The Christmas Café

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Flora asked again as Bea’s hands fidgeted in her lap and rubbed at her temple.

  Bea chewed her bottom lip with teeth that ground and snapped. She suddenly looked every one of her fifty-three years. ‘I don’t think anyone’s at home, do you?’ she said, gazing at the house. It was as if Flora hadn’t spoken.

  Flora shook her head, wondering how long they would sit and stare. What was the usual time limit in a situation like this and what exactly was her gran hoping for? ‘We’ll wait a bit longer, shall we?’ she whispered.

  Bea recognised the tone that she herself adopted when trying to make things better. ‘I think we should probably go now, Flora. I’ve seen as much as I wanted to. Thank you for coming with me.’ She smiled at her granddaughter, then immediately turned her attention back to the house.

  Bea studied the windows and let her eyes linger over the door. She imagined her lover’s hand on the doorknob, arriving home after a hard day’s work, raising the blinds in the windows, sweeping the driveway, raking leaves, going about the business of life in that house. A life that excluded her. She pictured his wife, Margaret, welcoming their friends and family over the threshold for countless Christmases, arms spread wide on that very driveway, when through all those years the woman leaving footprints in the snow should have been her, creating memories that should have existed inside her head. And for the want of a different moment in time, it would have been. It was hard to accept that after all these years. Seeing the home he shared with another woman left her breathless, sadder than ever.

  Flora tried to think of what to say next, what to suggest that might ease the tension. She was about to speak when suddenly the van in front started its engine and drove off. At the exact same moment, a silver saloon car swung into the road and turned sharply left into a driveway – not just any driveway, but the driveway of the house belonging to Dr J. W. Brodie.

  Bea’s heart raced as she turned the key and pumped the accelerator. The engine whirred but remained flat. Again she twisted the ignition and pumped the pedal. ‘Come on, come on! Bloody car!’ she muttered under her breath, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of her hand in frustration.

  She looked across and could see three heads in the car. Two in the front and one in the back. She had only caught a flash of the driver, but it was unmistakeably a blonde-haired woman. She drew breath sharply and placed a trembling hand at the neck of her blouse, twisting it beneath her fingers. Those people might know him.

  Flora felt her own heart miss a beat and for a second feared that her gran might be having a heart attack. Was the shock too much? But thankfully no, Bea exhaled and placed her hand over her mouth as her tears pooled. Flora handed her a paper napkin from her pocket and watched as she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. She instantly handed her another.

  ‘We’ll get out of here as soon as we can, Flora. The bloody car won’t start!’ Bea tried to keep the edge of panic from her voice.

  Flora nodded and watched as the woman climbed from the driver’s seat. She was in her mid to late thirties, naturally pretty, with strawberry blonde hair that fell to her shoulders.

  Bea felt overwhelmed at the sight of her. She looked so much like Wyatt. There was no question about it: she had to be John’s daughter.

  The silver saloon was a couple of years old and covered in a thin layer of grime. There were a few dents in the boot and a bumper sticker that read ‘Moira’s Taxi’. Bea scanned the vehicle intently, gleaning what clues she could.

  The back door of the car swung open and out lumbered a tall boy in his mid teens, wearing jeans, high-top sneakers and a hoodie. He was preoccupied with the phone in his hand, punching both his thumbs into the keypad. He was broad in the shoulders, with toffee-coloured hair the same as Flora’s and the large aquiline nose of his grandfather. This unexpected revelation was enough to cause fresh tears to spring. Bea turned to Flora, beaming through her tears. ‘That’s your cousin!’ she said, then immediately trained her eyes back on the driveway.

  A few seconds later, she tried the ignition again, forcing the key round until her fingers hurt, trying to apply brute strength in the hope it might make the engine start. ‘Come on! Please!’ She banged the steering wheel once more, but the engine merely wheezed and whirred, giving off an irritating grinding noise as she pumped the clutch and slammed the accelerator.

  The two watched as the boy walked slowly to the back of the car and lifted the tailgate to reveal a mountain of grocery bags. Moira looked up briefly at the noisy Fiat stranded in the road. Bea could only stare back, frozen with fear and fascination.

