ONE LONG-STEMMED ROSE
They would have been best described as two strangers who simply touched each other in passing, and made a small piece of life memorable, for the right reasons.
It’s 2019, a twilight year, the one before the world runs off its collective rails for a while, and the gods rain down pandemic and putin and other pestilence. But it could just as easily be 1913, or 1938, or 2037. Twilight years are like that. Innocent. Unaware of the changing mood of the gods.
It's one of those strips that head down to the beach, at its end an endless sea, an endless sky. These boulevards are invariably called Jetty Road or Pier Street, where, down on the esplanade corner, there’s a beer-gardened pub on one side, a fish’n’chipper on the other, and a deli nearby, along with bric-a-brac-ers, ice-creameries, coffee shops, people, restive dogs, and racks of bicycles.
‘Café Noir’ is not far from such an esplanade, a ‘themed’ café, as the better ones tend to be, but back just far enough so the sandy feet and bathers brigade don’t mess with the tone. This one has framed clips from the heady Film Noir days of classic black and white celluloid, those deep and dark dramas loaded with atmosphere, of Bogart & Bacall, the young Glenn Ford as the self-righteous cop, Lee Marvin’s perfectly cast thug that could’ve been designed just for him.
Inside, an entire wall is covered with a sepia mural, a collage of sultry sirens, gangsters’ molls, desperate men with unyielding eyes and ‘gats’ cocked. Outside, along the edge of the footpath, are the al fresco tables and, rather than humdrum numbers on sticks, there are prints of old promo posters - “Murder My Sweet”, “Touch Of Evil”, “The Maltese Falcon” – which occasionally have to be replaced, especially when the tourists are in season.
Typically, at those times, ‘Café Noir’ is flush with visitors, but all year round, especially in the mornings, it’s most popular among the older set, those fairly well-heeled retirees who have left their once hackaday workaday life behind, and retreated to these beachside suburbs south of the city. But many are also true born and raised natives, and long ago inherited their ‘Des Res’ real estate, rare beauties from the turn of the century through to the 1920s, grand old homes on original quarter acre blocks, some with their lawn tennis courts still joined at the hip, forever waiting for the return of flivvers, flappers, and cucumber sandwiches.
Each morning at ten past seven, give or take two minutes, just as the place opens to the shuffle and clatter of Marilyn setting up her pride and joy, he sits at ‘his’ table (“The Big Sleep”), as is the way of regulars at any café, where that wonderfully human order of things prevails, of who sits where, an order that’s completely understood and accepted by all, and somewhat inviable.
Marilyn and her blustery style always greet him warmly, but he’s only been a regular for about six months, so she doesn’t yet know his name, as these things take a certain time. He’s about seventy, grey, lean, and slight, but neat and well-ironed. But he’s unnaturally narrow of face, as if recently made gaunt, underscored by a raw scar, a little back from his left eye, an eye never as alert as his right.
One would say he’s a very singular man, but not as in a loner, rather as one who is wrapped in a private sadness, that is of an irreparable loss, the loss of an other half of his being. There is also an air of inevitability about him, like – resignation. And yet, if studied closely, one can see he’s still chasing a measure of control, over life and events, as he has a way of organising his table that’s just a touch short of fussiness, some would even say obsessiveness.
He usually orders toast – two slices – and marmalade, and a cup of flat white coffee, then sits, places his baseball cap to one side, puts his sunglasses on it, then house keys from his hip pocket. When his order arrives, the coffee is moved to top right, his serviette he folds lengthwise and puts it orientated up and down, at near left, then places his two pats of butter on it – top and centre – and the two pats of marmalade under them, knife vertical on the right hand side of his plate. Every time. He then sweetens his coffee – one sachet of Raw Sugar – and stirs it steadily, thoughtfully, eyes looking through it, spreads his toast, cuts both slices diagonally to make four triangles. It’s only after this that he takes his first sip, mostly gazing off over the rim of the cup, out towards the sea, lost in his thoughts.
One morning, she is added to his small life.
