Mocha Afternoons

Maddi Hastings

This part of the high street really has a thing for coffee shops. Even the offbrand pub down the street has a Costa license. I take the zebra crossing and head towards the Welsh Street artesian café on the other side; it’s painted a horrible, foreign purple. A queue of customers pools out from the door, leaning on the sculpted fences that leave wet patches on the elbows of their jackets. I pass a couple of houses and end up at Pam’s Cafe, my regular. I usually sit in the back of the café and catch up with the footy scores. Today though, I was just lucky enough to get the last copy of The Star which hadn’t had the bloody inserts nicked from it - all because the alarm clock decided it didn’t want to go off this morning. My watch says it’s a couple of minutes shy of lunchtime, and already both of my lunch-spots are full.

I’m thinking about going home - what else can I do? Go for a pub lunch? I’d rather not. I turn my back on the strip but as I do I notice a tree growing from the exposed side of an old cottage across the street. This tree is adolescent; it’s growing out from a somewhat thick root which escapes from beneath street level. A group of people have gathered outside of the building, and are reading a board pinned to the wall. What the hell - I head towards the entrance where a two-sectioned door lies half open. The colours of the building have come from another era entirely. On the pavement is a chalkboard, with ‘HOME-BREWED TEA, CAKES AND GOODIES…PRICES FROM 85p’ is written in messy capitalised text. Above the door is a faded Beachwood sign that has been chipped and bleached into obscurity by years of exposure. I can just about make out the words ‘Tea House’ from the sign.

A record player greets me as I join a queue of people inside. Its needle skids along a well-worn vinyl disk, following a rocky path as the thin desk it’s on seems to struggle with its own weight. There’s a waft of cold air coming from the ceiling, where a fanlight has been left on. For God’s sake, it’s cold enough outside. I’m waiting in front of a podium where an old phone stands opposite a pile of menus. A faded laminated sign tells me, ‘please wait here to be seated’ in small lower case.

‘Hello? Is anyone here?’ someone from the queue asks.

There’s a border of wood shelves hanging from the top of the walls. It holds a collection of novelty teapots coated in pleasing prints; the collection wraps around the dining hall twice over. Tables that look as if they’ve been taken from various eras and styles of differing shapes are scattered around the room. 88

The slap-dash nature of the place reminds me of home. The group in front of me decide to leave, just as I start to smell burnt eggs. A door slams open, causing the coffee glasses resting on one of the shelving units to shake with anticipation. A voice follows suit, crying out,

‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!’ It’s followed by laughter from where a group of hipsters are sitting. Looks like the owner can’t cook. Wonderful. Hopefully they don’t burn my coffee. ‘We’ve got company, Elly’¬ a woman in a knitted cardi calls out to the kitchen. The smell of burnt cooking oil is being overpowered by a perfume coming from the dining area that smells like water and vaguely floral soap. ‘Do we?’ the kitchen shouts back, I hear something slam down with a ceramic chink, followed by the hurried tapper of high heels. At first, I only see a towering mass of greyed hair that’s whipped into a regal cocoon at the top of her head. Beads and weathered flowers hang from her hairline to her ears. She’s dressed like she’s just walked out of an English Heritage display. She looks over to me, the thick strokes of some sort of make-up marking her cheekbones. She has a face like a Judy puppet that’s trying to smile.

‘Hello there! Table for one?’

‘Sure.’

The stuff I put myself through for a coffee. ‘Is that table okay?’ she asks, looking back over at me, and then at the table. I take my seat and she pushes a menu at me. Her hand is shaking, and with a crooked smile. ‘Here is the menu.’ She pauses, and looks over at the other occupied table as if she were looking for approval.

I look down at the menu; it’s mostly untouched, though the sun’s certainly gotten to it. It’s headlined with text that declares ‘TEA MENU’ caught up with a litany of different brews: Christmas cake and cranberry, pomegranate and dragon fruit, Bakewell tart and blueberry, pansy petals and mango. How the hell do you drink petal-flavoured tea? Do petals have a flavour? Beneath that is a modest list of coffees, branded as fair-trade. ‘I’ll have a mocha.’ I glimpse at the dessert cabinet that is on front of me. ‘Oh, and a slice of sponge too.’

