The Christmas Café (6 page)

‘I’ll text them in the morning. They treat me like I’m a baby, but I’m not six any more. It’s my birthday at the end of December. I’m nearly fourteen.’

‘Yes, I know, darling. But funnily enough, whether your kids are six, fourteen or thirty, you worry about them just the same; trust me.’

‘All they do is worry about me or shout at me.’ Flora’s tone was softer now, less indignant, more aggrieved. Bea suspected she played the stroppy teen for Wyatt’s benefit, because she thought that was required.

‘They just love you.’ Bea smiled as she reached into the fridge for slices of cherry shortbread to have with their cocoa.

‘Did they tell you to say that?’ Flora wrapped her arms around her slender trunk. Her thick hair fell in a blunt line, resting on her bare shoulders.

‘No, but even if they had, I would have said it anyway, because it’s the truth.’

‘Were you this tough on my dad? I can’t imagine it, you’re too cool.’

‘That’s what Kim said! But it’s the funniest thing, I think I’m the least cool person around. I’m a real technophobe and quite old-fashioned.’

‘You’re still cool, Gran. Plus you lived in London, that’s very cool!’

‘Gosh, that was a lifetime ago, and I was in Surrey, not London exactly; a whole other world.’ Bea recalled the quiet pace of life on the Epsom Downs and the village atmosphere, where her parents knew everyone and every misdemeanour was reported back to them, leaving little room for mischief. She smiled, thinking of Diane, her big sister, who she had loved. They had been great friends as well as siblings. ‘Taking the odd trip into the city to sit in a greasy, smoke-filled café didn’t feel much like living it up, I can assure you! Sharing a round of toast with my sister in the freezing cold, wondering what to do with my life.’

‘Did you ever see any famous bands?’ Flora’s eyes widened. She herself was a 5 Seconds of Summer fan, with a particular love of Ashton.

Bea placed the mugs and plates onto the tray and thought about it. ‘No, they were never in our favourite café.’ She winked. ‘But I knew a tailor who fitted Mick Jagger for a suit on Savile Row – does that count?’

‘Was Mick Jagger in the Beatles?’ Flora asked.

‘You are a funny little thing. No, he wasn’t, but he was friends with them, I think.’

‘A bit like 5SOS and 1D?’

‘Maybe.’ Bea plopped a generous pinch of mini marshmallows on to the top of each drink, having not the foggiest idea what Flora was talking about.

Flora laughed. Her giggle, however, quickly turned to tears that she muffled and swiped at with the back of her hand.

‘Oh, darling! Whatever’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. I’m sorry.’ Flora sniffed.

‘Don’t be sorry! Come on. Come and sit down.’ Bea took her granddaughter’s hand, steering her towards the sitting room.

It was a balmy evening with a warm wind blowing up from the harbour. The double doors in the corner of the room were open and the sounds of Surry Hills wafted up into the high rafters of the top-floor apartment. Bea smiled as she caught the lilting rhythms of a Spanish guitar and the buzz of girls laughing and men chatting as they strolled between the many artisan eateries that had sprung up in the neighbourhood. Everything from authentic Mexican and Vietnamese to organic handmade burgers was available within a short stroll of her front door – an incredible cornucopia. There was nowhere in Sydney she would rather live.

She had made few changes to the apartment since Peter had passed away, liking the fact that his eyes and hands had lingered on the objects within. It was a contemporary loft space that echoed the industrial feel of the business with its clean lines and decor. Kim had paid her the biggest compliment, saying that you couldn’t guess the age of the person who lived there, they could be twenty or eighty. Bea had pointed out she was a good couple of decades off eighty, even though her joints needed reminding of this on a regular basis.

The living room floor was waxed oak, covered in dents and holes where in another era machinery and heavy office furniture had left their mark. A vast black leather sofa sat against a white wall on which hung an enormous oriental canvas; it reminded Bea of a bent willow but was in fact a random collection of lines and brushstrokes in sage green that gave the impression of a tree but close up was anything but. A scarlet leather Eames lounge chair and stool sat in front of the balcony window, topped with a furry white polar-bear-like throw; alongside was a natty-looking chrome telescope, perfect for star spotting. Despite the modern look and feel, the place was far from cold; the grey and mustard-coloured wool blankets on the arms of the sofa added texture, and the silver candle-lamps in the corners glowed softly. The glass-topped low table, whose legs were fashioned from chunks of girder, was piled with several large black-and-white books on subjects ranging from design to deep-sea fishing.

