The Christmas Café (18 page)

‘Hmm, maybe.’ Bea wasn’t so sure. She reached for the room key card and busied herself with her pashmina to try and hide her blushes. ‘I’m a bit nervous in case I’ve given him the wrong impression. I’m not really interested in those kinds of shenanigans, not with someone on the other side of the world. And certainly not with someone who knows so much about my innermost thoughts!’ She cringed again at the memory.

‘Well, you’re not on the other side of the world – not any more. You’re here! And what do you mean, “shenanigans”?’ Flora stared at her gran.

Bea rubbed her aching back. After twenty-four hours on a plane she could feel her joints seizing up, not helped by the fact that she hadn’t done her morning exercise routine nor put herself through the physical workout of a day in the Reservoir Street Kitchen. ‘I’m not exactly sure, but trust me, it’s nothing I have to worry about right now.’ She laughed. ‘And “shenanigans” is not a swearword so there’s no point putting it on your list!’

Flora blushed at the mention of her list.

The two strolled out of the hotel, smiling at the suited and booted men who stood in the reception area.

‘God, it’s so cold!’ they both chorused as the icy air hit them full in the face.

Flora linked arms with her gran. ‘We could have gone anywhere in the world and we chose here! Where I can’t feel my feet or my face. It’s freezing!’

Bea looked down the length of Princes Street. A young busker wearing a kilt and sporran stood on the bridge pulling a soulful tune from a set of bagpipes. It was hauntingly beautiful; it sounded almost like crying. A lump grew in her throat; she swallowed and coughed to clear it. She remembered him telling her about its sorrowful sound, how it had the power to move to tears any Celt who was away from home. In that moment she understood precisely what he meant.

‘You’re right, Flora, we could have gone anywhere in the world, but I’m glad we’re here because it’s a beautiful city with some amazing architecture. And it feels like Christmas, doesn’t it?’

‘It does.’ Flora tightened her grip on Bea’s arm. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’ She stopped in her tracks, shivering on the spot, and stared at her gran. ‘I was thinking that maybe Kim is right: Alex could be your boyfriend. Pappy loved you so much he would just be happy that you were happy.’

‘Oh, love! That is a sweet thing to say and, yes, Pappy would be happy that I’m happy.’ Bea recalled the wonderful note Peter had left hidden in his book.
So go find happiness and let yourself love!
‘But Alex is not going to be my boyfriend.’

‘He might be! You haven’t actually met him yet.’ Flora grinned impishly as they resumed their walk down Princes Street.

The pavement was crowded; there was a constant burble of laughter and conversation, punctuated by squeals from the funfair. It had the atmosphere of a party, which lifted the two weary travellers from their fatigue. Women walked arm in arm in groups, wearing high heels, sparkly tops and no coats. Bea shivered at the sight of the bare flesh exposed to the cold evening air. She chuckled as three men, arms linked, staggered towards them, all wearing Santa hats, clearly drunk and singing fit to burst.

‘Happy Christmas, hen!’ One of them pulled away from his buddies and lunged towards Bea, who ducked away from his puckered lips.

‘Thanks! You too!’

‘Hey, are you from New Zealand?’ One of the revellers leant towards Bea.

‘Close enough.’ She laughed, knowing it was pretty pointless to discuss geography and accents with someone that many sheets to the wind.

‘Do you know my cousin Bradley? He lives in New Zealand!’

‘Oh, right, what bit?’

‘Fuck knows. Ooh, sorry!’ He clamped his hand over his mouth when he noted Flora’s age.

‘That’s okay,’ Flora replied, quick as a flash. ‘It was already on my list. And anyway I said it three times the other day, didn’t I, Bea?’

Bea gave a brief nod, not wanting to encourage her.

‘So... Bradley.’ The man drew them back to the point. ‘I don’t know exactly where he stays, but it’s near a mountain and they’ve got a bungalow with an extension.’ His words were slurred. ‘He’s quite tall.’ He raised his hand above his own head to show cousin Bradley’s comparative height.

‘Oh, sure, quite tall Bradley near the mountain in the bungalow with the extension! Yeah, I’m not far from him.’

‘Give him ma best! And tell him, sorry about the dog.’ He saluted, wobbling on the spot, happy as he joined his pals and they all continued on, staggering in and out of the kerb.

