The cafe with five faces, p.19
The Café with Five Faces, page 19
“I understand,” her friend said with clear empathy, although seemingly devoid of advice, as most people are in such circumstances. “I may talk about Viagra now with what seems like a lot of freedom, but do you think I dared do that when I first started or for a while afterwards? Not a chance! If I felt I was insulting my manhood, what on earth would my work colleagues have said? Mental health and sexual problems are not the best subjects for social chit-chat, as most people still find them embarrassing to talk about or to listen to, but they are both cruelly the subject of mass humour in the third person, from people who either just don’t understand or are possibly covering up their own issues or a fear of inadequacy in their own eyes. The more open we are, the less taboo these topics will become. It’s a small contribution to a long, long journey, but we have to be brave and talk about them.” He laid a consoling hand on Anna’s for a brief moment, given that he had to reach across the table to find it; she returned an equally brief but watery smile and then resumed her study of rug design.
“My father had dementia.” Jimez had been so quiet, the others could have been forgiven for forgetting he was there, but this out-of-the-blue statement, made more to his surprisingly still full glass of wine rather than to the room at large, caused both John-Jeffrey and Anna to divert their attention towards him. “You were talking about mental health and it, well, it made me remember.” He took a napkin from the table and took his turn in drying the corner of his eyes. Anna and John-Jeffrey looked at each other rather guiltily, although they were not to have known what memories their conversation might have stirred, and were clearly lost for words.
“Had?” It was probably twenty seconds before John-Jeffrey managed to produce a word, but it felt like two minutes.
“Not exactly something you recover from, is it?” The reply was a little light-hearted, though the emotion behind it was indisputably not. “He died seven years ago.” There was another lengthy pause. “In some ways, the person I knew died a good while before that.” Anna looked as sincere as she usually did and nodded as sagely as she always did, but said nothing. There isn’t much you can say in response.
John-Jeffrey felt the need to say something, however. “What brought it on?” he asked, although for an illness with few known causes, it was perhaps not the best question.
“Parkinson’s, initially. I remember the moment when I first saw the movement issues, his hands shaking like I’d seen in reports on TV. Oddly enough, I recognised it before anyone else did, including the doctors, but it was soon confirmed. And then, maybe around a year later, his mind started to change.”
“I didn’t know there was a link between Parkinson’s and dementia,” commented John-Jeffrey, as Anna managed nothing more than a nod or three.
“Well, there is, although it can take many years to develop and it doesn’t happen in all cases. In my dad’s case, it all happened quite quickly. I don’t think he helped himself much by post-retirement inertia; everyone needs to keep their bodies working and especially their minds active and if you let that stop, it allows, I don’t know how to express it, weaknesses to take over and illnesses like the dreaded dementia to slowly creep in.”
“Awful.” Anna nodded and found her handkerchief once more.
“One of the worst things about age is losing interest in things,” observed John-Jeffrey, “and perhaps even worse is people losing interest in you, or you thinking people are losing interest in you.”
“It was bad for me, but my mum was, well, had to be a saint. Everyone who has to care for sufferers of almost any serious disease or illness is a hero, but when you have to watch someone you love change personality and start to not even recognise you or remember the person you are and what they are to you, there really are no words to describe the torture and the pain. I was useless, other than just being there physically. I don’t handle illness in other people very well, not even in the very closest of people, and, in this case, I just didn’t know what to say. My own father and I didn’t know what to say. I never lost interest in him, but I wonder what he thought, assuming he was able to think.” His voice started breaking over the final sentences and it’s fair to say lumps in throats numbered more than one in the room.
I could leave a couple of pages blank here to indicate the extent of the silence which followed.
I could, but I won’t. Suffice to say, it was long.
