Chapter One
It was another grim November day, the sky hung low weighed down with threat from grey rainclouds and a cold wind whistled down the nearly deserted street, stretching it's tendrils into the side alleys and doorways, leaving no area protected from it's icy blast.
Time stretched immortal and never ending on days like these, hours heavy with expectation of something that just never seemed to happen, it was as if the world was starting its winter hibernation. The shopping precinct was devoid of it's usual bustle, few daring to venture out in such weather and those that did kept their heads covered and their faces bent low to stop them getting blasted with the cold. Even then it crept under their thick coats, up the sleeves of their tops chilling anyone foolish enough to try and conquer it's grasp on the day.
From my vantage point I watched the foolhardy through the thickening mist on the plate glass window, my hands wrapped round the mug of coffee, trying to channel the heat from the china into my body, awkwardly sipping from it occasionally, attempting to make the drink last as long as possible, for to finish meant that I had to leave and resume my pathetic excuse for an existence.
Instead I sat there, my hands tightly gripping the mug, a free newspaper spread open on the table in front of me, covering a plate of crumbs; all that was left of the muffin I had eaten. The soft hum of conversation, the gentle unchallenging music softly playing in the background, the occasional hiss of steam as more milk was frothed, more coffee served all acted as a soporific balm to my tetchy mind and troubled soul. No one bothered me; the shop was mostly empty; so I was free to stay as long as I wished, propped up only by a sweetened cappuccino.
Reading the paper avidly from cover to cover had become a new habit of mine, almost a hobby. It helped to remind me that there was suffering all over the face of the planet, that I was not alone, as my therapist kept reminding me. She was right, of course she was. After all I was only one of hundreds of people that passed through her surgery ever year. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, or conversely in a bustling street I felt as alone as was possible for mankind to be, cut off from the lives of everyone else.
It was probably not true, but then I had become rather fond of overstatement and melodrama recently. For several weeks I had been strong, I had kept that horrendous British stiff upper lip and for what? No, it was much easier to give buried emotions free rein. After all, everyone thought I was weird anyway, so to add a touch of eccentricity to the proceedings didn't hurt in the slightest, it even occasionally bought a smile to my face, a painful cracked smile.
I had almost become a familiar sight, striding down the pedestrianised street, my coat flapping around me, hands buried deep in the pockets and as the weather cooled with the approach of autumn, a scarf wrapped around my neck and face, it's tasselled ends dangling down my sweater. Jeans, slightly too baggy to be that fashionable, but they were all that fit, the same as the misshapen bulky sweater – thank god for winter, it meant I could hide beneath clothing. I believed that I became something of a sight as I walked everyday from the house to the coffee shop, sometimes stopping to buy a paper, ignoring the stares of other people, ignoring the way they avoided looking at me, or tried to outstare me.
But today everyone was inside and those that weren't hurried along trying to get into the warmth, no patience to notice those around them. Trade was slow in the coffee shop and the staff stood behind the counter chatting, the temperature rising inside all the time, the outside vanishing slowly as a fuggy mist crept up the windows blocking the world outside totally from view, suspending the occupants in a world of mugs, steam and the almost overpowering smell of coffee.
Therefore when the bell above the door jingled and a blast of coolness spread through the space it caused everyone, myself included; to look up, note the woman battling her way in through the door, manhandling a rather large buggy with a tiny occupant strapped into the interior, swaddled in blankets and clothes, it's features scrunched up in sleep, a frown carved into it's forehead as if the weight of the world sat upon it's shoulders.
She wheeled the pram up to the counter and I couldn't help noticing the bags that were pushed into the net underneath, boxes and packets all brightly coloured, all with pictures of happy babies printed on them. "Humph new mother" I snorted, well aware that this was a common meeting point for them to gather and swap exaggerated stories in loud voices as their little children mewed and wailed, disturbing the peace.
She placed her order and took the seating in with a sweep of her eye, searching for a table to put herself and her child and no doubt at least one other buggy around. I tried to spread myself out in the space that a couple of tables occupied, make it look busy, for I did not want to share the little alcove that I inhabited. But it was too late; she had spied the free seat and started to push the buggy over.
"This seat isn't taken is it?" she asked quietly, her head tilted to one side as she looked at me, obviously trying to garner my feelings on her intrusion.
"No," I kept my answer curt, not wanting to encourage conversation, for that meant questions and questions always led to explanation and invariably to pity. With a sound that could have been a thank you she parked the contraption at such an angle that I could not get out without clambering over the blasted thing or moving it. Damn buggies and babies and their mothers, why did they always act as if they owned wherever they went?
She returned shortly with her coffee, a paper tucked under her arm and sat on the chair in the corner, facing her baby. It was only then that I realised her positioning gave her a clear view of me as I huddled at the opposite table. As soon as she looked up her line of vision would include me in its path. I could already feel her gaze like a thousand knives pricking into me, hear the thoughts that must be running through her head, see the small movements as she subtly shifted herself in her seat so that a few more millimetres parted us. I looked up to glare at her, teach her not to be so rude and instead found myself surprised.
