The Wallflower

The wallflower sits by the window, hair damp from her early morning shower, face void of makeup showing the blemishes, her glasses reflecting the grey day outside. Her skin is pale as she removes her jacket revealing a short sleeve top. She has her back turned to the animated world in the café, preferring her own company, or is it because she has no one to be the company she craves for.

Her face is a blank canvas that could be transformed into a vision of beauty, but she keeps her eyes downcast, reading a magazine as she waits for the mermaid to bring her ordered breakfast.

With delicate small movements, her spoon scoops the porridge, and she pauses to blow its heat away with lips full and pale. She seems insignificant in the big scheme of things, but in Aubergine’s world, she is an important player, bringing life to the mermaid’s world.

As she looks out into the street, her gaze concentrates into a deep void of nothingness. I wonder if she’s waiting for him, whether he’s changed his mind and will come back to her and to a love that is young and pure and hopeful. A little sparrow hops about on the floor, pecking at a breakfast of breadcrumbs left behind by patrons.

Suddenly he walks by, his arm holding another; the sight of them is a sharp, hard slap to her face, which leaves her cheek red and stinging. The sparrow collapses at her feet, its body in death is still warm as her tears splash upon its silent breast.

The mermaids are wearing strings of coral today, adorned around their ethereal necks. One is wearing a broach, decorated with precious stones found in a treasure chest resting deep under the waves, in the frame of skeleton belonging to a sailing ship, lured to its watery grave by the means of a lyrical death.

The broach would have belonged to someone’s wife, daughter, sister, mother, but the mermaid is not concerned for what has been lost, she is incapable to feel human loss, instead, she lures and captures– it is in her nature to do so.

There is salt on every table apart from mine, a symbol of their tears.

The wallflower picks up her jacket and leaves, her porridge hardly touched. The mermaid clears away the breakfast plates and then comes back to pick up the dead sparrow. Gently, she breathes life back into its lifeless body. And in a surreal world, I watch as it hops about under the tables, resuming its breakfast round.

Years on it still breaks my heart to have you gone, waking in the night holding my son, feeding him my life force when it should be you. I held you in death, and like the sparrow, I tried to breath life into your silent heart.

I failed.

And as my tears fall silently onto my keyboard, as people continue to eat their toast and sip their coffees, a mermaid silently offers me a tissue, and spills salt on my table.

Another Typical Marywin Morning

Today Ned and Milly have stayed home from school and are playing noisily outside. Little Bay is in his play pen making bird noises, the washing machine is spinning its last cycle and the reading room, with it’s quaint, antique eccentricities, is looking like a Chinese laundry by the mounds of folded washing taking up any available space. The1940 ‘s Parker Knolls is groaning under folded piles of flannelette sheets while my turn-of-the-century plinth is adorned with jocks and socks. I like furniture with a purpose.

The neighbour on my right has her window open, allowing any sound from my kitchen to waft in through her fly wire, and fill her house with sounds of Ned yelling, Milly wailing and me shouting at both of them to keep their voices down - the irony huh?

A sodden path is left in my wake as I trudge along dewy grass and take a load of washing to the hills hoist. The morning air is cold, the damn magpie has left another greeting note in the form of a steamy, gooey deposit on my pink and black satin breastfeeding bra; the one I so painstakingly washed by hand in organic rock filtered spring water; which had lovingly flowed down from mountainous snowy peaks and through valleys of blooming wild flowers, collecting crucial minerals along the way as it cascaded poetically into a rock pool which was looked upon by grazing Bambies, and anything else with a cuteness factor pinned to its forehead– or so said the blurb on the back of the plastic bottle. Still, it looked liked ordinary tap water to me.

Angry feet taking angry steps can be heard as they crunch – crunch - crunch on a neighbour’s gravel driveway. Knocking hard on my other neighbour’s door, she opens it, and I ask my Irish national whether she has a licensed firearm. Eying me thoughtfully through hazel peepholes framed by dark lashes, she pauses momentarily, thinking, then in thick Irish tones asks, “now would it be the magpie you’d be wanting to shoot, or the children?” and then invites me in for a coffee laced with some of Ireland's driest humour.