Soon enough the woman comes back, now holding a displaced latte mug resting on an underside saucer. It skips and the murky liquid wobbles intently. The cup spills; I look over to my waitress who looks down and is red with embarrassment.

‘Oh dear, I am so, so sorry!’ She grabs my napkin and starts to dab the folded cloth around the saucer. I don’t know what to even expect anymore. I look at what remains of my drink. A thin, dense slice of expresso topped by a diminishing head of cream. ‘I will get your cake.’ She hurries to the cabinet and quickly pulls off the glass cage keeping the cake fresh, cuts a fat slice and takes a small plate from the lower shelf to plop it onto, then comes back to me.

She hurries back off to the kitchen, probably to make the other women their food. I take the teaspoon set down next to the fork and stir what remains of my mocha. It tastes more like dirty water than actual coffee, with a lump of chocolate powder clotting at the base of the glass. I then cut off the corner of my cake and take it to my mouth. The sponge crunches, and tastes crisp. No, stale. I think I’m going to be sick.

‘Could I have the bill, please?’ I call out, and she returns with a bill of £3.60.

I pay with a fiver, wait for my change - and get the hell out of there. As I walk back home, I feel my pocket for my change so I can check it; I feel an old, round pound coin, and a small octagon piece.

The crazy nutter short-changed me.

II

There’s a strange-looking cabinet at the back of the countertop at the cottage, or to be correct, The Adaline Tea House. The owner informs me of this as I arrive; today she seems a little calmer. She looks less like she belongs in a museum display and more like she’s been picked out from another decade entirely. She is wearing a swing dress, a yellow one with spring flowers printed on. Her hair is tied up into sloppy victory rolls that resemble overcooked sausage rolls. My mother used to wear those.

‘Table for one?’

I’m sitting at a different table today. It’s near the bar. The place has a draught pump, though it doesn’t look like it’s been touched in months, maybe years. The hipster troupe is at their round table, and there’s an occupied table near the back of the room beneath an overcast shadow. The suit is sifting through papers over untouched tea. He was seated by the time I’d arrived, and I’m yet to see him do much of anything aside from turn pages and scribble things down.

‘What can I get you today?’ the owner asks; her wrinkles seem to be quivering. She’s not got her Judy-face on, so maybe it’s cold? A specials board hangs behind her, placed above a gutted fireplace now which I don’t think was there before. The chalk looks fresh.

‘Brunswick…stew?’ I read.

‘Oh, it’s simply deliciousful! It’s my nana’s recipe. I’ll get you some,’ she tells me before hurrying off into the kitchen. I hear sniggering from the other table. I pull a menu from the holder and skim-read through it. At the bottom of the menu two new options have been scrawled on in marker: ‘cinnamon butter’ and ’Chelsea bun’. How you’d manage to cut up a Chelsea bun into tea I’ll never know.

‘Excuse me,’ I ask the table of hipsters.

‘What’s up?’ Cardigan asks me.

‘What’s the tea like here?’

‘Pretty good,’ she says, lifting the cup up at me. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. Isn’t that right guys?’ She looks over to her group who agree on command.

‘Can’t be any worse than the coffee.’ ‘El- no, uh, what’s she calling her self today? Whatever. I don’t think she knows how to work the machine properly.’

‘Oh dear.’

Cardigan smiles and goes back to her group, leaving me to sift through the menu until the owner returns, walking backwards with a bowl rested on a tray.

‘Here we go!’ she chirps as the bowl is set down. ‘Brunswick stew!’ ‘Thanks.’ I search for a spoon, only to realise that the table is pretty much spoon-free. ‘Could I get a spoon?’

‘Oh of course.’

‘And some - dragon fruit and apple tea please?’

I don’t know why I decided I wanted this tea of all things, but out of the specialty stuff it seems the most conventional. She’s hiding behind the counter, sifting through the cabinet, and stopping at a bright pink square and pulling it from the third row down. She seems to be staring at it, not just to check its contents, but like she’s in some sort of confused trance. The group at the table are starting to watch too, and Cardigan’s looking like she might speak up.

She snaps out of it, shaking her head and slamming the jar onto the counter and hurrying over to another cabinet. She takes out a vaguely purple teacup and a white saucer. She sets it down beside the jar, her eyes looking around the top of the room. I’m served a teapot of apple and dragon fruit tea in a contorted pot; its edges are wet and liquid is leaking from the spout and onto the table. The shape of the pot reminds me of an unfinished clay vase with just a spout and handle plopped onto it. The pot’s got town colours painted onto the curves, blue and white.