  And then, before Bea had time to fully prepare herself, a man climbed from the passenger seat. There he was, in full view, standing by the side of the car. Just like that. Dr John Wyatt Brodie, father of her son and the love of her life.

  Bea felt the breath stop in her throat. She would have known him anywhere. She felt the familiar leap of longing deep down in the pit of her stomach, even now, at her age. It was just as it had always been, an unconscious desire, and she felt it as keenly as she had when she’d stood on the ship’s deck in the moonlight all those years ago. They were connected.

  It was well over three decades since she’d seen him last. He had changed, aged of course, but also blossomed in the way that men in their late fifties can, when they finally get comfortable in their skin. He was smaller than Bea remembered, probably about six foot, a couple of inches shorter than Wyatt. Of medium build, not fat but not spare. His close-cropped russet hair was shot through with grey streaks. His skin was pale and clear, his eyes slightly more hooded than she remembered, but still beautiful and blue. He was wearing a white shirt under a navy V-necked sweater, a navy blazer, sand-coloured corduroy trousers and heavy, tan-coloured brogues. He looked smart, like he always had.

  The boy stood by the back of the car, still gripped by his phone and unwilling to be the first to dive in and grab a bag, waiting for his mum to start the process. John walked to the front door and unlocked it, pushing it open with his foot. The boy now reached into the boot, pulled a packet of frozen peas from one of the bags and concealed it behind his back. As his mother bent over to retrieve the groceries, he snuck up and placed the peas against the back of her neck.

  Moira yelped and jumped backwards. ‘You horrid child!’ she squealed as she attempted to grab the bag, which he held above his head and out of her reach. She laughed without restraint, a full, open-mouthed chuckle.

  ‘Grab her arms, Gramps!’ the boy shouted.

  Bea was rapt.

  John smiled at his grandson. ‘No, I can’t reach!’ He laughed. ‘Let’s just get the shopping in, Cal. Your poor mum! It’s cold enough without that.’

  Bea strained to hear his soft Edinburgh accent, a voice that had filtered through her dreams ever since that night some thirty-five years ago. She hardly dared breathe, unable to take her eyes from him. She felt trapped, not wanting to be seen but unwilling to let him out of her sight.

  Flora and Bea were so engrossed in the pantomime unfolding in front of them that they quite forgot they shouldn’t really have been staring at this family going about their business. Suddenly and without warning, Moira, as if aware she was being watched, looked directly at the car and into the face of her father’s former lover. She raised her hand in a wave and nodded her head as if to say, ‘Boys, eh?’

  Bea gave a small wave back. It was a gesture she would replay in her mind countless times, her first interaction with John’s daughter, the little girl who was waiting for her daddy while they had lain entwined on a beach at dawn. This was the little girl Bea had begged him to abandon. She had pleaded and cried until she thought her heart might burst. And he had been just as distraught, tearfully adamant that he would rather be with her than anywhere, that he loved her beyond measure. But on that warm early morning under the rising Antipodean sun, it was not about love. It was about duty. The comfort she had taken over the years from his words, knowing that given the
choice he would have picked her, now left a guilty aftertaste. She hadn’t planned on making contact; this was strange and scary, but also wonderful.

  Moira spoke to her son, who, along with his grandpa, had begun to ferry the grocery bags up the path and into the house. Moira then turned towards the little Fiat and started heading their way.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Bea fumbled with the keys, accidentally pulling them from the ignition before trying to shove them once again into the little slot with trembling fingers.

  ‘Hello!’ Moira waved again as she approached, smiling openly and kindly. She bent down until she was inches from Bea.

  ‘All okay? You ladies look a bit lost!’ She spoke through the gap in the window, which Bea now wound down fully.

  Bea was paralysed; it was left to Flora to say something, anything. Flora leant across. ‘We’re fine, thanks. The car’s overheating or something. It won’t start so we’re just giving it a breather.’

  ‘Oh no! I’m always having trouble with my car, things have a habit of backing into it, which is most unfortunate. The fence post over there and the parking barrier at the supermarket.’ Moira gestured vaguely in the direction of the dented boot of her silver saloon. ‘At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!’

