A cup of mortal longing

Gillian carried the tray of trembling white porcelain between the tables of the busy cafe, heading towards the corner and the only empty seat.  Once settled at the formica table, on a small, unnecessarily hard chair, she set out her tea things, poured a cup from the bullet shaped teapot and sighed, closing her eyes momentarily.  ‘How a cramped little cafe can be such a source of bliss,’ she thought to herself, and then reached into her bag and took out her paperback, placing it carefully on the table, establishing herself in the corner for a while.

As the cafe grew more crowded, the windows fogged with steam from countless conversations, Gillian noticed a smart looking young man in a suede jacket and jeans at the counter scanning the room for a seat.  Aware of the empty chair at her table, she quickly lowered her gaze to her book, pretending to read a page she’d already finished.  The ruse did not work, for moments later, the other chair scraped against the linoleum floor and a man’s voice spoke.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”  Gillian looked up, her eyes meeting the sharp blue ones of the fair haired young man who’d been standing at the counter.

“No, of course not,” she said, closing her book, immediately disarmed by the man’s charm and appearance, “it is very busy.”

“Thank you,” said the man as he sat down, finding a small space on the table to put his coffee cup.

Gillian smiled an apology. “So much paraphernalia involved with a cup of tea,” she blustered, suddenly aware of a warming sensation in her cheeks as she moved her teapot, milk and sugar to one side, “should have just had coffee,” she laughed. ‘Oh my god, I’m like some silly schoolgirl, stop it now Gillian!’

“Please, don’t apologise,” the man said, running a hand through his hair. Though it was short at the back and sides, it was longer on top, falling into his eyes, “there’s a new store opening this morning, I think that’s why it’s so busy.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard,” Gillian murmured, “I was planning on going to the bookshop on Queen Street, I doubt you’ll know it.”

“Hopkins and Black?  Yes, I know it, it’s brilliant isn’t it?”

Gillian was a little taken aback that the young man would even know of the quirky bookshop, filled with old editions and rare books, a place she loved to escape to whenever she could.  “I wouldn’t have thought it would be your sort of place,” she said.

“And why ever not?” said the man feigning hurt feelings.

Gillian, stammered, averted her eyes and took a sip of tea, “I’m just so much older than you,” she said, “I’d have thought you’d prefer something more modern, like the big bookstore in the shopping centre.”  ‘What are you saying woman?!  You sound like his grandmother!’

“Not for me,” the man smiled, “I like the older things in life,” and he caught Gillian’s deep brown eyes for a moment, until she turned away, tucking a dark curl behind her ear, her cheeks flushed.  “Anyway, I’m Archie, might as well introduce myself as we’re sharing a table.”

“Gillian,” she said simply with a small smile, summoning the courage to look in Archie’s direction.  “Would you mind too much, just watching my tea things while I pop to the washroom,” she said suddenly, catching herself off guard and questioning why all of a sudden she felt she must check her hair and make up.

“Of course not, I’ll mind your book for you too.”

In the ladies washroom, Gillian stared at her reflection in the brightly lit mirror, she touched her hair, smoothing it where it frizzed a little, and reapplied her lipstick.  Then, unexpectedly and for no reason that she could immediately admit to, she found herself tugging at her wedding ring, which she then carefully secreted in the inside pocket of her bag.  She regarded herself, ‘what on earth am I doing, I’m fifty-three not eighteen.’  Before she could dwell on it, another woman entered, taking a place at the mirror, and Gillian hurriedly gathered her things together and returned to her table, where Archie sat, sipping his coffee.

“Thank you for saving my spot,” she said.

“Not a problem,” Archie put down his now empty cup, “I see you’re reading Aickman, a good choice.”

“Oh, you like him?”

“I’ve just read a couple of his short stories, as part of my degree, I love the bizarre and weird stuff that he comes up with.”

“Exactly!  I’ve probably read this book at least five times, I just love the ambiguity, the feeling of unease,” Gillian ran her fingers over her battered copy of Dark Entries, “I don’t know why I like that, it’s just a great way to escape from real life for a while, it’s almost prosaic horror in a way,” she paused for a moment, surprising herself of how confidently she spoke, then, “there’s a line from The View I’ve always loved, something like…”

 Archie spoke softly.  “Thought and feeling had stopped, and they were immortal, the moment was immortal...” and a silent interlude hung over the little formica table.

Gillian, gasped inwardly, ‘how on earth could he have known that?’  Archie watched her intently, gauging her reaction.  Her self-conscious prickled, hot in her face again.  Stunned by his words, she dared not ask how he’d known.  “So, what is it you’re studying?” she said, briskly changing the subject.