‘This is one of my favourites,’ she tells me, inviting herself to take a seat opposite me. ‘I make all of my specialty brews myself. I love taking the leaves and the fruits and flavours and making something derightous.’ ‘Oh really’.

Her face lights up. ‘I make teas that are well...’ she looks over to Cardigan, ‘How would you put it?’

‘Unique,’ Cardigan chimes back.

I nod as I sip the tea. The apple tastes crisp and tangy, though the dragon fruit softens it somewhat with a plush aftertaste.

‘What’s a dragon fruit, anyway?’

‘It is a tropical fruit. They grow them in one of the Canary Islands, and they are gorgeous things. They look like beautiful little fireballs.’ She lifts up the lid of the tea pot, motioning me to take a look inside. There’s some sort of sieve- like thing. I lift it out and look inside; bits of yellowy cube and long strands of pink-ish skin are floating amongst green tea. ‘They are not as pretty when they’re dried, but I took the little flaps of skin and the innards, chopped them into teeny little cubes with some apple, and voila!’

She smiles at me; I can see cracks of her lips etched into her lipstick. ‘You are used to just normal tea, I suppose.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about. ‘I am so glad you like it though. I think it is nothing short of perciting!’ She’s looking quite proud of the word she’s invented.

Cardigan, no, Kimbra looks up from her tea and conversation with the others. Yeah, Mari,’ she says. I thought her name was Elly? “‘You should too, I will get you a bag of it if you’d like. Hmm…and a cakey one too. You look like the dessert type. Any simple gentleman such as yourself has to like cake!’ She pauses and then looks directly at me. ‘You are the man from Pam’s. You came in here a week or so ago; it wasn’t raining like today. Anyway, you ordered a mocha and a Victoria sponge. Elly said you didn’t like it very much…I’m so very sorry, that was an old cake!’ 92

I don’t think Elly and this Mari different people. Both Elly and Mari aren’t great waitresses, and I recognise their voice. That’s the same too. Semi-affluent and poised, like some of the other old bags back at the flat. They put on this Queen’s English voice to try for some reason. I’m not too fond of it. They’re also almost as bad as putting on makeup as my granddaughter- both feel the need to cake their faces in the stuff and draw in ‘shadows’ and ‘highlights’ that aren’t actually there. At least ‘Mari’ isn’t trying the Punch-and-Judy look today; I don’t think I could stomach this conversation if she was. Unless the flat upstairs is home to a collective of nutters who play dress up and run a teahouse, how would this Mari-Elly know about me in the first place? Why would she care?

‘Do people come here often?’ I ask in between a teaspoonful of soup and a sip of tea. I should probably slow down a little as these tastes don’t mix.

‘Kimbra and the girls do,’ Mari tells me, ‘and people come for tea sometimes.’ She sighs, and looks over to the man in the suit who has gotten out a packed sandwich. ‘Though it is just me and my staff here. I think I like it that way. Me and my tea. But what’s the point in making so much tea when no one comes for a party? Sometimes I think about getting a bird. I’d keep it in a cage, out of the way from the food, and I would teach it to sing along with my records, that would be nice...’

The man in the suit is now waiting at the bar, an open wallet in one hand and a packed briefcase in another. He’s looking over at us, and is probably getting impatient – how long has he been there anyway? Elly has gone to serve him, walking without the giddy, childish limp.

‘Miss Adeline should be in again in a few days,’ I hear Elly tell him - despite the whispered attempt to keep her voice down. ‘I will tell her you came in.’

He nods, and offers a note as payment before leaving. She seems solemn as she holds the note to the light and stuffs it into an unseen pocket. She looks over to me and puts her smile back on before asking me, ‘Care for another pot, mister?’

III

Mari-Elly’s ringed eyes have lingered in my head. I blame the make-up. She paints herself in such a way that’s perfect for a late-night horror movie. She’s got the eyes of a future killer, or a killer who hasn’t been caught. Maybe she puts the muscles and eyes of her victims in her menu; I like to entertain myself with the thought. When I go through the yellow pages sometimes I trick myself to see those eyes within the text. I used to keep track of all the names in the book, see what comes out most across the volumes. They keep printing them smaller and smaller these last few years, so I had to get a magnifying glass to sift through the words.

