Breakfast for one

Steam from the urn condensed on the big window facing the high street. Droplets collected and ran down in streaks, coalescing into pools on the rotting wood of the sill. The Cheese Plant’s leaves drooped in submission by the door, it’s pot well fertilised with abandoned tab ends.

A mug of tea (blue and cream stripes, milk and two sugars) sat on the scarred Formica surface of Derek’s table. He always sought this table in the window, away from the door. On a different day it would be bright with sunlight, but not today.

The years had borne down with their inexorable weight. He had been a big man, once, in a life which now seemed as distant as China. But now he slumped, a shrunken mass, merely the sum of the remnants of the life he’d lived, sagging under his shapeless cap and greasy coat.

Dull brown eyes peered myopically at the steaming tea through a thicket of untamed eyebrows. He’d have done the crossword, years gone by, sat in this corner by the window. But like many of life’s little pleasures it had palled with time. He’d stopped after asking the empty chair across from him once too often ‘Another word for…..in eight letters.’ Resigned that he’d never get a reply. Now there was just steam and tea and the clatter of cutlery.

Dolly shimmied between the tables and dropped a plate in front of him. ‘There you go luv. Bacon, egg, beans and two toast. Getcha anything else?’ She drawled like a film star smoking a cigarette, despite the pink pinny and hairnet. ‘Brown sauce?’

He shook his head slightly.

‘Ok, luv. Give me a wave if you want your tea topping up.’ She turned back to the counter, clearing mugs from a table as she passed in another efficient balletic motion. The door rattled as a customer left, a gust of rain filled air forcing pushing in around them.

The plate was chipped, the cutlery apparently the property of HMP. The bacon was crisp and the yolk was golden and runny. She knew how he liked it. Large hands with work roughened fingers grasped the knife and fork almost daintily, peeling off the napkin they’d been presented with. Toast was swept around the plate, yolk and beans mopped up with equal determination, until only the faintest hint of red and yellow smears remained. Tea washed down a few remaining crumbs.

He slowly regarded the empty chair opposite him. Once there’d have been a flower in a jar, by the salt and pepper. Back when it had felt as though the sun always shone. He sighed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Don’t be gettin’ maudlin now, you great fool.’ He thought to himself.

Over his shoulder tea poured from the huge aluminium teapot Dolly wielded, wrists like a wrestler, muscles bunching. ‘There you go. And there’s some milk.’ She span back into motion like vaguely remembered dance steps, to unheard music of her own. Unlike Derek, she lived her days under the warmth of recollected sunlight, harvested and stored away from happier times.

Mug. Steam. A splash of tea on the Formica edged it’s way to the table’s edge. Derek intercepted it with his napkin, folding it to use as a coaster. He bent forward over the mug, hiding his face from view, memories playing over it like a worn out news reel. Still vivid. Still welcome, however bittersweet, despite colours now faded to the sepia of memory.

Dolly appeared at his shoulder, for once hands unencumbered with the tools of her trade, tea-towel tucked in at her waist, cloth in the pocket of her pinny. ‘I know luv. I miss her summing terrible too.’ The hand on his shoulder rested just a moment longer. His hand rose and placed it over hers, savouring this scrap of comfort.