Knowing Jimez mainly from his conversations with Jen, I started to see him in a new light and determined to be a little kinder in future, although I suspected this promise might last as long as an ill-conceived New Year’s resolution. I felt slightly ashamed at this thought. Is it good to know what goes on in people’s lives outside of the context in which you know them, in this case, my café? What people know about you, good or bad, changes their perception of you and this made me consider how I manage my own public face. And why celebrities hire PR moguls to manage their public face. Never judge a book by its cover, we are frequently advised; the question is whether or not you really want to open the book. My mind continued to digress and followed many paths, none of which was positive in direction.
There had been silence in the room for what seemed like an age, although it was almost certainly countable in minutes, or even seconds. I topped up Jimez’s glass, as he had now emptied most of it, poured Anna another cup of Pu-erh and slid out of the room as quietly as my excess weight would allow.
There is always a glimmer of hope somewhere in the gloom, one hopes, such as dreaming of a return to cafés with wonderful views in the height of summer. This one in Vernazza, part of the Cinque Terre in Italy, would be a leading contender.
2018: 35: Granada: The Facebook Syndrome
The street heaters were out in Granada as the year started to draw to a close, which, as far as I’m concerned, happens as soon as the clocks go back and the nights start to draw in alarmingly quickly.
Matthew, Mark and Lois had, I presumed, been working away for a few weeks, so it was nice to see them again one afternoon when the sun and blue skies combined to make sitting outdoors a pleasure, despite the chill in the air. The Hebden Bridge menu was raided for its hot chocolate, a personal favourite of mine as well at this time of year. The gents ordered the milk chocolate version, and Lois the white chocolate; both good choices, as far as I am concerned.
Despite the lack of alcohol, the three of them clinked their mugs together and wished each other good health before sipping the rich, thick liquid and uttering various sounds, collectively interpreted as ‘yummy’.
“This place is like my security blanket,” said Lois serenely, which I took as praise of a quite substantial nature.
Matthew giggled a little, which was rather embarrassing in itself as he did not see himself as a giggler, and then considered the statement. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“I hate to get soppy and sentimental,” Lois continued, a clear indication she was going to do exactly that, “but it’s really good to come back and see you two whingeing gits haven’t changed at all.”
“Awww, you say the nicest things,” said Matthew, around about the same time as Mark uttered, “Charming, it’s great to feel wanted,” under a very loud breath. Both were smiling, though, knowing full well what Lois meant.
“You really appreciate the friends you can actually see and even, if you’re desperate, touch, when most people you know are dotted around the world in this city and that city.” Lois had a lovely knack of blending affectionate compliment and scathing insult in a very matter-of-fact way.
“Ah, the Facebook syndrome,” Mark sighed.
“Yeah, if I actually knew ten per cent of the people whom Facebook list as my friends, I’d consider myself very popular!” Matthew smiled ruefully.
“You invited or accepted them, so you must know who they are!” Lois was wearing one of her mildly despairing looks which were actually quite endearing to the casual observer.
“I suppose I must have done at some point,” Matthew conceded, “but I just don’t always remember when.”
“Old age and alcohol,” muttered Lois.
“What was that?”
“Deafness is another sign,” said Lois into her chocolate.
“Anyway,” said Matthew, deciding that ignoring Lois had more short-term value than teasing out an increase in verbal abuse, “I do know what you mean. When you live in the north of England and half of your closest friends live in a pretty inaccessible place like Minsk, it’s good to have you two to come back and talk to.”
“Gives you some reality,” added Mark. “I mean, I get loads of online abuse, but actually receiving it in person from you two makes it so much more real.” It took a moment or two to work this one out as Mark’s interpretation of friendly teasing as a form of abuse could be just a little over the top.
“Do you ever feel like you’re living two lives?” Lois seemed suddenly thoughtful and, as was her wont, tweaked the topic.
“Well, I’m not a member of that website, what’s it called, ‘Second Life’? If it even still exists. But I spend so much time chatting on Facebook and WhatsApp, I sometimes feel divorced from what’s going on around me.” Mark thought for a moment. “I occasionally have to remind myself that there is a real person somewhere in the world having a real-time conversation with me and yet, I haven’t a clue what they’re doing or even what they look like sometimes.”