Three framed black-and-white photos sat on the brick wall in the nook between the log burner and the sofa. One of Wyatt and Sarah on their wedding day, with Sarah grinning like she had won a prize; one of Peter picnicking in the Botanical Gardens with a glass of wine, looking tanned and lovely; and one of Flora on her dad’s boat a couple of years ago, when she was still gangly and less polished, still comfortable in her childish skin, wearing her dad’s fishing hat, beaming proudly and showing off her braces, without the self-consciousness and doubt that now spilled from her. Bea liked the fact that every time she glanced up she saw a picture of the people she loved, placing them firmly in her thoughts. This despite the fact that Wyatt and Sarah seemed to be able to go for weeks, maybe even months, without giving her the slightest consideration, if their appalling record of contact was anything to go by. Except when she was needed, like now.

‘I’ll go grab our drinks. Make yourself comfy.’ Bea smiled at Flora.

‘Thanks, Gran.’

Bea hesitated in the doorway. ‘Flora, one thing: do you have to call me Gran? It makes me sound ancient, can’t you just call me Bea?’

‘Sure.’ Flora nodded. ‘If you want me to.’

‘I do.’

‘Why have you never mentioned that before?’

‘I haven’t had the chance, not with your dad standing feet away, ready to shout down the suggestion, brand it one of my crazy, hippy ideas.’

Flora smiled, knowing this was true and liking the fact that they shared a confidence. It made her feel quite grown-up.

Bea disappeared briefly into the small kitchen and returned with a white laminate tray bearing two white mugs and a plate of pale gold shortbread shot through with scarlet globes; their cherry scent was impossible to ignore. She set the tray on the coffee table.

‘Come and sit down.’ She patted the sofa next to her.

Flora sank down and exhaled. ‘I like this room.’

‘My little haven.’ Bea smiled, holding the mug between her palms. ‘Are you going to try Kim’s shortbread?’

‘No. I’m good.’

Bea noted the way Flora placed her hand on the flat of her stomach as if reminding herself why cakes were not a good idea. She couldn’t remember when her own stomach had last been flat, taut. Not that she was fat, far from it, but her skin seemed to sag and crease with the creep of age, no longer clinging sharply to her muscles; it was more in league with gravity now than it ever had been. ‘Maybe later then.’ She smiled.

Flora rolled her eyes, as if this comment was reminiscent of her mother’s nagging. ‘Maybe.’

Bea sipped her drink. ‘You can stay as long as you like, darling. You know that. As long as Mum and Dad are okay with it.’

Flora nodded. ‘Thanks.’ Her sweet, open smile was familiar to Bea. This was how she pictured her, not the scowling ball of angst she had encountered earlier.

‘I’ll open the skylight in the study, roll out the futon and pop the lamp on. You’ll be snug as a bug in there.’

‘It feels nice here, Gr— Bea. Cosy.’ Flora kicked off her thongs and curled her feet under her on the sofa.

‘Thank you. I like it very much too. Even after twenty years, there’s nothing much I’d want to change.’ Bea smiled as she stared across at the open window onto Reservoir Street. ‘And to think it might never have happened – Pappy and I might have ended up in Mollymook, instead. Miles away.’

‘When Pappy retired, you mean?’

‘That’s right. When your dad was a teenager, Pappy took early retirement and we sold the business, moved down the coast to Mollymook. You’ve not been there, have you?’

Flora shook her head. She hadn’t been told much at all about her dad’s youth.

‘You’d like it, I think – there are whales and dolphins, and a lovely natural rock pool for swimming in called Bogey Hole. We were so excited. It was what we’d been working towards all those years. We couldn’t wait to start living the beach life, playing lots of golf, eating fresh fish every night.’ Bea’s eyes twinkled as the memories flashed through her head. ‘But after about a month, Pappy started getting antsy, couldn’t relax, got bored of all that golf. Truth was, he was a city boy and he needed to get back to the bustle.’

‘But what about you? Didn’t you just want to stay on the beach?’ Flora was curious, having only overheard her parents’ version of events, retold at dinner parties of how her grandparents had retired to the beach and only lasted a few weeks. ‘Threw the towel in,’ her dad had smirked with a shake of his head, as though it was in some way a failure.