Flora laughed loudly and leant on her gran. ‘I think he’s had too much wine!’

‘I think you might be right. And too much beer and too much whisky!’ Bea chortled. ‘I was tempted to ask if he knew Tait’s cousin Gideon from Weston-Super-Mare!’

She knew the Café Royal was a good choice as soon as they stepped through the revolving door. The air was heavy with deliciously rich cooking scents that made her mouth water. Her cook’s nose twitched as she inhaled the aroma of a heady red-wine reduction, roasted garlic and shallots. She and Flora exchanged glances, relieved that the place looked just as good as the leaflet had promised. They shed their hats and coats, taking in the grand 1920s interior, their eyes lingering on the unique murals. It was part ornate parlour and part speakeasy. The Christmas decorations were subtle; fairy lights were intertwined with sprigs of spruce and were looped around the bar.

The rather suave maître d’ treated Bea like a film star. He showed them to a table near the carved walnut screen that separated the oyster bar from the pub next door, then swiftly reappeared with a glass of chilled champagne.

‘May I ask if you are old enough to drink?’

Flora stared at him anxiously. ‘I don’t know – I’m nearly fourteen!’

Straight-backed, he looked down at her through his pencil-thin moustache. ‘I was talking to this lady.’ He gestured towards Bea. It made her night.

The decor could have come straight from the
Titanic
: low-hanging crystal chandeliers, gold-leaf detail, etched glass and shining marble. It was beautiful. They ordered lobster and chips and sat back, Bea sipping her champagne and Flora her water.

‘This is so posh. How lucky are we?’ Flora said.

‘Very, my darling.’ Bea raised her glass. ‘To us, Flora, and thank you for accompanying me on this marvellous if unexpected adventure!’

Flora clinked her glass of water against her grandma’s. ‘Can I ask you something, Bea?’

‘Of course. Fire away.’ She sipped at her chilled fizz, which sparkled on her tongue. Loud laughter, conversation and the odd snatch of a Christmas carol floated from the bar next door, providing just the right level of Christmas cheer.

‘I was thinking about what you told me and I was wondering, why do you think my dad is so angry about something that happened so long ago, when he was little? Why is he angry and upset if it was just the way things were? So he didn’t have a dad, so what? Lots of my friends don’t have dads, it’s no biggy.’ Flora looked at her lap, avoiding eye contact and hoping this wasn’t too intrusive.

Bea steadied her glass and placed her forearms on the white linen tablecloth, flat-palmed, before arranging her bangles just so and settling her pose again. ‘You have to understand, Flora, that things were so very different when I was your age. Goodness, what an awful phrase – “when I was your age”! It makes me sound absolutely ancient. But there it is, the truth; things
were
so much harder. Things that don’t matter a jot now were indeed “a biggy”, to steal your phrase. Your generation has so much freedom now, you really are very fortunate.’

‘I don’t feel very fortunate,’ Flora whispered.

‘Well, you should. I know you feel you’re having a difficult time right now, but it’s just a bump in the road. Thirty, forty years ago, young women were judged rather negatively and I was only eighteen when I went through a terrible time, a terrible and wonderful time, if you can imagine such a thing. I blamed myself for years, but I wasn’t really guilty of anything, just being young. I wasn’t trying to cause anyone harm and I certainly acted with more discretion and judgement than some of the girls you see in the newspapers these days. It’s so much better now that you can build your own life and not be defined by your husband’s career, or judged for simply following your heart.’

Flora knitted her eyebrows together, trying to figure out exactly what her gran was talking about.

Bea continued. ‘You can be who you want to be. You have an infinite number of choices, Flora, that simply weren’t open to me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I wasn’t married when I had Wyatt and it was a huge stain on my character.’

‘“
Stain on your character”!
’ Flora chortled. ‘I don’t really know what that means, but it doesn’t sound very nice.’

‘It isn’t very nice.’ Bea smiled at Flora’s simple assessment. ‘It means that you’ve done something or had something done to you that taints the way people view you – a scar, if you like, and you can never remove it.’ Flora grimaced. ‘I know, it’s horrible, isn’t it? A really terrifying thought. But it was a reality nonetheless. In my community it was considered a terrible thing.’

‘What happened?’

‘When?’

‘When you had my dad. He never talks about it. Did he know his daddy? Did you love him?’

