As usual, Mrs. Stevens arrived at Pedro’s promptly at eleven for her morning coffee. ‘Fair-trade coffee ground in-house’, according to the sign. Mrs. Stevens had no interest in the fairness of trade, and the noise of the grinder made her hearing aid shriek in protest. But the café was only a short walk from home and the coffee was cheap and included free refills, which she thought was certainly fair.
Mrs. Stevens always brought her own biscuits; it saved money and the owner didn’t seem to mind. Her favourite was a popular brand with four fingers of chocolate wafer. She enjoyed snapping it apart, finger by finger, to eat with her coffee. From her table, just to the side of the front window, Mrs. Stevens could remain almost invisible while observing people on the street outside. She liked to guess what was in their shopping bags and how much they had spent.
Mrs. Stevens breathed in the smell of coffee. Her husband, Ted, had liked to grind his own beans. The strong aroma had clung to his clothes and skin. It was one of the few memories she retained of him. When she had first passed Pedro’s, not long after Ted’s death, and smelt the familiar aroma, she had started to cry.
Later, when she felt strong enough, she started to come here for her morning coffee. It got her out of the house and, she discovered, if she sat very still, Ted would sometimes join her. That was four years ago.
Since then she had been arriving at the same time each day, watching the shoppers outside her window, thinking the same thoughts, or so it sometimes seemed to her, and waiting for Ted. She always sat in the same place so that he would know where to find her. It was a great shock therefore on this occasion to find that her table —their table— was occupied by a young stranger of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age.
“Morning. Mrs. Stevens,” said Pedro, whose real name was Michael Smith. “My nephew, Gavin,” he said, nodding towards the young man seated opposite her in Ted’s chair. “We’re a bit busy, hope you don’t mind? He won’t give you any trouble.”
The young man raised his eyebrows briefly, shrugged, and then returned to his mobile phone, his thumb tapping secret messages to unseen friends. Mrs. Stevens said nothing, but she did mind. Very much. She continued to stand, not sure what to do next. Finally she eased herself onto the edge of her seat. She studied the young man, taking in his long blonde hair, tattoos and ear stud. It was enough to confirm her worst suspicions. The lost generation, she thought, full of selfish demands and their own entitlement. How dare Smith let him sit there? What if Ted arrived now and found his seat taken?
Smith himself brought her coffee to the table. “Bright lad. Starts university in September,” he remarked. But Mrs. Stevens didn’t really hear his words. His nephew had to leave. Now. It just wasn’t right.
“Will he be long?” she asked.
“Long? Oh, here, you mean?” said Smith with a smile. “No, once he’s finished his hot chocolate he’ll be off, won’t you Gavin?”
The young man glanced up at his uncle, looked at Mrs. Stevens, said nothing, and returned to tapping his phone. Ten minutes later, he was still there. His contempt for Mrs. Stevens was clear, she thought. He obviously considered her to be an elderly imbecile.
Mrs. Stevens was drinking her coffee as slowly as possible but it was starting to get cold. As she took a sip from the cup, the young man reached for the chocolate wafer on the table in front of them. He tore open the wrapper and snapped off a finger, which he pushed into his mouth. It was gone in two bites. Shocked, Mrs. Stevens gulped her coffee, spilling a large amount into the saucer. She reached for her napkin to clean up the mess and watched in horror as another finger of the biscuit —her biscuit— quickly disappeared. The young man licked his fingers. Mrs. Stevens was lost for words. She looked around for help but no one seemed to notice her distress.
While she dabbed up the spilled coffee with her paper napkin, the young man reached forward to take a third finger. It was too much. “No!” said Mrs. Stevens, pulling the packet towards her and scowling at the young man. She pulled the remaining two chocolate fingers from the wrapping and swallowed them one by one, almost whole. For good measure, she reached over to the young man’s plate and seized his doughnut, biting off a large chunk and sending strawberry jam spurting across her cheek like a bloodstain. She didn’t wait to see his reaction. Handbag over her arm, she hurried towards the door and exited without so much as a backward glance. The smell of coffee followed her out onto the street.
It was only then, as she stood outside, breathing hard, that Mrs. Stevens realised she had not yet paid for what might be her last-ever cup of coffee at Pedro’s. With trembling fingers she opened her handbag to find her purse. And that is when she saw it: the unopened chocolate wafer she had bought earlier in the day to eat with her coffee.