The Second Chance Café

by Amanda Prowse

  Tait was about to respond when out of the corner of his eye he spotted Wyatt striding up the hill with Flora following closely behind. Her thick shock of auburn hair made her instantly recognisable.

  A minute later, Wyatt swept through the door. ‘Is Mum here?’

  ‘Sure.’ Tait pointed his thumb towards the kitchen. ‘She’s out back.’

  ‘Hi, Tait.’ Flora’s voice caught in her throat. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.

  ‘You okay, Little Klitschko?’ he whispered.

  Flora gave the briefest nod and followed her dad into the kitchen, rushing through the swing doors.

  ‘Wyatt! What on earth...?’ Bea looked up from the counter-top and wiped her floury hands on her pinny. ‘Flora? What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, Gran!’ Flora fell into Bea’s arms.

  ‘Sorry to barge in like this, Mum.’ Wyatt glanced at Kim, not wanting to give details in front of this stranger and especially not with everyone in the café poised to listen.

  ‘Can you hold the fort here, Kim?’ Bea asked over her granddaughter’s shoulder.

  ‘Sure.’ Kim nodded, trying not to stare at the trio, who all stood there awkwardly, emotion tumbling from them in waves. It made her sad to see Flora so tearful.

  ‘Let’s get you upstairs,’ Bea cooed. She released her granddaughter, ran her hands under the hot tap and trod the stairs to her apartment. ‘Wyatt, can you put the kettle on?’

  Flora dumped her bag on the sitting room floor and flopped down on the sofa.

  Bea stood watching her cry for a few moments then walked over to the balcony doors and threw them open, hoping a breeze would whip round the room and take the edge off the frayed tempers. ‘Flora, what’s all this about? What happened? You seemed quite sparky when you left here yesterday.’

  ‘I’m sure she was,’ Wyatt interjected, walking past his mum so that they both stood facing Flora on the sofa. ‘Are you going to tell your gran what you’ve been up to?’ His tone was level, stern.

  Flora shrugged, her face sullen, and looked at the floor.

  Wyatt sighed. ‘After you called and I set off to pick her up last night, Sarah decided to freshen up her room, change her bed linen and make it nice.’ He paused. ‘Under her bed she found a carrier bag full of make-up.’

  ‘She can wear a little make-up, can’t she, love? I mean, she’s nearly fourteen,’ Bea said soothingly, wondering what the fuss was about and thinking how hard it must be for a dad to recognise that his little girl was growing up.

  ‘She’s had her own make-up since she was little; we’ve always let her experiment, you know that. But this was a bit different. It wasn’t the usual bits she gets from the store, it was expensive brands, all wrapped and sealed. Stolen.’

  ‘Stolen?’ Bea looked at Flora.

  ‘It wasn’t me! I didn’t steal it. I told you, I was just looking after it!’ Flora banged the sofa with tightly clenched fists and shouted, as though extra volume might give her case added weight.

  ‘Who stole it then?’ Bea asked.

  Flora shrugged.

  ‘Flora, whoever you’re covering for would most definitely not cover for you. No one with any decency would have asked you to look after stolen goods. That’s a fact.’ Bea sighed. Bloody Lori big boobs, no doubt.

  ‘I’m not going back with Dad, no way!’ Flora shouted.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Bea patted the air. ‘Let’s keep calm and find a solution.’

  ‘There is no solution. They don’t even listen to me. I fucking hate them!’ she shouted towards her dad.

  Bea gasped and Wyatt visibly flinched.

  ‘You cannot speak like that! I won’t have it, not under my roof and certainly not to your dad. Do you understand me?’ Bea was as stern as she could manage, but she was on the verge of tears herself. She was dismayed to see the transformation of her sweet girl into someone quite unrecognisable.

  ‘This is what we have to put up with.’ Wyatt held his palm up towards his daughter and spoke to Bea as though Flora wasn’t there.

  ‘Why don’t you just go then!’ Flora screamed through her tears. ‘I hate you!’

  Wyatt stared at his mum. ‘Do you think I should go? I don’t want to abandon her and I don’t want it to become your problem, but nor do I want her to get more agitated. I don’t know what’s best.’ He kept his level tone, despite his unease.