She’s also about seventy, neat and casual, shortish hair, but has the ways of one always on her own by choice. She looks like a woman who once revelled in sport, hockey maybe, or swimming, and on the tennis court would surely serve a mean ace, one of those that leaves you flatfooted, pinned to the base-line and feeling like a total amateur.
But she is a lady now not comfortable within her own body, as her bones and joints and tendons are no longer supple, no longer responsive to how she always saw herself. Quick. Athletic. Enduring.
That first morning, she just happens to sit at the next table (“In A Lonely Place”), but not before asking him – as one should - “Does anyone sit here?” – to which he shakes his head, very slightly, with maybe a trace of a polite-only smile - “No, you’ll be okay till half past eight...”, but then the corners of his mouth soften, as if amused at the predictability of café protocol, and he adds – “...maybe eight thirty-seven even.” But he looks a little uncertain when she sits, as she’s facing him across their tables. Between him and the sea.
She smiles. Her smile says – “It’s okay, I understand about privacy...”, but his eyes are now forced to look somewhere else. Somewhere new. He looks uncomfortable. Even irked.
For the first few mornings they respectfully ignore each other, or pretend to, but each seems to be conscious of the fact that they are already – not a couple, but like – joined, joined by routine, even by their separate versions of isolation. It’s their eyes that give them away. Every now and then they meet somewhere in the middle, and flicker, for less than a moment.
The first thing he becomes openly aware of is her table routine, or lack of it, probably because it’s right there in front of him, and so alien to his own. Some mornings she has a cappuccino, some an espresso, or on especially warm mornings an iced latte. And some she sugars and some she doesn’t, as if there is ‘mood’ involved. A whim. And sometimes food arrives - scrambled eggs, a melt, an egg-and-bacon roll, or simply buttered toast - or nothing at all. And things have no particular place on her table, shuffled to left, or right, or simply remaining where they’re set. And sometimes she’ll read (while her food goes cold!), maybe a paperback, maybe a single sheet of paper, even the menu. And she steadfastly continues to sit facing him.
But, after just six mornings, it’s he who breaks the ice, although not by design, but accident.
A fly buzzes him and he gives the air an impatient swipe, knocking over his table marker, and it flops onto his just-spread marmalade. His face clouds over, his fingers tremble, and his instinct is to swear, lose some control, snap ‘You fucking bastard!’, as if this is that One Last Thing. For a man at The Edge.
But their eyes meet, and his jaw simply ... sets. So she smiles, amiably, trying to be disarming.
“Sod’s bloody Law, eh?”, and he takes a measured breath, trembling fingers reaching for the serviette, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to ignore her. But he gives two small snorts, in-out through his nose, and half smiles back.
“I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”
“Ah, aren’t we all”, she replies.
And that’s how it begins.
While neither would ever have consciously thought it, they begin to look for each other in the morning, as if they have become part of their separate routines, those patterns that give our lives that small comfort of predictability. And each morning they seem to take it in turns to open, but nothing complex -
“Morning...”
“Lovely day again...”
- and they both relax, set about looking for a next line. She moves her eyes to his baseball cap, nods at it.
“A cricket fan?”
He looks down at the cap. It’s a buff colour, with a now-faded black peak, and has on it what’s probably meant to be an emblematic oval with four light towers, under it “M C G”, then “The People’s Ground”, and “MELBOURNE CRICKET CLUB”. He touches it.
“Yes, never all that great at it myself, but I like to follow the Tests, and the ODIs...”
“Mmmm, love the One Dayers...”, she puts in, “...specially now the women are getting equal time. More or less.”
“Totally agree...”, but he doesn’t explain, about the cap, that he’s not actually a member, doesn’t say that his wife bought it for him in an Op Shop for a dollar. For his birthday. Their last together. That it’s now one of his most cherished possessions, has even attached a note to his Will, that he’s to go wearing it.
“Did you – play – yourself...?”, he asks, trying to see her in pads, helmet, fat-fingered gloves, but can’t quite make it.
“Not really – tried it a bit – more of a netball tragic.”
