by J. Levy
*
Jezzy
Jezzy had rented a little flat on the top floor of a yellow house in Brunswick Square on the Brighton seafront. From her tiny bedroom window, if she bent forward slightly beneath the eaves, she could see the sea and hear the seagulls, every glance and sound making her feel clean and fresh and hopeful. This was the sight and sound to which she awoke every morning and every morning she felt glee in her heart. She also felt as though she might be living somewhat of a Mills & Boon existence, but she didn’t care, the sky was bright, her mind was free and possibilities seemed endless.
She took long, bracing walks along the seafront promenade with the wind lashing at her face and her hair swirling around her like a dervish and sometimes she just sat on the small, smooth rocks looking out to sea, unaware of how long she was there, but feeling safe surrounded by the pebbles of Brighton Beach. After a while, when she felt as if she were ready and her mind tangle free, she tried out a variety of temporary jobs; selling fat, fluffy chips on the pier, serving never ending, three hour long suppers in the dining room at The Grand Hotel; icing cupcakes in a small, hot bakery at the back of The Lanes. Every job seemed to involve food, which gave Jezzy the idea of opening up her own café, a little space was all she needed and she would not only serve food, but offer comfort, a rest stop for the world weary and mild of heart; a twenty minute juncture within one’s day; a point of relaxation in which to gather your thoughts and smooth out your soul; therapeutic snacks.
She had some savings in the building society and after a positive meeting with a narrow-moustached bank manager, who had a voice that if drawn, would look like a thin scrawl, managed to acquire the rest of the money in the form of her very first loan.
A five year lease in a space not much bigger than a pigeon hole followed, along with a team of three Eastern European guys, maybe straight off the boat, but nevertheless willing to work hard for what was possibly their first English work experience. The foreman, Ivan, was strangely kind and honest. His shoulders were huge, his clothes dull and paint-spattered and his English was minimal, but through drawings and mesmerizing eye contact, he gave Jezzy exactly what she needed and so therefore, a few weeks later, before her very eyes, a perfect café which she had named: There and Back. With its green walls, the shade of an oak tree in summer, lavender fake hydrangeas in glass bowls filled with shiny, purple marbles and golden wooden tables and chairs, comfortable enough for a twenty or thirty minute respite, There and Back made a warm, welcome necessity in the glorious seaside town of Brighton. At the back was a kitchen that, to Jezzy, was a work of art, with its gleaming double stove, enormous stainless steel fridge and sleek, deep storage. The minimalistic simplicity that contained everything she needed made Jezzy’s heart sing and for this, she loved Ivan. As she watched his broad figure walk away from the refuge he had created for her, she was sorry to see him go. He turned and waved, his eyes reaching into hers and she smiled, with the feeling that this would not be the last time they saw each other.
For her team of staff, Jezzy employed the otherwise unemployable. An elderly man called Ned, with a few tufty chin hairs and terrible gout, washed the pots and emptied the bins.
Helga worked as a waitress every afternoon between lessons at day and night college. By the time she had reached her late thirties, the confrontational Helga, who had spent years trying to pursue her dream of becoming an actress, had realised there were so many people she wanted to sue but could not afford a lawyer, so she decided to get her law degree as quickly as possible, and despite her innocuously vacant mind, an outer shell to the sharp mentality beneath, her enthusiasm and willingness to work was as infectious as her dimpled smile. When she would finally be able to work as a lawyer, Helga would be a paradox to any opposition with her ability to throw anybody off guard.
Trudi and Beth were the Saturday and Sunday girls, working from breakfast to supper with grace and charm rarely seen in teenagers. And then there was Fay. Solid, reliable Fay, with her soft, downy furrowed cheeks, wisps of fine, grey hair and choice of two skirts, one black with intermittent red and green polka dots, the other plain brown flannel, the scent of violets wafting around her all day. Fay helped Jezzy to cook incredible, mouth-watering, irresistible snacks and gave the customers unexpected warmth. Unexpected, due to the fact that she had spent her life, up until now, living in seclusion in a bedsit in a back street in Hove. She had previously had no social skills, which was why she had never really held a job, but Jezzy found her name scrawled on the back of an old Donald McGee postcard in the dusty corner of the window in the local post office, offering help, and something about the aged hand written card that was by now, brown and curling at the edges, had made Jezzy want to contact Fay, which thankfully, had turned out to be a good thing, because inside the outer shell was a deft cook and a warm soul, which Jezzy’s belief in Fay had released.
Merrily completed the bunch. A stick thin girl, from a children’s home in Worthing, she cleared the dishes and took orders and made the tea. Merrily had jet black frizzy hair, which she wore in tiny, twisted braids and a cotton pinny over her baggy dress. This was her first job and, she told Jezzy, the only job she could ever possibly want. They were like an oddly mismatched family, but every customer was made welcome and There and Back quickly became a staple of Brighton life.