  Bea smiled up at her.

  ‘Have you come far?’

  All the way from Australia, and more than a million miles in my mind, each one leading me back to your father, who I love! Who I have always loved!

  ‘No, just the town centre,’ Flora answered. That wasn’t exactly a lie. ‘We’re staying at The Balmoral.’

  ‘Oh, very nice!’ Moira nodded and turned her head towards her son, who was keeping a watchful eye on the car with the two strangers in it. ‘Callum! Come here.’

  The twist of the boy’s mouth and his sloping shoulders spoke volumes. He had other places to be, other things to do. He reluctantly stepped forward.

  ‘Can you have a look at these ladies’ car, love? It won’t start.’

  ‘Sure. Flip your bonnet,’ he instructed.

  Bea reached down beneath the steering wheel, eventually locating the relevant lever. Flora got out and stood by Callum’s side. Bea could see their teenage tummies through the gap beneath the bonnet. Cousins. In another life those two might have bathed together, eaten ice cream together, side by side on her balcony.

  ‘Are you okay, my love? Would you like a glass of water? You look a little pale. Do you feel okay? My dad’s a doctor. I could go grab him? I know he wouldn’t mind a bit.’ This time Moira was addressing Bea directly; she had no option but to respond.

  She looked up through the window. ‘No! No.’ She tried to keep the edge of panic from her voice. ‘But thank you very much. I’m fine. Just a bit jet-lagged, with the time difference.’ Her voice quivered. Please God, don’t get your dad. He mustn’t see me, he mustn’t.

  ‘Are you from Australia?’

  Bea nodded. ‘Yes, Sydney. Just here for a holiday.’

  ‘You must be mad! Isn’t Sydney hot at this time of year?’

  Bea nodded again.

  ‘And you left that behind for this?’ She waved towards the grey sky, which looked like it was threatening rain.

  ‘It’s beautiful here.’

  ‘Aye, it is that. Let me just get you some water then. I’ll be right back!’

  And then, without a second thought, Moira patted her arm, patted Bea, the woman who had the power to bring sadness and devastation to her parents’ world. The heat where Moira’s fingers had touched her skin lingered like an invisible tattoo. She watched as Moira trotted up the path and into the house. She seemed happy; a happy daughter; a kind, happy woman.

  Bea unclipped her seatbelt and got out of the car. She stood next to Callum, who checked the water reservoir at the side of the engine and proceeded to remove the oily dipstick. ‘Do you have a cloth, a bit of rag, anything I can wipe some oil on?’ he asked gruffly.

  ‘Yup.’ Flora stuck her head back inside the car to find just that.

  Bea and Callum were alone for a few precious seconds.

  ‘Are you a mechanic?’ Bea had no idea why she asked him that.

  ‘No!’ He laughed. ‘I’m only fifteen! But I’ve watched my dad enough times.’

  ‘Oh! Is he a mechanic?’ Bea stuttered the question at speed, feeling her cheeks flush as the breath caught in her throat. She shouldn’t be prying; it wasn’t her place. Each piece of information gleaned felt like something she was stealing from Margaret and that wasn’t fair, she had taken enough from the poor woman.

  ‘Actually, no, my dad’s in the army and my grandad is a medic.’

  ‘Here we go!’ Moira stood next to her and handed her a tall glass of water. ‘Oh look, you’re shaking! Why don’t you sit back in the car? And don’t worry, our Cal will have you going in no time. Won’t you, darlin’?’

  Callum didn’t answer but instead stood staring at the small wad of cotton wool that Flora had handed him from the depths of her rucksack. The item was instantly identifiable by the little piece of string that dangled from it.

  ‘Yuck, gross!’ Callum held it reluctantly in his palm.

  ‘What?’ Flora rolled her eyes. ‘It’s only a bit of cotton wool!’

  Moira laughed into her palm. ‘Oh, crumbs, your face, Cal! I’m afraid, coming from an army family and having only boys, things like that are a little out of our comfort zone! I’m always outnumbered.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I have a boy too.’ This Bea almost whispered. Your brother, Wyatt, who looks just like you.