“There used to be these things called telephone calls which I believe were quite similar.” Matthew winked at Lois, and Mark emerged from his modern-life-induced trance.
“Yeah, but chatting online just goes on all day, whether you’re resting, working, reading, whatever, and often with several people at the same time.”
“Are your employers aware of this disturbing trait?” Lois enjoyed teasing. Mark thought better of rising to the bait.
“I’ve only ever used Twitter once and that was to comment on sitting in a café watching a family of three having a drink together and not one of them took their eyes off their mobiles for twenty minutes. I remember thinking ‘how sad’, but I have to accept I’m not that dissimilar at times these days.”
“I went to the opera in Yerevan a few years ago,” said Lois, deciding to make a more sensible contribution to the dialogue, “and I still have these images of mobile phone screens lighting up throughout the performance. Some were only texting, although that was bad enough, but some actually took calls! And it was a really good show as well!”
“You’re a fellow non-fan of Twitter then?” Matthew asked Mark, skipping past Lois’s input.
“Never seen the point in it,” agreed Mark. “And it really appals me how respectable media organisations like the BBC quote from it so much.”
“Or how a certain American so-called president governs by it,” added Matthew to widespread groans, assuming two friends and an eavesdropping café owner can be termed ‘widespread’.
“Do you think we sound old?” Lois asked. Matthew and Mark looked at each other and then at Lois before briefly and rather self-consciously laughing.
“Perhaps caught between the age of social media and a previous, better age,” mused Matthew, somewhat proving Lois’s point.
“And trying to find the balance between, or the best of, both worlds,” added Mark, as though the two thoughts were one sentence.
“So here we are, sitting under a street heater, totally sober, drinking hot chocolate and talking as though we’re entering our dotage,” reflected Lois. “It’s a shame I left my knitting at home.”
“I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but I got dumped by a girlfriend once because I couldn’t leave my mobile alone,” confessed Matthew, a little reluctantly.
“And I once dumped a boyfriend for the same reason,” said Lois.
Mark looked at them both suspiciously. “Were you two an item once?”
“No!” Lois was quite emphatic.
“I’m not sure the prospect deserves quite such a forceful reaction,” Matthew responded, looking almost hurt, “but the answer is unequivocally in the negative.” He cast his mind back. “I wasn’t that keen on her, obviously.” Lois wasn’t sure if this made the dumping incident better or worse and decided not to pursue it any further.
“Do you think it’s OK to have two hot chocolates in one afternoon?” Mark had, rather noisily, drained his cup more than once and was still looking for more.
“Don’t know and don’t care,” responded Matthew, “but if that’s a suggestion to have another one, I’m in, although I think I’ll try the white one this time.”
“And I’ll have the milk one,” said Lois, seemingly determined to be different.
As we’re here, a picture from the beautiful city of Granada itself, as these have been sadly lacking to date! And whose fault is that, one might ask?
2018: 36: Hebden Bridge: A Snog and a Pillock
It was an early afternoon after the lunch crowds had departed, although that involves a little wishful thinking on my part, as I could have counted the crowd on the fingers of one hand on that particular damp and chilly autumnal Wednesday. I sauntered into Hebden Bridge and was rather surprised to find two of my leather-effect sofas fully occupied by familiar, if nameless, faces. On one sat Mr and Mrs Regular, still wrapped up in warm clothes and seemingly with no intention of removing them, even though I had turned the heating up only that morning. Just taking their seats at a ninety-degree angle to them, having sensibly disrobed, were Mr and Mrs Tourist, whom I had not seen since our minor altercation earlier in the year.
“Hello one and all,” I greeted them cheerily, and not just because I sensed an increase in the day’s rather poor takings. Although I knew it was scarcely necessary for the regular tea-drinking duo, I left menus on both wooden tables and promised an imminent return.