Jezzy was making sandwiches and Merrily was serving tea when two elderly ladies entered the café. One was tall and broad wearing a thick black coat with bits of fluff on it and a crimson and ochre silk scarf at her neck. The other was short and stout, like a pug in a summer frock, surrounded by the scent of faded bluebells and aged roses. They sat down heavily at a table by the window, as if carrying their life experiences around their girth.
‘The soup is quite nice in the other place, but so salty, I had it twice and nearly died,’ complained the smaller of the two, as she smoothed down the nylon collar of her clover pink and lemon yellow dress and pushed the salt pot to the far edge of the table.
‘You have to tell them,’ stated her friend with a strong Austrian accent.
‘I don’t think I could.’
‘You should though.’
‘No. I like it here,’ she shrugged, ‘this place feels friendly.’
A thin, spindly lady of about fifty five twirled into the café, a shrill, expectant look about her. ‘I’m looking for a group I have lost!’ she cried out no one in particular.
‘A whole group of people?’ enquired the large lady of Viennese extraction, with an acerbic edge.
‘Yes!’
‘That is a very careless thing to do, wouldn’t you say, to lose an entire group?’
‘They’re all so smart you know, none of them are exactly shabby!’ exclaimed the owner of the lost group, twirling out of the café on a breeze of her own volition.
Jezzy devoted herself entirely to her café, relishing her life in Brighton. The sea was her solace and her early morning walks along the promenade, sometimes before sunrise, made her heart sing just a little louder.
She never found out what happened to Adrian and only ever rarely wondered about him. His body hadn’t been found, so it remains a possibility that The Thames carried him along its entire length, spewing him out at Tilbury docks and south along the coastline, eventually floating west and that one fine morning, as Jezzy strolled the Brighton Promenade, Adrian’s swollen body slipped right past her, beneath the pier, beyond the pebbles, on its way to the open seas.
*
Frankie
Deep within an unusually warm night, in a country cottage hospital, Frankie cried out with the strange sensation of torrid pain that flowed into ecstasy as she gave birth to her son.
Gazing upon the screwed up, red-faced, screaming creature nuzzling into her body, she decided to call him Steven and felt as if her heart was beating properly for the very first time.
*
Devon
On the warmed terrace, the sun sifted easily through the clouds like a scoop of icing sugar f
loating through a sieve. In a city of forceful elements, the ubiquitous sun was the most welcome one, the San Andreas fault running through the terrain like an uneasy starlet not knowing which way to turn in order to get the prize; the talent hold; the contract; to be the next Big Thing. If the starlet did not get her dream she would be left with a broken soul. If Mother Nature was spurned, she would take out her rage upon the earth, breaking the core and shifting its plates.
A canopy of bougainvillea, tissue-paper fuschia petals vivid against the contrasting sky, snaked their way across the apricot stone of the terrace, creating a perfect backdrop for Devon. A jug of peppermint iced tea was on the marble table that had been carved from a slab sent back from a trip long ago in the hills of Umbria, where marble and granite is quarried beneath the glow of the Apuan mountains. Lifting a tall, fluted edged glass, clinking ice cubes the only sound to be heard deep in the canyon above Sunset, her thoughts sauntered back to that time in Italy with Adrian and the lazy summer they spent there in the early 90’s. Days spent lounging on the terrace bathed in the slow, summer heat, strolling through the town, at every opportunity sipping cappuccinos and eating formaggio focaccia, with cheese that slowly slipped from the bread, easing its way down their sun tinged chins. Times that seemingly took place lifetimes ago. And now, he was gone. Lost. Like Manny. And Mary.
And now Devon was alone.
Having been caged within herself for so long, she now felt as if she were losing herself completely, or was she finding herself at last, her mind suddenly seeping from the confines of its self-inflicted jail? Life had been an eternal puzzle and despite finding the four corners, Adrian, Mary, Manny and possibly herself, there had always been pieces missing. Completion had never seemed to be an option.
Very slightly, almost as dismissive as a hush in the moonlight, somewhere deep beneath the terrace, the house on the hill, inside the hill itself, the earth murmured.
Richter’s needle repositioned itself, twinned with a move strangely concurrent with strange, new stirrings inside of Devon.
*
Devon
Hours later, the house locked and bolted in the soft, mild heat of the night, a taxi dropped off a passenger at LAX. Carrying no more than a large black Prada bag, Devon reached for her Blackberry and punched out an e mail to Dorothy. It read: Taking a year out to work on subject matter for my next book, possibly a thriller. Will be unreachable. Temporarily.
Devon had yet to find out the pieces of this puzzle that remained unfinished.
Mary was somewhere out there.
Adrian’s disappearance needed an explanation.
Manny had left life on earth.
Some things she knew, others she didn’t. Not yet.
All it would take was time.
Devon lingered in the terminal at LAX, her topaz eyes glinting as she examined the departures board, contemplating her next move.
*****