  Flora held her breath, waiting for her gran to say more, to reveal something that she might live to regret. But she needn’t have worried.

  ‘I’m afraid my granddaughter hasn’t the first clue! Nothing is taboo.’ Bea grinned.

  ‘Oh, I think they’re all like that nowadays,’ Moira said kindly.

  ‘I am here, you know. I can hear you!’ Flora remonstrated, her hands on her hips. She was delighted to have finally found a use for the little piece of cotton wool she had been carrying in her bag for over a year.

  ‘Don’t you have anything else?’ Callum asked, dreading what she might produce.

  ‘No, just use that, it’ll be right!’

  Moira and Flora laughed at the boy’s discomfort. Bea laughed too, but at so much more than just the boy who shied away from a tampon. She laughed at the sight and sound of the four of them standing there together, giggling and joking like they had so many times in her fantasies, related in ways they could not begin to imagine. It was incredible.

  ‘Right, I better get going – I’ve got freezer stuff going off.’ Moira turned to go. ‘I’ll leave you in Callum’s capable hands.’

  ‘No! Wait!’ Bea was aware that she had shouted. All three looked at her. It was a full second of silence before she spoke. ‘You forgot your glass.’ Bea handed it over. I never wanted to hurt you or your mum. Never. I didn’t know about you, not until it was too late. I loved him. I love him still.

  ‘Your oil is a bit low and you need a water top-up, that should fix it. You just flooded the engine and it is very cold.’ Callum tried to sound like he knew what he was talking about. Bea noted his slightly bossy tone and felt sorry for him. He sounded like Flora. The two stood side by side, almost the same height and build, and with the same gloriously thick toffee-coloured hair.

  ‘Righto. And thank you.’ Bea released the supporting arm and let the bonnet slam shut. ‘Thanks for looking at it for us.’

  ‘No bother. Happy Christmas.’ Callum waved as he pulled his phone from his pocket and trod the path towards the front door.

  Bea imagined herself in the kitchen. ‘All okay, Cal? Go and join Gramps in front of the fire.’ She smiled. ‘Yes, Happy Christmas.’

  She turned the key and the engine started. Breathing a long sigh of relief, she looked over towards the golf course and then back at John’s home. It was time to leave this family alone to prepare for their Christmas.

  Flora and B
ea drove in silence, punctuated only by the sound of Bea’s sobbing. Flora reached out and placed a hand on her grandma’s shoulder. ‘That was really weird!’

  Bea nodded. It was.

  ‘I was really nervous. I kept thinking of all the things I mustn’t say and reminding myself not to say them.’ Flora exhaled.

  Bea ignored her granddaughter’s burbled words, too busy processing the thoughts whirring through her brain. ‘I saw him! I actually saw him!’ She placed her hand on her stomach, trying to calm the nerves that threatened to make her vomit.

  Flora nodded. ‘Yes you did.’

  ‘And they were a nice family, weren’t they? Helping Moira with the groceries and being so kind to us. And Callum sorting out the car.’

  ‘Yes.’ Flora too imagined a different life, a life with Callum and Moira and the others in it, more like the sort of family she envied; she would have liked it. Maybe they could have hung out and then she wouldn’t need stupid Lori. ‘It would have been nice if we had a large family, wouldn’t it, Bea? I’d have loved brothers and sisters and aunties and uncles and loads of cousins to mess around with, it would have been cool.’

  ‘Yes, it would.’ Bea swallowed.

  Flora smiled. ‘I didn’t think we’d see them today, did you? Let alone get the chance to talk to them, but we did. I’d say mission accomplished, wouldn’t you?’

  Bea nodded again, suddenly overcome with emotion, leaving her unable to speak. They made the short journey back into town and ditched the car.

  Without pre-planning or discussion, the two walked the length of Princes Street and once again wandered into the gardens that had become a feature of their trip. Flora plonked down on one of the wooden benches that lined the path and sat back in the seat, staring at the sky as she wrapped her arms around her trunk.