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10.47 at the Coffee Pot.


     Coffee shops in Britain are almost always dreary
depressing places. They exude an air of pathos which is almost
as heavy as their homemade wholemeal cakes. It is written
that colours are moods which explains why the decor is always
uniformly brown. The Coffee Pot in Kidderminster was not a
place to go against tradition. Slumping in a passageway off the
main street there was a sad stillness around it which was
heightened by the sound of busy shoppers only a few yards
away. Business hadn't been affected much when the coffee
shop in the arcade had opened. But for those days when you
got out of bed before lunch and you couldn't face the pub
again, (especially after the night before), the coffee pot had
filled a niche.

     I had arranged to meet Judith there the night before,
but, being terrible at remembering times and places I couldn't
recall if our rendezvous was at quarter-to or quarter-past
eleven. As I entered the shop the smell of boiled coffee stirred
limply in the air. The brown wallpaper had a faded green
pattern on it, or it might have been mould. I passed the sweet
cabinet and was tempted by the lemon meringue (they had it
brought in by outside caterers) but remembering my expanding
waistline I resisted and plumped for a mug of stewed coffee.
The grey haired lady took my money and then waddled off
into a back room. The brown apron that she was wearing hung
undone at the back. I took my mug to on of the small tiled
tables for two and sat down stiffly. A little old lady sat at a
table in the corner, her head lolled slightly to one side, the
reflection of the light in her glasses made it impossible to tell
if she was asleep or not. The table by the round window which
looked out onto the alley had a pushchair beside it which
slightly blocked the door. The child, who looked about 18
months old, sat in its mother's lap. She was probably younger
than myself but thin streaks of grey in her permed hair lent her
an aura of settled middle age.
     An elderly gentleman descended the stairs that led up
to the toilets and walked uncertainly  to the table in the corner.
He sat down heavily in the chair opposite the lady who I had
now decided was definitely asleep and picked up a sachet of
brown sugar. He shook it absent mindedly and gazed at a
picture of corn fields by a local artist. I decided not to look at
my watch as counting time here was not likely to keep your
spirits up. The sound of coffee boiling in an urn gurgled
endlessly as the young mother wiped around her child's
mouth. She glanced up at me briefly, shooting a look of
extreme disapproval across my bows and then got down to
business again. A group of teenage girls with too much make-up
 on strutted past the window. I laughed and stared at the
tiles on the table. They were red. They were also knobbly, and
slightly grubby.
     "Excuse me," said the young mother. I jumped slightly.
     "You're Mark, Mark Sexton." she squawked, then
looking into my eyes, "You don't recognise me do you?".
     "No, I'm afraid I don't," I admitted sadly.
     "I'm Rachel." she said, and then, seeing that
elaboration was necessary, "We went to school together."
     "Oh, yes! Now I remember." I lied.
     "This is Jamie," she said proudly, holding up the kid,
"say hello to Mark, Jamie."
The kid burped lazily and Rachel dumped him back in his
pushchair.
     "Well, it was nice seeing you again." she said and sat
back down by the window.

     There was a burst of bawdy laughter as a group of
three young women entered the shop. I recognised them after
a short while. It's difficult to place people when they are in
unfamiliar surroundings. They were the secretaries at the
doctor's and they were on their coffee break.
     "...and so I says to him,  You stay away from me.' I
know all about your little problem and I don't want anything
to do with it thankyouverymuch." said the girl with the brown
permed hair.
     "He's got a nerve!" said her blond haired friend.
     Now, observant as I normally am, I failed to notice
that the blond one was heavily pregnant. I just thought that
she was wearing a particularly unflattering dress. Of the three
she was undoubtedly the most attractive, even in her expanded
state with shock red lipstick on. The brunette was plump and
loud. The third girl was quiet, she wore thin glasses and her
black curly hair fell neatly across her face. They chattered
away and even managed to drown out the sound of the
broiling coffee until they settled down on a largish table behind
me.
     "She isn't right in the head you know." said the blond
girl in a loud whisper.
     "Yeah, so you said." one of the other two replied.
     "She mopes around all day and refuses to go outside,
last month she tried to push him down the stairs!"
     "But Claire," the brunette said to the blond, "why
doesn't he leave her?"
     "I think it might be something to do with the kids, but
he said he doesn't want to take her to see a quack because he
doesn't think she'd take it that well. She's well weird. She
went at him with a knife a while back." Claire continued, "If
he left her he thinks it might push her over the edge. She
comes in with bruises on her arms and back, keeps falling over
and having fits and suchlike, you see."
     "I heard that she beats the kids around." said a quiet
voice.
     "Exactly," said Claire, raising her finger to her head,
"she's mad."

My curiosity got the better of me and I glanced at my watch.
It was 11.04.

     "The neighbours say that she doesn't do the washing
either!" said a triumphant voice, "She just leaves all their
clothes hanging on the washing line for weeks on end."
     "What do they wear?"
     "Eh?" said Claire.
     "Well, if all their clothes are on the line, what do they
wear?"
Claire shrugged and bit into a chocolate pastry sending crumbs
cascading onto the tiles.
     "How's Henry?" asked Claire.
     "Oh, don't mention him!"

     It was at this point that Judith came bursting through
the door muttering apologies for being late and carrying a
large number of supermarket bags, each stuffed to the brim
with sequinned costumes. She smiled.
     
     "You wouldn't believe the morning I've had!" she
gasped.
     "No, I probably wouldn't." I conceded.

     So there you have it, coffee shops. A meeting place for
lovers, mothers and gossips. What about the old couple? Well
they probably fell into one of those categories not so long ago.


©1998 Mark Sexton