The Christmas Café (4 page)

‘For God’s sake, Bea, what is wrong with me? I just can’t talk to him!’ Kim threw the dishcloth on to the counter-top. ‘I can’t get my bloody words out. He thinks I’ve got a stutter!’

‘Because you have when you talk to him,’ Bea noted.

‘Correction, when I
try
and talk to him! You are not helping, Bea! Jeez, he’s just so beautiful; it does something to my brain. He’s perfect, just perfect! It’s not only that I can’t talk to him, I can’t think of anything to say.’ Kim grabbed the pepper grinder and twisted it aggressively over the sandwiches. ‘My friends think it’s hysterical. I’m like the biggest chatterbox ever, they can’t shut me up, and I’m funny! Really funny! But with him, it’s different. Not only is he so out of my league looks-wise, he also thinks I have a bloody speech impediment! Grrr.’

Tait came back through the swing doors. ‘Who are these for?’ he picked up the sandwich plates and stared at Kim.

‘Err... T-table... Table... err...’

‘Table twelve.’ Bea jumped in.

Tait nodded, smiled at Kim and left with the order.

Bea turned to see Kim bashing her head on the draining unit of the sink. She laughed.

With her eyes closed, Bea let the warm, morning breeze flutter over her face. She was in one of her favourite places, sitting on her folded sweatshirt at the base of a plane tree in Prince Alfred Park. It was the best place to visit in the sunshine; if she looked to the right, she saw nothing but the manicured green spaces that led to the vast, popular pool and in the other direction sat the majestic cityscape, where the Sydney Tower rose high, reminding her of a spaceship that had landed on a maypole. From her home, it was a brisk walk along Elizabeth Street that brought her here. Bea used the time to clear her head and escape the kitchen before service began. Now, as she sat in peace, letting her hand caress the grass, the sound of children’s laughter drifted on the breeze from the outdoor pool. It was one of the loveliest sounds she knew. Opening her eyes, she smiled, remembering when Wyatt was small and what it felt like to be woken by the slightest touch to her cheek. He would creep into her bedroom and place his tiny hand on her cheek. ‘Wake up, Mummy!’ he would breathe in her face. Time had proved there was no sweeter way to be roused from sleep. She watched a young mum run after her escapee toddler, catching her before scooping her up into her arms and showering her in kisses beneath her sun hat. The little girl squealed and wrapped her arms around her mum’s neck. Bea felt her stomach bunch with longing at the memory of Wyatt at a similar age. Life had been hard, but in some ways it had been the very best time, when he was little and was content to do nothing more than sit in her company, playing cards or being read to.

She tried to remember when he had stopped wanting to touch her. As a child he had happily plonked himself in her lap and kissed her face. Even as a teen there were hugs on arrival and departure, and an arm had occasionally been cast over her shoulders as they walked side by side along Manly’s promenade. She had loved those impromptu displays. It was as if he was proud of her, his young mum. Maybe it had stopped when he met Sarah, or when he’d had a daughter, as if he only had enough capacity to love two women properly. She couldn’t recall exactly and it didn’t really matter, the result was the same.

Bea glanced at her watch – it was time to be getting back, the lunch crowd would be arriving soon enough and she would be needed. As she trod the incline of Reservoir Street, feeling the pull on the back of her calves, she noticed that the vintage clothes shop opposite the café had strung Chinese lanterns in its window and placed a ‘Happy Christmas’ sign across the door. The sight of the decorations, as ever, put a smile on her face. Following their lead, she decided that later in the day she would dig out her own box of fairy lights from the basement, along with the one junk-shop find that only graced the café at Christmas time. This was a zinc-and-glass-framed photo of a white-capped Victorian maid lighting the thin candles on a rather sparse tree. The girl’s expression was wistful, and to Bea it was as if she was wondering why it was that she had to do all the work, but couldn’t enjoy the tree or the cluster of gifts placed around its base.

Bea bustled into the kitchen, where Kim was bent over the counter-top, concentrating on weighing out couscous for the roasted veg and pomegranate salad. Bea started washing a large bunch of peppery watercress under the cold tap, feeling the soft leaves beneath her fingers as she delicately brushed them, thinking of the flakes of chilli-smoked roasted salmon that would sit on top of them in today’s sandwich special. She would whip up a spicy lemon-and-paprika aioli to accompany it, perfect for dunking chunky twice-cooked chips. The visualisation and mental preparation of the food she would serve bought her immense happiness.