‘I just wanted Peter to be happy. The day he gave up the lease on our Mollymook house, he had a spring in his step that I hadn’t seen for a long time. But I remember worrying about where on earth we were going to live. We’d got rid of the house on Melville Terrace by then, so going back to Manly wasn’t an option. But Pappy had it all worked out. He’d never sold this building.’ Bea looked up at the high apex ceiling with its exposed steel beams. ‘It seemed fitting to end up here, where we started, where we met.’

‘That’s so cool!’ Flora stared at her gran with new respect. ‘Making your own home almost from scratch. How would you even know where to start?’

‘It was a great adventure, you’re right, turning this place from offices and warehousing into the apartment. And then setting up the Kitchen...’ Bea took another mouthful of cocoa, enjoying the feeling of the soft, melted marshmallows against the roof of her mouth. ‘You know, a lot of people thought we were mad. Instead of sitting by the water or strolling around a golf course, taking it easy, we were donning bib ’n’ brace overalls and picking up sledgehammers! Maybe we were a bit mad.’ Bea laughed. ‘In fact, there’s no maybe about it!’

‘Why did you guys open the café?’ Flora asked.

There was the smallest flicker to Bea’s eyelids.
Because I wanted to feed people around a table. Cooking for them with love and feeling their gratitude. I thought it might make up for the big, close family I craved.
‘Who doesn’t want to run a café? It’s great fun!’

‘I guess. But it’s hard work...’ Flora blinked, giving Bea the impression that this too had been overhead on one of Wyatt’s rants about the foolish ambitions of his mother, the only woman he knew who
chose
to slog her guts out every day.

‘I think, Flora, that it’s one of life’s great privileges to do something because you want to and not because you have to. Don’t you agree?’

‘I suppose so.’ Flora nodded, not entirely sure she understood. ‘This apartment is awesome, even if it is a bit noisy with the doors open. It’s cool.’

‘Thank you, that’s nice to hear. It’s funny, my gran always seemed so old, even though I knew her when she was much younger than I am now!’ She smiled, picturing her late grandmother back when they all lived in England. ‘She had a little Edwardian house in Surrey, not far from the Epsom Downs—’

‘So you came all the way from Surrey, England to Surry Hills, Australia – neat!’

Bea smiled at her funny, perceptive granddaughter. ‘You couldn’t imagine two more different places, darling!’ She chuckled. ‘Where my gran lived, on the Epsom Downs, was famous for horse-racing. They used to train the horses in the early morning and I used to love watching them galloping through the mist, heads down, steam rising from their bodies. Quite a sight. But I didn’t like my gran’s house so much: it was so old-fashioned, full of tasselled lamps, brass ornaments, chintzy cushions and embroidered pictures of dogs, if you can imagine that! And the whole place smelt of mothballs. I always wanted to fling open the windows, it was stifling.’

‘Sounds gross.’ Flora grinned.

Bea laughed; she liked the girl’s honesty. The two sipped their drinks in amiable silence.

‘It was just different and I believe it came into fashion a while back, all that vintage floral on just about everything, but personally I can think of nothing worse than being one of those women who wear frocks and mackintoshes that coordinate with their bread bins.’

Flora laughed; this sounded like her mother’s friends for a start. ‘Why did your parents leave Surrey and come out here in the first place? I mean, I’m glad you did, but I was just wondering why.’

‘Well, I don’t know how much Dad has told you, but my father was a minister. A man of God, at least that’s what he told everyone.’
‘You will leave and take your shame with you. You are not my daughter...’
His words were still crisp in her mind. ‘He and my mum came to take over the running of a church in Byron Bay, up in northern New South Wales.’

‘But you didn’t stay with them?’

‘No. I didn’t.’ Bea took a deep breath, not able to discuss this today; she needed to change the topic. ‘I’m a bit worried about you, Flora. It
is
lovely to see you, but I’m worried about you. I hated seeing you so upset earlier. Dad said you were having a spot of bother at school. You don’t have to talk to me, of course, but if you want to, then you can. Okay?’

Flora cupped her mug between her palms. ‘Okay. I just didn’t want to be at home...’ She sipped at her drink, using it as a prop to avoid further explanation.

‘Well, I’m glad you thought of coming to me. You look lovely, a bit skinny, but lovely.’

Flora looked up at her gran through her thick lashes. ‘Do you ever wish, Gr— Bea, that you could rewind or fast-forward time?’