I feel like I’ve ran out of days since I stopped buying calendars. I haven’t had a need for them in years. I know my son’s birthday by heart, the day Isabelle left with his kids, the day June died, the important days. When you run out of days, you run out of things to do. When jobs dry up and visits are limited, you can sleep the few years you have left away, or you could spend all day in a flat watching reruns, or you can sit in the porch with the staff and the other residents who all never have anything to say. I’m just grateful they still let me out. Mari-Elly looks around my age, a little younger perhaps; she looks like she’d fit in with dying with the rest of us and yet she’s got a cottage at the end of town, a business, something to work for. Maybe I should dress up in silly costumes and start making weird tea, too.

There’s something about that Kimbra and the troop of colourful friends that I just don’t like. For a bunch of twenty-somethings, they sure don’t talk much. Instead, they seem to hang out with each other in the same fashion I’d expect the old bags from the flat to. There’s no chat, no excitement, just a dead, clergy-like formation on a round table with strange types of tea and slices of cake that they “forget” to remind Mari-Elly about when the bill comes.

Today I’m paying for a slice of chocolate fudge cake – my waitress is calling herself Victoria today, and she insisted that she’d made it that morning, and when I said I wasn’t hungry she just got me a slice anyway - and some crunchy nut green tea. Unfortunately, it does not taste like the cereal, but I wouldn’t put it past her to start trying that. She’s gotten a bird cage, which is waiting near the vinyl player. I’m trying to imagine a bird that’ll be as interesting as she is; maybe she can get wigs for the poor bugger too.

‘Mari mentioned getting a bird. She ordered a cage on the internets, built it, and then hasn’t really done much of anything with it,’ she tells me. ‘Last month she wanted a horse, but what sort of tea place has a horse? How ridiculous!’ ‘I think a bird sounds like a better idea.’

‘Maybe she’s ill?’

‘She would call me.’ She tries to force a smile. I hear the needle from the vinyl skip, fall off the disc, and then screech to quiet. ‘I hope she comes soon… she always does. She knows that I only open because of her and her pals.’ Mari-Elly-Vic starts to address me. ‘I have had this house…hmm…since I was married I reckon, and the tea house is all I have. It is all I am! I try and try and try to get people to come. I have the signs, the little business cards-‘ She pulls out a small index card from her breast pocket and passes it to me. It’s a delicate ivory colour, with hand-written cursive like what’s on the chalkboard outside and a hurried drawing of a cup and saucer above some all-capital text that’s too close together to be distinguishable.

‘The best I get is a few people who come in and buy my tea wholesale. I hate to give MY tea to THEM.’ Her voice seems to gravel at the reference, ‘but it is how I stay open.’ She shakes her head, and with wobbly hands she picks up her cup and raises it to her lips. She goes to tip it into her mouth but instead the angle tugs it out of her grasp; the green tea spills into both her lap and her side of the table.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!’ she cries, grabbing a napkin and dabbing the folded paper across the table. Though the hysteria devolves into laughter.

‘Trust me to do that. Anyhow, how’s the tea?’

‘Er, um, it’s something.’

Elly checks the door again, then back to me. ‘I do not see the point in trying with this anymore. Why come to the weird little place at the end of the strip, when that bastard hipster-trap across the street has the tea it makes?’

I try to remember the last time I went to Welsh Street, the artsy-fartsy tea house. It’s the closest thing to a “hipster trap” around here, unless she’s talking about this place. I’ve never had the tea there because it’s a whole load of overpriced nonsense; and I’m not paying £5 a pot for the privilege of their “Locally Sourced Specialties”.

‘You mean Welsh Street?’

‘Yes. I ought to refuse to sell my tea to them. But it is how I stay open.’ Her lip quivers, and the spilt tea that pooled on her lap collapses to the floor like an accident. She doesn’t think to acknowledge this.

I nod at her. ‘Are you okay? You’re shaking.’

