in the middle.

Peter wanted to give the boy the best education possible and so, once he turned ten, Wyatt was sent away to Scotch College up in Melbourne. Bea had been very conflicted about allowing him to board. The two of them had been so close for the first, difficult years in Sydney and she was desperate for him not to feel excluded now that Peter was part of their family too. But she couldn’t deny that their relationship had become much more difficult, with Wyatt increasingly closed and self-contained. Peter had been adamant that sending Wyatt away to school would be good for all of them, and especially for Wyatt. He needed to be able to do his own thing, away from the intensity of Bea’s attentions, Peter had said. Now, years later, with Wyatt grown up and a parent himself, Bea wasn’t so sure it had been the right decision. The distance between them had only got greater, she felt, and the problem was never really fixed.

There had been some special moments in Peter’s relationship with Wyatt, though. Moments that stuck in her mind and that she rolled around her brain like treasure in her palm. In particular she liked to think about the day she came home to find Peter reading to Wyatt from one of his favourite books. The house had been unnaturally silent, with no TV spewing cartoon sound-effects into the room. Tiptoeing in unseen, she’d watched them: Peter sitting in the armchair and Wyatt lying on the sofa on his tummy, his bare legs kicking up, his face resting on his palms, flexing back on planted elbows, listening intently as Peter read. ‘Then, if you had been watching, you would have seen the most wonderful thing in the world – the wolf checked in mid spring. He made his bound before he saw what it was he was jumping at, and then he tried to stop himself. The result was that he shot up straight into the air for four or five feet, landing almost where he left ground. “Man!” he snapped. “A man’s cub. Look!”’

It was a scene she had stored away, treasuring always. It brought her comfort at the oddest of times. Like the night Peter had died, when Bea had cradled his glasses to her chest and, unable to face their bed alone, had decided to sleep where she lay. Her eyes were gritty and tired, yet the sight of that book and the memory of that day had lifted her.

She had sleepwalked through the few days until the funeral. The day had been difficult for Wyatt – he hadn’t really known how to act, his manner and body language making it clear that he would rather be somewhere else, anywhere else. He kept poking his finger inside his stiff white shirt collar and pulling, as if to release some unseen pressure. Towards the end of the wake she could tell that he was mentally rehearsing his getaway story. He hovered, with Sarah at his elbow, looking anxious, then strolled towards her, unblinking, like he did when he wasn’t being truthful.

‘We’d better be pushing off, Mum. It’s been a good day, but Sarah needs to get back and I’ve got to sort some... err... stuff, anyway. Call if you need anything.’

She smiled as he bent and grazed her cheek with the touch of a kiss. They weren’t the first to leave, but probably the second.

‘Just one second, Wyatt, before you dash off. I have something for you.’ She stood and gathered up her embroidered pashmina, flinging it over her shoulder before disappearing into the bedroom.

‘Wyatt?’ she called a few seconds later, having expected him to shadow her.

He rather awkwardly abandoned his wife and followed his mother’s voice along the corridor.

‘Close the door, love,’ she instructed. As he did so, she heard the faintest sigh of irritation. ‘I know you’re in a hurry to get back to your... err... “stuff”, but Peter wanted me to give you this. He was quite adamant. And his wishes are important to me, as they were to him.’ She smiled and handed him the book. Its khaki cover was fraying slightly along the spine and at the corners.

Wyatt ran his finger over the faded gold embossed elephant on the front and then the simple gold lettering. It was Peter’s favourite book, Rudyard Kipling’s
The Jungle Book
; his most prized possession.

Wyatt sank down onto the bed and let the book fall open in his hands. ‘“We be of one blood, ye and I,”’ he read out loud. He smiled at his mum and then looked back at the tiny type crammed onto the yellowing page. It was beautiful. ‘I don’t know what to say! He... he wanted me to have it?’

She saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall in a huge swallow of emotion. ‘Yes. He loved you. He loved you very much.’

Wyatt exhaled through bloated cheeks, taken aback, embarrassed, ashamed. ‘Blimey.’ He shook his head, had clearly not been expecting it. ‘And I, y’know, I...’

She had nodded. ‘Yes, Wyatt, I know.’

‘He used to read it to me.’

Again she nodded. ‘Yes, Wyatt, I know.’

Bea smiled at the recollection as she flipped open her laptop. A little envelope blinked at her in the corner. She concentrated, doing as Flora had instructed, gathering the little remote arrow via the pad with her finger and clicking. To her amazement, the email opened. ‘I did it!’ Bea announced rather proudly, glancing at Peter’s photograph on the wall and taking his smile as congratulations.

From: Christmas Café

Subject: Re: Hello Again

Bea, your first email, really? I am indeed honoured! Don’t worry, I think gapsaregreatlyoverrated. Oh and VBW stands for Very Best Wishes!

The team at Christmas Café consists of Elsie, as miserable as the day is long and with a demeanour that could curdle milk, but as loyal as you could wish for.

You are an insomniac’s dream: I can’t sleep and up pinged your message, marvellous! I am sorry to hear about your husband. I know what that feels like, we are in similar boats; for me it’s been ten years. Walking is my escape, my passion and my solace. And Scotland is a beautiful, beautiful country. Unique. I can truly say that standing alone on a rugged, misty moor, looking across the mossy dips and tranquil lochs, with smoke hovering over the water and blue sky beckoning from the horizon, there is no place that I feel as close to God. And all that practically on my doorstep! Compared to Australia, it’s far easier to navigate. I would be more than happy to be your guide and your translator.