“English literature and philosophy, my final year.”  Archie grinned, toying with his empty coffee cup.  “I should really be working on my dissertation this morning,” “but… well, here I am, talking to you.”  He put the cup down and glanced at his watch.  “I hope you don’t think it presumptuous of me, but it doesn’t look like the person I was meeting is going to show up, so how about I tag along with you to Hopkins and Black?”

‘Now what do I do?  Why would he want to?  What if…?’  Gillian picked up her book, her fingers briefly touching Archie's as he pushed his cup aside, she glanced away, gaining seconds to compose her response but before she could think of a reason to decline she found herself saying, “I can’t think why you’d want to spend any more time with me, honestly, but I would enjoy the company.”

“Don’t put yourself down,” said Archie, appearing wiser than his years, “you strike me as someone who’d be lovely company,” he got up from his seat and moved around to pull out Gillian’s chair, “now come on, let’s go and look at some books.”  And Gillian found herself leading the way out of the cafe, oblivious to the whispers and turned heads, conscious only of the good looking young man following closely behind.

Hopkins and Black was the sort of bookshop that would not have been out of place in Victorian times with its darkly painted frontage, and name in flowing gold script above the window.  As they entered, Gillian felt immediately at ease as the familiar scent of musty books mingled with a faint hint of mildew welcomed her.  The dark old bookshelves and their dusty contents, softening reality, creating a sanctuary where she could become gloriously lost for a while.  Gillian felt herself exhale, as though she’d been holding her breath for far too long and a small smile crept across her lips as she and Archie meandered through the dimly lit avenues of books.

“Was there anything that you were looking for particularly?” Archie asked as they made their way up the wooden staircase to the fiction section.

“It would be nice to find a really special first edition, maybe something by Blackwood, Aickman, or Lovecraft even,” said Gillian, surprised at how naturally the words came.  With Archie, she could be herself, bookish, eccentric even; it was so much easier than talking to Mike, her football obsessed husband of twenty-eight years.

“Well, you never know,” said Archie, jogging up the stairs to her side as they reached the first floor landing, “perhaps today will be your lucky day.”

The warmth in his tone made her chest tighten in a way she’d forgotten could be possible.  His eyes lingered on hers for a fleeting moment and Gillian felt a flush returning to her cheeks. She turned away to the nearest shelf, brushing her fingers lightly over the spines of the books, unsure whether she wanted Archie to notice her blushes or not.

As Gillian browsed the darkened shelves, a surreal feeling passed over her, as if the dust motes and particles of stale air released from pages of aged books had cast a spell.  In the dim corners of Hopkins and Black, she felt oddly alive, as though she were in a film, ‘this isn’t real life… but just for this moment it is’ she thought before turning suddenly as Archie tapped her gently on the shoulder.

“Have a look at this,” he said, holding out a book of Blackwood stories, “it’s not a first edition, but it’s a nice old copy.”  

For a moment Gillian stared at him, words caught in her throat, rocked by the peculiar sensation, ‘this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me…’

“It’s lovely” she said quietly, taken aback by the young man’s thoughtfulness, that he’d listened to her, searched for something he knew she’d like.  “Thank you,” she whispered, and then, compelled by something that had been absent for too long, Gillian put a trembling hand to his cheek, unable to pull it away, and before she had thought any longer, Archie covered her hand with his, his eyes catching hers in the dim light.  ‘Too close, too intense,’ Gillian’s breath caught as she battled with guilt, passion, confusion, and then, as control escaped her, she leaned in, the warmth of his breath on her face, and for a fleeting second, their lips touched.

‘What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING?!’ Gillian’s mind broke loose and she jerked back, slamming into the bookshelves behind her, “No, I mustn’t,” she breathed, “I’m so sorry,” and she fled, stumbling down the stairs and out of the door into the street, where she ran, away from the shop, from Archie, and from herself.

Gillian looked at her faint reflection in the train window, the ghost of a woman, who just an hour ago had been sensuous, enthralling, a woman with a new place in the world.  ‘You stupid, stupid woman,’ Gillian wiped her eye with the back of her hand, quashing the tear that threatened her with the truth, ‘you’ve made a fool of yourself, how could you be so ridiculous?’ and then remembering, she hastily reached into her bag, and pushed the gold band back onto her finger, ‘where it belongs’ she thought sadly.

At home she fidgeted and mooched, made the evening meal and ate in silence.  She stared blankly at the wall while Mike watched television, then welled up with guilt as she looked at him, smiling to himself as he watched one of his favourite shows.  ‘He’s done nothing wrong, none of this is Mike’s fault.’

The following day, she forced herself into jobs around the house.  ‘This is where you belong, this is what you do, give your head a shake you silly thing’ she chastised herself as she folded the laundry, then administered herself with a proverbial forty lashes as she relentlessly scrubbed the bathroom.  When she’d finished, she refused herself the comfort of reading, something she would normally enjoy in the afternoon, telling herself ‘you don’t deserve it.’