I was further surprised a couple of minutes later to come back and find the couples talking to each other. I should rephrase that; I found Mr and Mrs Tourist engaged in conversation with Mrs Regular. Mr Regular, based on the evidence of a quick glance and a wild guess on my part, was trying to see if teabags had made it onto my menu while making occasional grunting noises, either to indicate the presence of life or just to acknowledge his wife’s oral contributions, regardless of what they were.
The topic of their conversation was not at all original as I had, with increasing despair, been unable to avoid it, reading about it in my online newspaper, hearing it debated on television shows, even on some semi-decent ones, and, for once, in trying not to listen to customers in my café discussing it. The Strictly Come Dancing snog…
“I don’t know what he was thinking, to be honest,” Mrs Regular was saying. “I mean, she’s a nice-looking lass, but…”
“Married to someone else on the same show,” finished Mrs Tourist.
I decided I could wait another couple of minutes before taking their order and found something else to do. It wasn’t as if the tables would be needed by other customers that afternoon, so I was more than content to let the one-sided storm blow itself out. You may have realised by now that I am just a little nosey, and listening in to other people’s business is something I consider to be one of my duties and responsibilities as a café owner. However, the popular obsession with celebrities and, even worse, minor celebrities, is one I can neither understand nor empathise with, if you’ll forgive the slight tautology.
It appeared this was an opinion Mr Tourist and I shared as, when I ventured back into Hebden Bridge the aforementioned couple of minutes later, the storm had not abated as forecast.
“Look,” the tourist of the male gender was interjecting, “all that happened was two people got drunk and snogged. I know he was going out with someone else and she is married to someone else and the whole thing is a little bit sordid, but it happens all the time, so why on earth does it have to be debated ad nauseam on daytime TV?”
I, for one, had already felt some nausea over the endless recaps of events and consequences, and was in danger of being driven to it again. However, I considered it slightly rude to abandon my customers for a third time, so I decided to busy myself drawing the curtains whilst waiting for an appropriate pause in the proceedings.
“Some people just won’t let it go,” continued Mr Tourist, doing a fair job of exemplifying the problem as he saw it. “I mean, since it happened, the judges have been accused of over-scoring them to keep them safe one week, and then saving them in the dance-off the next week, just to maintain viewer ratings! If there’s one show which doesn’t need help with its ratings, it’s Strictly Come Dancing!”
Mr Tourist’s point elicited a grunt from Mr Regular, be it one of approval or disapproval was anyone’s guess, and prompted a moment of silent reflection in their two spouses. I needed no further encouragement.
“What can I get you today?” I asked quickly and unnecessarily loudly, whilst maintaining a friendly and cheery tone.
“I’ll have a pot of Darjeeling with milk, please,” said Mrs Regular, “and a mug of the simplest brew you have for him.” Pot of Darjeeling black for two, I noted mentally. I was actually quite pleased to receive such a request, as it had been quite an effort in the first place to get her to try the tea.
“Oh, erm, two cappuccinos, please,” added Mr Tourist, confirming what I had already written on my mental notepad.
I was happy to leave the room for a while. Such a combination of customers was not one, I had felt, capable of producing a continuous flow of heated debate. Having been wrong once, I returned bearing beverages some five minutes later, to discover I could be wrong twice in very quick succession. And it was the usually quiet but, as previous experience had verified, occasionally bellicose Mrs Tourist who was holding the floor.
“So, last Saturday, we had 700,000 peaceful marchers in London supporting a People’s Vote, 1,500 Farage-led leavers in Harrogate, and so few supporting an English Defence League march in Manchester that the police outnumbered them two to one, and yet our dear prime minster still somehow thinks a second referendum would be a betrayal of democracy.” Mrs Tourist stated the facts with a degree of accuracy rarely seen in some sectors of the press. “Only a pillock could come to that conclusion.” This seemed fair and factual as well, if a little coloured by personal opinion.