‘Gosh, Flora, those are two big questions right there.’ Bea sighed. ‘No, Wyatt never knew his daddy and his daddy didn’t know about him.’

‘How did you hide him?’ Flora looked puzzled.

‘Oh, I didn’t hide him, not exactly. His daddy didn’t know I was having a baby. I didn’t even know myself for a long while. I was only young, and, looking back, I didn’t know a lot of things, things that you are probably much more worldly about than me. We didn’t have the lessons you have in school. Everything was more secretive. I couldn’t even say to my family that I’d started my periods, that would have been too personal!’

‘I wish I’d started mine.’ Flora scratched at the tablecloth.

‘Oh, darling, don’t wish your life away. Periods are not that great, trust me!’

‘Do you still have them?’

‘Yes, not as regularly as I did, but yes I do. And, funnily enough, as eager as you are for them to start, I can’t wait until mine finish for good!’ Bea laughed.

‘So, did you love him, my dad’s dad?’

Bea gulped the last of her fizz and welcomed the refill that the waiter hurried over to her. ‘Gosh, it feels strange mentioning him, especially to you. I don’t talk about him much...’
But I think about him nearly every day.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s too hard. It hurts, even now.’ She pictured her young self, waiting to give birth, feeling the excruciating shame of her parents’ words every time she looked in the mirror at her swollen reflection. ‘My father, as you know, was a minister, came over from the UK to look after a church in Byron Bay. Well... every year they used to organise a summer cruise.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘It was a big deal in our rather empty social calendar. My sister Diane and I used to plan and plot, thinking about what we might wear and trying to get hold of rouge and other things we weren’t really allowed. One of my dad’s congregation skippered a tall ship that used to take us from the beach up around to Cape Byron lighthouse and back again. It was so beautiful, always a wonderful evening. All the women would bake for a fancy picnic on board and the men would decorate the ship with Chinese lanterns strung from the rigging and flaming torches dotted around the deck. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful before or since.’ She gave Flora a small smile. ‘The atmosphere was electric. There’d be dozens of people and we’d all sing and dance to an Irish band who came aboard with their fiddle, whistle and flute, concertina and of course their bodhrán.’

‘What’s a brodan?’

‘A bodhrán. It’s a large Celtic drum. It has a wooden frame.’ Bea drew a circle in the air. ‘And used to be made of goatskin.’

Flora nodded, happy at the picture her gran had painted.

Bea continued, sipping as she spoke. ‘They always played until the early hours. The music was like energy that kept us going. As long as they played, we danced. Our feet would thump against the ship’s deck as we wheeled round and round, and that sound became part of the music.’ Bea bounced her flattened palm on the table, her eyes closed, reliving the jolt of the wooden deck against the thin soles of her shoes as she beat out the rhythm of the dance.

Flora sat forward. ‘It sounds brilliant, like a festival.’

‘It was.’ Bea sniffed, opening her eyes. ‘It was an event like no other; the music brought everyone together, the food gave happiness and the atmosphere affected everyone. The last time I attended, I was eighteen. We set sail at dusk and everyone was mingling, the girls all keen to see what the other girls were wearing and of course to catch the eye of any boy they might like to dance with later on when the sun disappeared. My dad was in high spirits, I remember, laughing and dancing with my mum, his arm around her waist. She looked so happy, it made her seem very young. I didn’t often see her like that. I walked to the side of the boat to watch the shoreline get further and further away and I became aware of someone standing next to me.’ Bea swallowed, as if lost in the memory. ‘It was a young man. We stood side by side, watching the beach getting smaller and smaller, and then he spoke. He said, “I don’t think there is anywhere else on the whole of God’s earth that I would rather be.” I looked up and he was smiling at me. He had a shock of dark red hair and green eyes the same colour as his scarf.’

‘Like mine?’ Flora smiled and touched the tip of her eyelashes with her finger.

Bea nodded. ‘Yes, like yours. He was smiling at me as if he knew me and all of a sudden it was like being punched in the gut – in a good way, of course! I stared at him and I desperately wanted to get to know him. Even in those first few moments, I would have gone anywhere he asked and done anything he wanted.’

Flora was transfixed, staring at her gran as if she was watching a movie, taking in the detail with a mixture of fascination and shock. She was delighted that her gran was sharing this with her, treating her like the grown-up she craved to be.