that goes with it, sometimes: intuition). A waitress too. But she’d just been given her marching orders. For something she’d done, in the kitchen perhaps, just moments before—or hadn’t done. Something
he’d
done (the details would get filled in later), and she hadn’t complied. You have to put yourself in the scene.
There was a waitress’s apron hanging untidily from one of the hooks by the entrance to the kitchen, as if it had been flung there in a hurry. So: she’d been all ready to storm out. Stuff your job. But then the rain had started outside and she’d had a better, angrier, braver idea. She’d sat down at the table.
If she didn’t work here any more, she could be a customer, couldn’t she? She could order a coffee, couldn’t she? And he could damn well bring it.
Brave, angry girl. She looked straight ahead without even seeing me. Brave, angry, blonde girl.
He leant over her, his voice rising. His hands gripped the edge of the table as if he might tip it up. I don’t remember
my
decision, I don’t remember getting up, but one moment I was sitting at my table, the next I was standing by hers, saying, “What’s the trouble here?” And the next moment I was sitting down opposite her, but looking at him, and saying, “I think this lady would like a coffee . . .”
The nerve. But who knows what I’d have done without my fall-back, my invisible shield? The ID in my breast pocket and the word waiting ready, which, as it happens, I didn’t have to use: Police.
“. . . and I’d like to buy it for her.”
She looked at me. I could almost hear her think: Now what? What now? Who was this bloke from nowhere?
He glared. A moment’s stand-off. Then he turned (I’d done it!), whipping the tea towel from his belt, back to the kitchen. More words under his breath.
A sudden certainty inside me.
She looked at me. Studied me like something that had dropped from the sky. Outside the rain was pelting. April— Easter coming up. My move, but it was my audition too. A drag on her cigarette, the smoke straight up.
I said, “The thing to do, when he brings it, is not to drink it. Not to drink it and walk out.”
She said, “I was planning on that.”
He brought the coffee, but he wasn’t going to be nice about it. Half of it was in the saucer already, more after he’d plonked it down.
We got up together, scraping our chairs. “A shilling,” he said, folding his arms. She stubbed out her cigarette. I took a shilling from my pocket, slapped it down. A cheap round, a bargain. We edged past him while he stood like some tree. Then we were out of the door—and the rain was suddenly stopping, switching itself off like a tap. A gleam in the sky. As if that might have been part of a plan too.
I remember everything—everything, Helen. The way she grabbed my arm, straight away. The shine of the wet road. The films of oil, little coiling rainbows, in the gutter. The puddles she stepped round, the flecks on the backs of her ankles.
You don’t see things, Dad.
Later, I’d say, “Only women smoke like that—blowing the smoke straight up—women who are angry. Like a kettle on the boil.”
She looked at me. “You notice things.”
“It’s my job,” I said. It had to come out some time. “I’m a cop,” I said.
But she didn’t go off me, didn’t change her mind.
And she was a trainee teacher (and I hated teachers) though I didn’t know she was a trainee teacher yet.
“Plain clothes,” I said.
“Or no clothes at all,” she said.
Rain outside again. Its hiss. A kettle on the boil. I notice things.
In her room, on the first floor, stuck to the wardrobe door, was a poster, a photograph: a man in a singlet, a cigarette dangling from his wide mouth, a pistol in his hand, held up near his cheek. A bad guy, a good-looking bad guy. Every night she let him watch her undress.
I said, “Who’s he?”
She said, “That’s Jean-Paul Belmondo.”
I said, “Who’s he?”
I stayed all that
he’d
done (the details would get filled in later), and she hadn’t complied. You have to put yourself in the scene.
There was a waitress’s apron hanging untidily from one of the hooks by the entrance to the kitchen, as if it had been flung there in a hurry. So: she’d been all ready to storm out. Stuff your job. But then the rain had started outside and she’d had a better, angrier, braver idea. She’d sat down at the table.
If she didn’t work here any more, she could be a customer, couldn’t she? She could order a coffee, couldn’t she? And he could damn well bring it.
Brave, angry girl. She looked straight ahead without even seeing me. Brave, angry, blonde girl.
He leant over her, his voice rising. His hands gripped the edge of the table as if he might tip it up. I don’t remember
my
decision, I don’t remember getting up, but one moment I was sitting at my table, the next I was standing by hers, saying, “What’s the trouble here?” And the next moment I was sitting down opposite her, but looking at him, and saying, “I think this lady would like a coffee . . .”
The nerve. But who knows what I’d have done without my fall-back, my invisible shield? The ID in my breast pocket and the word waiting ready, which, as it happens, I didn’t have to use: Police.
“. . . and I’d like to buy it for her.”
She looked at me. I could almost hear her think: Now what? What now? Who was this bloke from nowhere?
He glared. A moment’s stand-off. Then he turned (I’d done it!), whipping the tea towel from his belt, back to the kitchen. More words under his breath.
A sudden certainty inside me.
She looked at me. Studied me like something that had dropped from the sky. Outside the rain was pelting. April— Easter coming up. My move, but it was my audition too. A drag on her cigarette, the smoke straight up.
I said, “The thing to do, when he brings it, is not to drink it. Not to drink it and walk out.”
She said, “I was planning on that.”
He brought the coffee, but he wasn’t going to be nice about it. Half of it was in the saucer already, more after he’d plonked it down.
We got up together, scraping our chairs. “A shilling,” he said, folding his arms. She stubbed out her cigarette. I took a shilling from my pocket, slapped it down. A cheap round, a bargain. We edged past him while he stood like some tree. Then we were out of the door—and the rain was suddenly stopping, switching itself off like a tap. A gleam in the sky. As if that might have been part of a plan too.
I remember everything—everything, Helen. The way she grabbed my arm, straight away. The shine of the wet road. The films of oil, little coiling rainbows, in the gutter. The puddles she stepped round, the flecks on the backs of her ankles.
You don’t see things, Dad.
Later, I’d say, “Only women smoke like that—blowing the smoke straight up—women who are angry. Like a kettle on the boil.”
She looked at me. “You notice things.”
“It’s my job,” I said. It had to come out some time. “I’m a cop,” I said.
But she didn’t go off me, didn’t change her mind.
And she was a trainee teacher (and I hated teachers) though I didn’t know she was a trainee teacher yet.
“Plain clothes,” I said.
“Or no clothes at all,” she said.
Rain outside again. Its hiss. A kettle on the boil. I notice things.
In her room, on the first floor, stuck to the wardrobe door, was a poster, a photograph: a man in a singlet, a cigarette dangling from his wide mouth, a pistol in his hand, held up near his cheek. A bad guy, a good-looking bad guy. Every night she let him watch her undress.
I said, “Who’s he?”
She said, “That’s Jean-Paul Belmondo.”
I said, “Who’s he?”
I stayed all that
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