Kim broke the silence. ‘Hey, boss, did you know you got a letter today? A proper handwritten letter, from Scotland? I’m dying to know what’s inside.’ Kim waved the cream envelope in her direction and propped it on the counter-top. ‘It arrived while you were out – I would have steamed it open and resealed it, if I thought I’d had the time.’ She winked.

‘From Scotland?’ Bea asked quietly as she switched off the tap and swallowed, slowly drying the greens in her hand. Her fingers trembled.

‘You all right there, Bea? You look a bit pale.’

She caught Kim’s concerned look and rambled as she placed the watercress on the chopping board. ‘Yes! Yes, of course! I was just, just thinking about... lunch,’ she lied, ‘whether salmon is a good idea, or whether to go for halloumi with onion jam or something else.’ Her words sounded forced and unconvincing to them both.

‘Come on! Open your letter! The suspense is killing me. I don’t know anyone in Scotland – well, apart from Ewan McGregor, and if it’s from him, give me his address. Please!’ Kim laughed.

Bea dried her hands on a dishcloth, then wiped them down her pinny for good measure, before reaching for the envelope. She let her eyes rove over the spidery text and stroked the stamp with her thumb, hesitating before flipping it over and studying the back, which was blank. She wiggled her finger under the flap and eased it to the left and right, trying not to damage the envelope. She held her breath and twisted her body, so both the sheet and her face were averted.

She exhaled sharply, forcing a smile and letting her shoulders sag with something akin to relief. ‘Well, it’s from a lady who runs a coffee shop in Edinburgh.’

‘What does Edinburgh Lady want? A job? Bit of a commute, isn’t it?’ Kim was on fire today.

‘No.’ Bea scanned the text with narrowed eyes. ‘Not a job. Apparently she runs a sort of club, a society...’

‘That sounds sordid and secretive, tell me more!’ Kim leant over the tray of roasted veg that she was prepping and sprinkled the chunks of butternut squash, baby beetroots and shallots with black pepper and a little oregano.

Bea dug deep to find a laugh, trying to keep the tremor from her voice as she spoke. ‘Sorry to disappoint, but it’s nothing of the sort.’ She read silently, mouthing some of the words as she concentrated. ‘She runs a kind of little forum for owners of coffee shops, tea rooms and boutique cafés all over the world. They go online and swap recipes, send photos, that kind of thing.’ Bea looked up. ‘It might be nice, you know – having a café can feel like a lonely business.’

‘None taken.’ Kim held up her palm and laughed.

‘I don’t mean every day.’
I mean in the early hours or late at night when I am alone. I get lonely...
‘But, you know, when I’m wondering whether to expand or have to make business decisions, it might be good to talk to people in similar situations all over the world, get their perspective.’

‘Ooh, a
global
little forum – that sounds like a hoot! Though I think you might struggle with the online bit!’ Kim laughed.

‘None taken,’ Bea quipped, knowing Kim was right. But she was getting better and could now switch the machine on and off without help. ‘And who knows, we might be able to introduce recipes from as far afield as Tokyo and Toulouse!’

‘Toulouse? That’ll be sausage recipes then.
Are
there members from Tokyo and Toulouse?’

‘Well, I don’t know, but possibly. They could be from anywhere. Florida or Berlin.’

‘Berlin? So, more sausage recipes. I think it’s a sausage club!’ Kim chuckled.

Bea folded the paper and popped it back inside the envelope before stashing it in her pinny pocket. ‘It’s a lovely letter, actually. She sounds genuinely excited about the project. She says she read a review about us on the Trip-thingy site, which is why she’s invited me to join. She also said I should pop over to Edinburgh any time. Sweet, really, as though she is just around the corner and not over ten thousand miles away.’

‘What’s her name?’

Bea pulled the letter out again and distractedly ran her index finger to the bottom of the page. ‘Alex. Alex McKay.’

Kim smiled. ‘Ooh, Miss McKay! Love it! I’m picturing her now. I bet she’s short and fat from all that sausage sampling, has a tight perm, wears gold-rimmed glasses, favours a pink sparkly mani-pedi and has a fondness for cats!’

‘You don’t know she’s old or fat, she might be lithe and gorgeous!’ Bea offered.