“Netball...”, and yes, now that he can visualise. “Did you watch The Diamonds the other night...?”, he offers, wanting to keep the conversation going, “...did quite a job on the English girls...”, and for the first time he smiles properly. But it’s not about the Australian team. It’s simply about conversation, interaction.
“Yeah, never miss a Diamonds match – girls were dynamite.”
He now does something he hasn’t done for a long time. He digs down a little, into his inner self, where intimacy begins.
“Mmmm – you woulda been a...”, and he finds himself wanting this to be a positive, a compliment, “...a Centre – no, Wing Attack!”
She flushes a little, but clearly pleased. “Good pick – yep, Wing Attack. Mostly.”
“Fast on your feet, always one move ahead of what your goalies are thinking...”, and he knows he’s now just showing off a bit.
She smiles, and nods. “You know your netball!”
“We used to...”, but there’s a catch in his voice, as the ‘we’ lets him down, too close to the bone, “... watch every ... game ...”, and he looks away, stirs his coffee, holds the emotion in check.
She stirs as well, wants to say ‘I’m sorry’, but recognises a step too far, and that it’s a point where the fragile thread between them could be broken. So she backs away.
“One of the great stadium sports...”, she offers, without looking up, and waits.
“Yeah...”, and just when she thinks he’s turned away, he adds, “...all over basketball, for watchability, eh?”, and their eyes find each other again.
They become a recognised ‘pair’, the pair who sit there, at that time of the morning, at those tables, facing each other, talking, now staying longer than each used to, to the point where the eight-thirty couple who once sat at ‘her’ table, have shifted.
After a while they exchange first names, and find other mutual interests, in films, novels, architecture, even begin to swap small anecdotes from childhood as their sharing grows, as if their words and feelings steadily pump life, and hope, and anticipation into their bond.
It's the morning that she intends to open the door to something more, and has her line rehearsed, initially about sharing the upcoming Diamonds / Silver Ferns match on TV, but on second thoughts knew that would be too – presumptive. So she’s settled on suggesting a pub lunch. Down on the esplanade. In the Sports Bar.
But he’s not there. Isn’t there the next morning either. And she has an odd sense of loss, finds she can’t concentrate on any part of her day, until she has to know. On the third morning of only the empty table there waiting for her, she lingers at the counter when she orders, catches Marilyn’s eye.
“Um - John – who sits – the man...”, but it’s as if Marilyn has been waiting for her to ask.
“No ... I’m not sure what’s happened to him. We’ve been asking around, but...”, and she makes a gesture, both hands saying ‘I’m sorry’.
For two more mornings she sits at her table, facing his, worried, waiting. But on the following one Marilyn brings her coffee, and sits opposite.
“I – I’m sorry my love, but I heard – the man – your friend who sits – I’m sorry – that body they found, on the beach down south y’know, yesterday early - on the news - well – his next door neighbour was – he said...”, but she can’t find the right way of saying any of it, and seeing the look of loss in the woman’s eyes, Marilyn simply lays her hands on hers, then pats them, waits, then adds -
“The neighbour said – they think – y’know, it was his cancer, it’d gotten away, he’s been – it’s been - and he couldn’t...”, but that’s all she can manage, except – “I’m sorry...”, and pats her hands one more time, and returns inside.
The woman holds in the tears, and the deep ache she feels, hugs them to herself, staring down into her coffee. She stirs it, puts down the teaspoon, then gets up and leaves.
The next morning she comes in at her – at their – usual time, Marilyn rattling cups and chairs about inside as she opens up, regulars arriving, people walking dogs, cyclists and their bike shoes beginning to clik-clak the pavement. But she doesn’t go in and order. She stands for a moment at his table, and lays one long-stemmed red rose across it, then walks away, and never comes back.
Nobody used either of those tables for three whole days, as Marilyn left the rose, just let it lay there. But it wilted, and the petals began to fall away, and then a young couple – new customers – asked can we sit here? - is it reserved? – and Marilyn said no, and picked up the rose, brushed the loose petals aside. But then she paused, took the table’s “The Big Sleep” marker, and swapped it with “Laura”, from mine.
© T. R. Edmonds 2022
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