  Bea raised her arms and let them fall, equally at a loss. ‘I really don’t know what to suggest.’ She chewed her lip and stared at her granddaughter, who had curled into a foetal position on the sofa. ‘Maybe you should go, let things calm down a bit, and I’ll call you later?’

  Wyatt nodded. ‘I’m going, Flora. I’ll speak to you later.’ He bent down and tried to stroke away the hair that had fallen in a curtain over her face. She didn’t react, kept her eyes firmly closed.

  Bea watched Wyatt walk down Reservoir Street towards his car, chatting on his phone, no doubt filling Sarah in on the latest developments. He cut a forlorn figure and she felt anger flare on his behalf. She loved her granddaughter, of course, but causing her son this level of upset was unacceptable.

  Bea took a seat at the end of the sofa and waited for her granddaughter’s anger to dissipate, hoping the stillness of the room might bring a sense of calm.

  If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

  Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

  Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

  And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise...

  As she sat, she repeated the lines in her head, over and over, hearing his voice still. It was her poem for troubled times, a poem from when she was young – a bit older than Flora but just as much at odds with the world. Maybe Flora would find it reassuring too.

  Bea remembered the perfect quiet of the night she’d first heard those lines as if it were yesterday. They were on a boat, bobbing on the ocean, the deck rough beneath their outstretched legs as they’d stared up at the fading stars and then, later, at the purple dawn, which had crept in to steal away the night. It was the night she met her love; her parents and the other passengers had retreated below deck, leaving the two of them there in the half light. Sneaking the opportunity, she’d rested her head on his shoulder and with her eyes closed she’d listened as he’d recited his favourite poetry, his voice cutting through the darkness. ‘If you can wait and not be tired by waiting...’ Oh, thought Bea resignedly, that should be the line to go on my headstone.

  It was half an hour before Flora looked up, flipping her hair over her shoulder and propping herself up into a semi-seated position. Her body language was softer, her voice steady. ‘I didn’t steal it.’

  Bea noted her bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks. ‘I believe you. But you did know it was stolen?’

  Flora nodded.

  ‘Right. I have to say that at this very moment I’m more upset at how you spoke to your dad than a bag of bloody make-up.’

  ‘They wouldn’t let me talk. I tried to tell them it wasn’t me, but they just kept saying if it wasn’t me then I had to say who had done it and that they were going to the police, and if they did that...’ Her chest heaved again. She closed her eyes.

  ‘They won’t do that, Flora,’ Bea said, hoping she spoke the truth. ‘Try and take deep breaths and keep calm.’

  ‘I hate them!’ she muttered.

  ‘No you don’t, love. Trust me. They would be so upset to hear you say that. Did you see your dad’s face? He was so shocked, and I can understand why. It really isn’t any way to talk to or about your parents.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Flora shook her head.

  ‘Well, tell me then, give me all the missing pieces. I’m not getting any more involved if I don’t know what I’m getting involved in.’

  Flora sighed. ‘There’s this club.’

  ‘A nightclub?’ Bea ventured, wondering if this had something to do with Flora’s night on the beach.

  ‘No!’ Flora gave a small hicc
upping laugh. ‘It’s just a thing at school where people do dares and stuff.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  Flora gave her usual shrug. ‘I don’t know, things like hiding behind the wall and shouting things out.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Things like... fuck off.’ Flora’s cheeks flared at having said the word twice within the last hour.

  ‘Oh my goodness, Flora! Why would you think that’s a good idea?’

  Flora kept her eyes downcast and shrugged again. ‘I hate being in Year 8! Maisie moved away.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Bea pictured the sweet girl, a neighbour who’d been a constant in Flora’s life since kindergarten, always there at her parties and in stories about what she’d been up to.

  ‘Her dad got a job in Darwin.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘I do,’ Flora whispered. ‘I don’t have any friends and then Lori and Katie said I could hang out with them, but I had to do the dares and then the whole thing with Marcus happened and I don’t want to go back to school after Christmas. I don’t.’