Kim shook her head. ‘Uh-huh. I’m picturing her: she’s incredibly fat and definitely loves cats! And clearly has no social life whatsoever if she has the time to contact people in Tokyo and Toulouse on a daily basis to discuss sausage-club business.’

‘Well, that could be how she’s describing me!’ Bea stood with her palms splayed.

‘Hardly! You are gorgeous! I’m actually a bit gutted that it’s not from Ewan McGregor inviting you to tea. I was hoping that you might take me with you. He is delicious.’

Bea pursed her lips and stared at Kim. ‘I thought you only had eyes for Tait?’

‘Ssshh!’ She waved her hand and peered towards the door. ‘He might hear you!’

‘Yes, and then he would know how you feel and maybe you could lose your stutter and my two favourite team members could move this thing forward.’ Bea smiled.

‘Firstly, we are your only team members, so that doesn’t count for much. And secondly, there is no way he’d be interested in me! Did you see Janine, his last girlfriend? She was scorching hot, leggy and stunning. I’m not his type. Can you really see him meeting me from orchestra rehearsal or carrying my cello, with his board under the other arm?’ Kim sighed. ‘It ain’t gonna happen.’

‘Actually I
can
see it. You need to have more confidence, Kim. You are a lovely young woman. And you don’t know until you dive in – you can’t spend your life on the sidelines, hoping things will come to you. You’ve got to dig deep, find courage. Go for it!’

‘I know. But it’s not courage I need, it’s another foot in height and boobs like Janine! That’d make it easier. I mean, can you imagine if I made my move and he rejected me outright – how could we work together after that? I’d want to drop through the floor every time I saw him!’

‘And that’s different from now, how?’

Kim sighed. ‘Can we please change the subject? And I mean it, Bea, you are gorgeous, one of the coolest chicks I know – super stylish, super fab.’

Bea laughed. ‘You have to say that; I’m your boss.’

‘You’re right I do, but luckily I mean it. You are one hot lady, even if you pretend to be a hundred and three.’

‘Hundred and four actually.’

‘What’s a hundred and four?’ Tait came in to collect the chalkboard with the day’s specials written on it. A delicious summer greens vegetable soup and homemade cashew, lentil and quinoa loaf with spicy yoghurt dressing on the side.

‘I was just... n-not... Bea’s letter, only... she...’ Kim blushed and waved the knife she was using in front of her face as though this might aid her speech.

Tait stared at her for a second before leaving with the board in his hands.

‘Shit it!’ Kim yelled.

‘I may be a hundred and four, but I heard that okay!’ Bea tutted.

During the mid-afternoon lull Bea took a deep breath, grabbed the box of Christmas decorations, gripped the sharp knife in her hand and sank to her knees. She ran the point around the tape that fastened the cardboard box, mindful that Peter had been the last one to seal it. She wound the tape around her fingers as she peeled it from the cardboard, thinking that it probably contained his fingerprints, a little bit of him still there in the place he’d loved. She was about to delve into the box when a sudden punch of sadness hit her stomach.
Once these are out of their box, it will be me that puts them away again and that will mean that I’ll have been celebrating Christmas, properly celebrating it, without you. It didn’t even cross my mind to put the decorations up last year, so soon after you’d passed. At the moment, they are still connected to you...

‘Need a hand?’ Tait asked as he watched his boss contemplating the box labelled ‘Christmas Lights’ in black marker pen.

She blinked. ‘I’m just wondering whether we should put these up?’

‘Yes! Let’s do it, let’s get the Christmas spirit flowing here!’ He clapped. ‘Sure you don’t want me to sort them? Kimmy’s okay for the minute.’

‘No, I’m good. I’ll just prep them and then you can help me string them up. We can have a grand switch-on.’

Tait gave his ready smile. He was a good kid.

Bea folded back the wide flaps of the box and paused before placing her hands into the neatly wound spools of green wire. Peter had always been meticulous about his packing and methodical in his organisation. He had even placed a square of blue tape on the ends: as ever, trying to make her life as easy as possible.

Bea sorted the lights into two piles and stood, brushing the dust from her palms onto her apron. ‘Right, Tait, ready when you are!’

She handed him the end of one of the strings of lights. He pulled out a chair and used it as a ladder, perching on the edge to hook the big fat bulb around the hook at the end of a girder, feeding the lights through his fingers. He dragged the chair across the floor and stood again in the middle of the room, securing the lights further along.