As the following days dragged by, mundane and predictable, Gillian continued to punish herself, finding more chores, even Mike remarking at how much she was doing, but by the following week, she could stand it no longer.  Unsure whether it was a form of closure she was seeking, or perhaps a chance to revisit the woman she’d momentarily become, Gillian boarded the train into the city, and with carefully styled hair and makeup, wearing her most flattering coat, she retraced her steps.

At the cafe, Gillian was relieved to find the corner table free and she sat, fiddling with her teacup, the familiar formica, glancing hopefully towards the door.  ‘What makes you think he’s going to be here again?’ she asked herself, feeling foolish for returning.  ‘Maybe I should go to the bookshop, he might be there…’ Gillian rationalised, desperately trying to convince herself, though her conflict had her frozen in time, not knowing what to do or where to go. And then, as reality began to set in and her tea had gone completely cold, her heart lurched as her eyes fell upon the blonde hair and recognisable stance of Archie, outside the cafe window.  ‘Oh my god, he’s here!’  Gillian began to tremble, unable to control her rising emotion. Everything she’d felt and quashed from the previous week came flooding back, hitting her with the force of a great wave.  She took a deep breath, watching the door, a smile ready.  And then, there he was, still outside, greeting an auburn haired young woman.  He said something, she laughed and looked up at him.  He reached, and holding her face in his hands, kissed her fully on the mouth.  Their heads remained close as she tucked her arm comfortably in his and they started to walk away together.

‘No, no, no…’ horror and dismay slapped Gillian forcefully across the face.  She grasped the sides of the table, as though she might fall at any moment.  Her chest tightened, a sickening sense of reality rising within her.  She sat motionless, watching from her lonely place in the corner as the young couple disappeared out of sight.  And there she remained with her cold cup of tea, until the man from behind the counter came and took it away and Gillian picked up her bag and left.

On the train, Gillian stared out of the window, not seeing the countryside as it sped past, holding onto her resolve to just get home, where she could let the makeup run down her face and allow herself to fall apart.  Her mind flipped from one emotion to the next, ‘how could you be so ridiculous to think that someone like Archie would come looking for you?’  She gulped back a sob.  ‘She was so beautiful… not here, not on the train, pull yourself together, act your age,’ but it was too much and as the guard checked her ticket and asked if she was okay, her face crumpled and she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, sobbing quietly into it until the train reached her stop. 

The house was quiet and Gillian was grateful that Mike was still at work.  She hung up her coat and entered the living room where she faced the mirror above the fireplace, reflecting back her swollen eyes and tear stained face.  ‘Better get cleaned up before Mike gets home, you silly, silly girl,’ and as she turned back towards the room, the sunlight filtering through the net curtains, something on the side table caught her eye.

Gillian stepped closer, the familiarity of her living room suddenly feeling alien to her, ‘do I even belong here?’  And then her breath caught as she recognised the book's cover, a hardback Aickman first edition.  With trembling hands she carefully picked it up, as though it might disappear if she touched it, ‘part of a dream perhaps’, but the book was real.  It was a book she’d hoped to find at Hopkins and Black, and it was here, in her living room.  She tentatively opened the cover, revealing a piece of paper with a handwritten note tucked behind the dust jacket.

Saw this in town and thought of you.  I hope it’s the right one.  Love, Mike x

Gillian stood motionless as she stared at the note, reading the words again, her throat tightened, her whole world shook and as her knees weakened, she lowered herself onto the sofa, clutching the book to her chest.

That evening, the book in her lap, Gillian sat on the sofa, her hand resting on Mike’s.  She felt warm inside as she regarded him, enjoying the television show he was watching.  He noticed her looking at him and smiled, nodded, acknowledging how much the book meant to her, he was glad it had made her happy, then he squeezed her hand and turned his attention back to the television, content in the small world they inhabited together.

Gillian slid her hand back across the sofa and turned her attention to the book, a first edition of Dark Entries; she still couldn’t believe that Mike had even known it was something she’d like, never-mind buy her a copy.  She thumbed through the pages, enjoying the weight of the book in her hand, planning to only read this copy now and again, to preserve its condition.  She was about to close it to go and make a cup of tea, when she noticed faint markings inside the front cover.  Holding it to the light, she could see where a message in pencil had been written and then erased, ‘must have been a gift to someone else once,’ she smiled as she tried to read what the short message said, straining her eyes, in a well executed hand, she made it out;

‘Thought and feeling had stopped, and they were immortal, the moment was immortal.’

Gillian’s breath caught, her hands trembling once more, she glanced across at her husband, happily absorbed in the television.  In the dim reflection of its glass, she caught a glimpse of her face, a flicker of someone else, somewhere else, and then it was gone.  Her fingers traced the outline of the words, knowing they would only ever be visible to her.  Then she closed the book and went to make a cup of tea.