  Bea gathered her granddaughter into her arms and held her tightly. ‘You’ve got yourself into a bit of a pickle, but it will all work out, you wait and see.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bea.’ Flora whispered her apology.

  ‘What for, darling?’

  ‘For saying “fuck” in front of you, twice.’

  Bea held her granddaughter’s beautiful hair and let it fall through her fingers. ‘Oh, sweet girl, it’s actually three times if we count your apology.’ She kissed Flora’s scalp and smiled at Peter’s picture on the wall. She knew he would be smiling at the terrible farce of it all.

  As Flora slept, exhausted from all the drama, Bea considered the best course of action. She decided she’d call Sarah later, make sure their approaches were in sync; the last thing they wanted was to present a fractured front. She pondered the complex relationships within families, recalled the evening well over a decade ago when Wyatt had marched her from the kitchen, saying eagerly, ‘Come on, Mum!’ as he held her hand and led her to the dining room table to be introduced to his new friend Sarah.

  When it got to dessert, Bea had brought in her famous chocolate mousse with pride, holding the bowl high, knowing it was Wyatt’s favourite.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ Peter had laughed. ‘The pièce de resistance, and entirely meat-free, as far as I’m aware!’

  Sarah had given him a sideways glance and kept quiet, unwilling to be subjected to any more ribbing. Earlier, while Peter had been carving the roast beef, she’d told them that she was a pescatarian, and Peter had been genuinely bemused. ‘What’s that?’ he’d asked. ‘Does it come after Gemini?’

  ‘So, what are your plans, Sarah?’ Bea tried to engage the girl as she set the mousse down on the table. ‘Wyatt tells me you studied history.’

  ‘Yes, I did, but I’m not working right now.’

  ‘What would you like to do?’ Bea asked keenly, trying to show interest in the guest who had uttered barely more than a few syllables during the entire evening.

  ‘I don’t know really, possibly work in a gallery or museum, but I’m not sure. I’m waiting for the right opportunity; I don’t want to get stuck in any old job. My mother says it’s better to hold out for my dream than get trapped in something that isn’t going to make me happy.’

  ‘No, quite.’ Bea swallowed the many phrases that spun through her head. How will you know when your dream comes along if you have no idea what you’re bloody waiting for? And I’d say to your mother that it’s better that you do something, anything, rather than sit around and expect Wyatt to provide for you. Show some backbone, have some pride!

  ‘Before you serve the pud, Mum, there’s something I’d like to say.’

  Peter flashed his wife a look; she kept her eyes fixed on her son.

  Wyatt reached out and took Sarah’s tiny hand into his. ‘Wow, well, where to begin?’

  Bea considered shouting out, feigning cramp or knocking the dessert on to the floor, causing a diversion in any way she could, in the faint hope that she could create enough of a distraction for the whole thing to be forgotten. Knowing this was extremely unlikely, she braced herself for what was coming next.

  Wyatt picked up his glass and exhaled. ‘The thing is, I’ve asked Sarah to marry me and I’m delighted to say that she’s said yes!’

  Peter rose from the table and clapped his hands together. ‘Bravo! Bravo, Wyatt! That’s wonderful. I think I might have a couple of bottles of fizz chilling somewhere – this calls for a celebration!’ He winked at his wife and gently squeezed her shoulder as he ambled from the room.

  Bea was aware that her smile was a little fixed and her reaction delayed. Sarah was so very far from what she had in her mind when she considered a bride for her son; it was all she could do not to scream. But Peter had predicted it, before they’d even arrived.

  ‘She could be the one,’ he’d said, smiling, and had promptly stashed two bottles of fizz in the fridge just in case.

  ‘Oh, listen to you – the one!’ Bea had retorted. ‘You’re so old-fashioned. And no, I don’t think for a moment that there will be any announcement – he’s only known her for five minutes!’ In truth, she disliked conversations like that and avoided phrases like ‘the one’ and ‘the love of her life’ whenever possible. Even after thirteen years of marriage, it was another face that popped into her head on such occasions, making her feel disloyal and sad in equal measure.

  ‘Well, you can say that, but when you know, you know. Look at me – a confirmed bachelor knocking fifty and in you walked and that was that. I was floored!’

