Coffee
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There were those four regulars. She presumed they were ‘regulars,’ seeing how they sat at the same table on each visit, the wall lights highlighting them like caricatures in a graphic novel. In quiet, dignified British low-tones they would converse and argue, and occasionally a stifled laugh from the sober one would make her laugh. Turning her head to hide her laugh from the conversation of yesterday, she looked out onto the picturesque street and became lost in thought. From the darkness of the sleepy café the view out the lone rectangular window reminded her of sitting alone in a dark theatre watching the bright scene flickering on the big screen. Across Compton Street she watched a woman scolding a shamefaced little boy, her little sister wailing and stretching skyward for the out of reach chocolate bar.
She scooted the small porcelain cup and saucer aside on her oval cloth-free table and went back to her letter writing. Lighting a cigarette she recounted the conversation of yesterday in sweeping capital letters, small delicate dotted i‘s, blue fine-point ink upon quality Amarillo-white stationary.
She wrote of the introduction to ‘The Four,’ the three of service and the one, Sir Charles, as she called him, a former butler. She had caught herself staring at elder Charles, perhaps because it was his masterful use of his left hand, the other possibly lost in action post-stroke: Juggling the cigarette pack, lighting, stirring tea. Then he caught her staring, their eyes meeting and his Stan Laurel face smiled as he held out the pack offering and she would rise and he would light a match holding it out to her smoke longer than necessary. And in that old face she noticed his sparkling young knowledgeable blue eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled shyly.
‘You’re welcome, young lady,’ he would reply, barely audible and a little shaky.
She reminded him of a hummingbird. Watching her sip coffee from the undersized cup reminded him of looking out the bay window of his solitary London flat two streets away and how from his reading chair where he normally only cried along with the mourning doves he would turn in time to catch a glimpse of the fleeting purple and gold creature moving stealthily, tasting sugar water from the hanging cylinder and then vanishing.
A simple gift of joy just for a little while.
She wrote of the simple order of coffee setting things in motion.
The waiter had inquired crème or milk, and she decisively chose milk. That caught the attention of the table of butlers.
‘Oh, no, young lady, crème would give you the finest cup,’ said Mr. Somerset, the fat of his neck spilling over his collar.
‘By no means, Somerset!’ cried Mr. Stevens, ‘room temperature milk, like the lady ordered!’
‘Mr. Stevens is quite right,’ agreed Mr. Bentley, ‘like I used to serve the Colonel,’ his voice fading away quickly in bitter thoughts.
But Sir Charles was silent and she noticed his embarrassment when the other three turned to him for defense. He was looking at her eyes thinking of better days and thinking of coffee swimming in clear white milk.
‘As you can see, young lady, we are experts,’ Mr. Somerset chuckled. He rose almost painfully and called out each name that first day with deep respect, and she responded rising and shaking hands with the well-dressed gentlemen, firm grips like comrades receiving awards of valor, and thoughtfully changing to her left hand as she greeted Charles.
‘But you really should’ve tried it with crème,’ was Somerset’s parting shot, and she was greatly entertained by the quiet argument that continued.
They were there too on the evening of the third day, arguing about some horse and buggy topic, when she returned briefly from the set for a sandwich of stale bread and tea. The café smelt more wonderful in the after hours, she thought. Conflicting but pleasing aromas of roasting coffee and food drifting from the kitchen. Her long hair was pulled back and her face transformed, the eyebrows and lids darkened and accented on a face of white. The men were aghast at her metamorphosis.
‘I’m an actor,’ she answered to Bentley’s polite inquiry.
‘A lady of the theatre,’ he unnecessarily explained to his comrades.
‘Oh, no. Pictures. I make pictures. You’ve heard of Scorsese?’
Somerset turned and broke the dumbfounded silence. ‘Scorchessie?’
‘No,’ she laughed, ‘Scorsese.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘The director.’
‘Scorchchessie?’
‘Score,’ she said, holding one finger up like a school marm. ‘Seh,’ two fingers, ‘Zee,’ with the third finger.
‘I knew the Chesleys well,’ Stevens began, ‘but I would never place them anywhere near a theatre, I‘m afraid.’
‘Ah, Stevens, I remember them too,’ Bentley added shaking his head. ‘Paid their servants too low a wage, I’m afraid.’
Sir Charles only could smile at Winona and she smiled back, the blush in her cheeks hidden.
‘Good evening, Sir Charles.’
When the old man rose half way she gently pushed him down and kissed his cheek with a brief tenderness as though they had known each other a lifetime.
‘I must be off, gentlemen,’ she said breathlessly as she exited stage left, making a grand sweeping gesture with the remnants of the sandwich in her right hand. They applauded politely, and were silent afterwards thinking about the girl. Stevens lit a cigarette, watching the smoke rise without interruption as he tried to remember that picture director’s name. Bentley carefully folded his paper and held his cup of tea without drinking, thinking of a beautiful woman reclining in a lush green meadow. Somerset ate heartily knowing he could not get this fine a meal at home. Sir Charles went to the window just as the lamp posts sparked to life in the twilight. He missed her sadly already, but smiled as he remembered the joyous laughter from her and his friends when he had suggested she finish her letter with …“p.s. The Butler Did It!”
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