She sighs, and cups her forehead with her hand. ‘I wish…I wish…I just wish that people would notice me! Notice my work!’ Tears collect and her mascara starts to pour down her cheeks. I get up and go to comfort her, kneeling at her seat and wrapping my arms around her shoulders. I feel her shiver slightly with each hick of a cry. She starts to make peculiar groaning sounds, and first they’re stifled, tight as if she’s choking tears back. As I rub her back she collapses. Her tears turn to dry heaving, and then to nothing. She pulls herself together, pulls away from me, and shakes her head.

‘I’m sorry about that…’ she murmurs. The Queen’s English has cracked, and what remains is fragile Suffolk drawl. ‘Ah, I’ve got something for you.’

She gets up from her chair, heads over to the counter and begins to search through the different shelves, stopping at a thick rail holding rows of jars and tubs filled with non-descript ingredients, pulling out a handful of spice shakers and liquid bottles. She scurries her way through the workspace in some sort of confused panic. She runs her hand through her hair as she pulls down a couple of additional jars, and a large latte glass. She slams at the glass beneath the coffee machine and tips in several spoonfuls of various flavours, she then punches in a couple of buttons and goes to pull out a saucer and spoon.

She serves me a chocolate-coloured beverage and gives a smile that swells with pride; it offers a mint-choc scent and the milk froth seems to clump at the corners like starch scum.

‘What’s this?’ I ask

‘Something special.’ She tells me as she returns to her seat. I start to stir the drink. It’s quite thick, and as I pull out the spoon, among the liquid that clings to its surface is a browned herb leaf. Fresh mint. I take a sip from the glass, it offers a warm, thick coffee with a chocolatey, minty, no, strawberry aftertaste. I feel something rise up in my throat as I swallow. Mari-Elly-Vic looks up at me. ‘What do you think?’

I take another sip of the drink; another mint leaf slips through that I have to swallow. She’s made me a mint, cinnamon, and strawberry-flavoured mocha, just for me.

‘It’s just a little thank you that Mari, Victoria, and I came up with,’ she tells me as I stir through it again. ‘I’ve never made it for anyone else before, er-‘ ‘Derek.’ I tell her, ‘my name’s Derek.’

V

There’s something familiar about the tenderness of the sky at this time, something calming about the overcast of British weather paired with underlying year-end winds. The mildness of once-summer blues feels right, makes me think that today feels like a mocha afternoon.

It’s especially cold today. Frost has started to cloud up the corners of singleglazed windows, which are popular in this part of town. I’m shivering my way to the cottage at the end of the road, passing the other cafés. Inside, the flourished tables are rammed, with clusters of friendship groups hunched over their oversized teacups filled with what I guess is Mari-Elly-Vic’s tea. I head towards the adolescent tree that’s still struggling against the wall; it’s greyed still to pull away from the base trunk. Next to it, left out on the pavement, is a white cage.

I haven’t got a clue why it’s out there. One of the branches from the tree is poking through into the cage, which is layered with a delicate crust of ice that must have come to form overnight. A layer of uneven newspaper clippings lay down on the floor of the cage, some drenched in moisture that pins it down, though a lot has blown away and scattered across the street.

I look across to the entrance. The entire pavement opposite is bare, the chalkboard is gone and I can’t see the menu that’s usually pinned to the wall.

I look through the window and see the place is vacant, the lights are dimmed, and from what I can see the shelves have been ransacked. The tables have been stacked on top of each other, the chairs are piled up at the back of the room. I feel my hand brush against something damp and laminate. I take a step back and read:

Section 8

Notice Seeking possession of a property-

Tenant: Adaline Odell

Maybe Mari-Elly-Vic’s in the kitchen or something, I tell myself as I go to check the front door. I knock, and wait to be let in. If she’ll let me in. If she’s even here. I knock again, harder this time. I feel the cold around me, my hand seizing up in the cold. I should have worn gloves. I should have come earlier. I should have done something.

I look back over to Pam’s Café and see someone lingering at the door; some staff have gathered at the door of that artisan place too. I knock again. And again. And again. I look through the door’s small window, then up at the windows above it. A curtain has been drawn, and I swear I can see a figure hovering by the window with a phone in hand. It looks down at me, I look back at her. It’s a woman, I’m sure of it, dressed in a nightgown and wearing an offset wig. It’s Mari, or Elly, or Vic, or Adaline, whatever she’s calling herself now.

‘Fancy a cuppa?’ I try to call to her.

Her face hardens, she shakes her head and disappears from the window.