  ‘You were only a bachelor because you were a workaholic and the chances of meeting the one are considerably slimmer when you don’t ever lift your head up from your desk!’

  ‘I beg to differ! It worked for me and I think you’ll find I got you by doing just that!’ Peter chuckled.

  Bea kissed his hand. ‘I got very lucky that day.’

  ‘We both did.’

  ‘But surely Wyatt isn’t thinking along those lines? He’s fresh out of university; he’s too young to be settling down.’

  Peter laughed. ‘When you were his age you already had a son. If anything, he’s lagging behind.’

  ‘Oh God, I know you’re right, but I can’t help it. Whenever I picture him, it’s him when he was little, in his cap and short trousers, waving at the car as we dropped him off at school, with that trying-to-be-brave look on his face, smiling but petrified. I guess I’ll always think of him in that way.’

  ‘It’s understandable. I think all mothers like to feel that they’re needed, even when they’re not.’

  ‘And I’m not, am I?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, my love. But that’s a good thing.’

  Bea smiled, recalling Peter’s words and the knack he had of reassuring her while simultaneously steering her mood.

  She let Flora sleep for an hour, then glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly eleven. ‘Come on, Miss Sleepy Head. I can’t let you mope and sob the day away on the sofa. Why don’t you come and help in the kitchen and then when the lunch rush is over we could go for a wander, maybe take a stroll out to Woolloomooloo or we could go up around by the lido and back down via Mrs Macquarie’s Chair. A good old-fashioned stroll to clear your head and maybe an ice cream on the way back. How about it?’

  Flora sat up, blew her nose and nodded. She felt better already. ‘Yes, please. I’d like that.’

  Tait and Kim were sweet, making a fuss of her and keeping her occupied with chores like napkin folding and spoon polishing, all designed to distract. When lunch service was drawing to an end, Bea and Flora donned their sunnies and hats and set off up Reservoir Street’s steep hill, welcoming the breeze that ruffled the eucalypt trees that lined the route.

  Flora was surprised by her gran’s pace. She was nimble on her feet the way keen walkers are.

  ‘I reckon if I put my Conver
se out by the front door, they could do this route by themselves!’ Bea laughed.

  She stepped to the kerb to let a man in sporty attire pass by. His toddler son sat on his shoulders, stretching up into the dappled light to grab overhead branches, trying to reach at the sky.

  ‘Cheers!’ The man smiled and the little boy squealed.

  His wife jogged up behind them. She was pushing a double stroller with adorable twin girls in matching sunnies and hats strapped into it. ‘Thanks, we’re trying to catch up, but it’s not so easy with this!’ She nodded at the bulky stroller.

  ‘They’re adorable!’ Bea admired the cute little girls.

  ‘Thanks. We’ve another two at school!’

  ‘Oh, you lucky thing!’

  ‘See ya!’ The Lycra-clad woman raced ahead and accelerated up the hill, nearly catching her husband.

  ‘I bet they have a grand old time – imagine the tea table in their house.’ Bea laughed, knowing she would have loved the chaos.

  ‘I wish I had brothers and sisters or cousins,’ Flora said.

  ‘You do? Why’s that, love?’

  ‘Cos then Mum and Dad wouldn’t be so obsessed with me. They’d have to share their nosying around a bit and that would give me a break!’

  ‘There are some advantages, though. You get your mum and dad all to yourself, you don’t have to share them – that’s a nice thing too.’

  ‘Is it? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Your dad was an only child, obviously, so any spare cash I could scrape together went entirely on him.’ Bea remembered getting her first proper pay packet and finally having enough money to get him a new T-shirt and jeans. She’d folded some notes into his palm: ‘A few dollars, love, to get whatever you like!’ It had felt good. ‘I don’t know how I’d have coped with more than one.’

  Flora shrugged. ‘Yeah, but we’ve got the space.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Especially at birthdays and Christmas, wouldn’t it be great to have a whole crowd instead of just us? Y’know, people to play games with or chat to. I’d love that. It’d be like a proper party.’

  Bea thought of Mr Giraldi. ‘It would, love.’