Echoing my actions her hands were wrapped around her mug, but her head was bent, a dark, slightly greasy ponytail hung over her hunched shoulders. She could have been concentrating on the paper, but there was something in her posture, something in her face that told me she was not seeing the words printed in front of her.
I watched with mounting alarm as a small droplet of water slid down the edge of her nose and plopped on the paper. She was crying, silently shedding tears into her coffee.
A tremble ran through me as I quietly observed her, worry and panic rising in my body as she continued to sit at the table and silently weep her heart out, the emotion taking hold of her more deeply causing her thin shoulders to shake a little. Gripping the edge of my table as hard as I possibly could I continued to watch the scene unfolding in front of me. She must have cried for a good ten minutes, before she released a shuddering breath, attempting to dampen her emotions.
She grabbed the napkin under her coffee and went to wipe her eyes, only to find it drenched in cold milk. With mounting alarm she patted her pockets looking for something to wipe away the evidence of her emotional state. The trembling lips and panic caused a moment of gallantry in me and I pulled a spare napkin out from under the paper and silently placed it on her table.
"Thanks" she stared at my hand; no doubt taking in it's gloved appearance, before glancing up looking directly at my face. I was shocked as few people did that, they tended to glance over my shoulder or down towards my chest, anything to stop meeting my eye straight on. But she stared straight at me and I back at her, a thought at the back of my mind noting how the tears in her eyes made them the most brilliant blue.
"That's okay," I was lulled by her gaze, for the first time in ages not feeling that the stare was judgmental.
"I don't normally cry in coffee shops," she added, an attempt at a smile forcing her face into a wobbly grin. "It's just been, well it's been…" she trailed off, unable to explain, but gestured at the silent still baby, an action that I was meant to interpret.
"Been difficult has she," I murmured softly, hoping that was the right sort of phrase to use. I was sure that I had overheard the mothers say it to one another.
"That's one way of putting it." She gave another choked sigh. "I think I slept three hours last night, maybe less. And the nights just seem so long." I tried to smile reassuringly, offer comfort that it seemed she was seeking, obviously desperate for some form of contact, after all it seemed that she had chosen me as her confidant. It was then that I noticed the deep bruising under her eyes, it would seem that sleep was a luxury to her. I knew what that felt like.
"It is awful isn't it?" I offered, but they all say that it gets better." My advice one again came from eavesdropped conversations.
"Well, it's been four months and I'm still waiting," she replied, somewhat tartly, obviously not wanting soothing platitudes. Four months, it would seem that she had been suffering for almost as long as I had. It had been just over six months since that fateful day when my life had changed so much, only a few weeks more then the arrival of a child in this woman's life. My surprise must have shown in my face, god knows how, but she looked me at me again in this disarmingly frank way of hers. "I'm sorry," the apology came unbidden. "I should not have spoken like that, it's just been a rather tough time that's all. Although," she paused and looked down again before raising her head once more. "Not as tough as yours, I'm sure."
"Possibly not, but then I have never experienced the fulfilment of children." She caught on to my dry tone of voice and laughed.
"They fulfil your worst nightmares," she replied, before a smile crept onto her tear-streaked face. "I might suggest that you don't have one in the near future if you value your sleep."
"I will keep that in mind," I tried to sound as if I were in a position to seriously consider her comment before realising in a flash that she was teasing. Of course, how stupid could I get? It seemed that my self-enforced isolation had even moved as far as my sense of humour. All I could concentrate on were the emotions of hate, pity, panic and fear.
"I'm Ali by the way," she held out her hand in an entirely normal way, as if I were an entirely normal person, waiting for me to shake it, return the greeting.
"Eric," my voice was choked, slightly rough as if I had forgotten how introductions were made.
"Please to meet you Eric," her voice was calm, slightly husky with the effort of her crying. "I meant what I said, I don't normally cry in coffee shops, it just fell out."
"They are pretty understanding here," I flicked my hand towards the counter. "Put up with most sorts, myself included."
"Even sleep deprived depressed mothers it would seem," another attempt at a half-hearted joke. "Well, I had better go home, the health visitor is due to visit, tell me I am doing a great job no doubt and to hang in there." She gathered her things in a flurry, zipping up her coat and reloading her buggy, wiping away the remaining tears on her face with the edge of the napkin. Moving the buggy aside she looked ready to march out the door before she paused and once again looked at me in that frank, disarming way. "Thank you Eric, it is nice to talk to someone. Maybe I'll see you around."
"I'm in here at sometime most days," I found myself replying, hoping with a thing reedy wish that she would understand my hint, realise that I wouldn't mind meeting her again. She flashed me a wobbly smile and manoeuvred her way back out into the cold.
And with that I made my first real contact again with the human race. I knew I would be here tomorrow.