My husband leaves for a meeting and as I see him to the door, he leans over and whispers in my ear, reminding me again that he’s had the vasectomy. I make a mental note to fit him in somewhere within my domestic schedule, but verbally promise nothing; the magpie incident still stirs sour inside me and I’m not in the mood to get ‘jiggy with it’ when my favourite C cup has bird shit in it.

In other news, privacy is something I am sorely lacking – its almost like needing air to survive.

But that’s another story.

A Full House

The mermaid is back serving at the counter, her serene smile comforting amongst the chaos. A mother dressed in pale pink, the colour of Easter lilies with a paper flower in her golden hair, chastises her children with animated arms. Her little boy offers her a banana; she smiles and continues to growl firmly – but with love.

I miss my daughter.

Brother and sister sit by a window, bored and still sleepy; finished breakfast plates pushed carelessly aside. He didn’t eat his spinach; she ate her eggs but didn’t eat her crusts. Their bohemian mother is a breath of fresh air; their father stretches his arthritic hands and does finger exercises.

Tables of baby boomers sit discussing world events. Graying eyebrows curl and poke the eyes, lipstick bleeds into lips, painted faces fail to hide the sunspots, and untrimmed ears block flowing conversation.

Yet there is laughter as heads tilt back guffawing at whatever it is that tickles the fancy.

Every table is occupied; people in a conga line wait patiently for a spare seat, taking refuge in Aubergine’s warmth; the wind is biting today.

I look down at people’s feet. This morning is a day of boots and ballet flats. Some feet are neatly crossed at the ankles, others are sprawled openly, and some are old school, pinned neatly together at the sides.

A pair of worn, shocking red ankle boots walk in. There is purpose behind their stride. A pair of brown suede ballet flats greets them, followed by warm cheek kisses and a loving embrace.

A shocking pink shoulder bag wanders about looking for a spare table. Not seeing one, it leaves and tries the café across the road.

The mermaid is busy today but has brought in some help to ease the load. Another mermaid with green watery eyes and long ginger hair tied high upon her head is helping. She is larger but moves with a fluid grace.

The little girl with the long, gold plait hanging between her shoulder blades sits quietly, eating a packet of Smith Chips. She stares out the window, lost in innocent thought. Her freckly, weather beaten mother is sipping a coffee next to her, while at a far table, a little girl with a red clip in her silky hair clasping it out of her eyes, holds, audience with her father and a grandmother wearing cream square rimmed glasses.

It is a sea of faces this morning, each telling its story, each listening to one.

Today I didn’t like my eggs and my plate was hardly touched when the waitress collected it.

“How was your meal?” she asked.

“Fine thanks” I lied and put my earphones back in.

The Mermaid & The Waitress

Frowning faces peer down at their breakfast plates, nodding after the first mouthful, smiling after the second. Silently critiquing their paid chow while lost in those first few seconds of tasting.

Today the waitress particularly intrigues me. Her face is the most amazing compilation of contradictory features. Exaggerated almond shaped eyes that laugh into round saucer and are framed by sea green eye shadow, face large and open but pixie like, top lip thin which disappears into her gums when smiling, bottom lip full, luscious, sensual. Her nose is small yet seems large amongst its neighboring features. Her smile is wide, soft, and mature but giggles girlish.

Silent bottle blonde hair tied high in a ponytail flicks with a life of its own.

She is warm, friendly but also slightly reserved; she really doesn’t belong here. The café she works in is near the ocean and I believe she comes from a land deep underneath the waves. I think she is a mythical mermaid; trading her strong beautiful tail for human flesh, lean strong legs and small delicate ankles adorned with anklets made of tiny shells.

Plates of creamy eggs scrambled to perfection on sour dough toast are delivered with a fluid grace ,and she smiles serenely as someone spills the salt. She works the till with ease, and takes a particular fondness to the morning swimmers who come in for their injection of caffeine.

“My father is swimming to Rottenest Island with the family this morning” she smiles as she hands back change to the swimmer with the ruddy complexion. “We’re a family of swimmers from generations back and when the waves call, we all jump in for a splash,” she laughs.

The swimmers laugh back in unison, oblivious to the fabled undertones of her words and herd noisily like a mixed army of seals and walruses towards some empty tables.

She glances over at me and winks.

I smile back and continue tapping away on the keys of my laptop, surreptitiously enjoying one of the many secrets of Aubergine café.

Morning Rudeness

If it's one thing I have found that's been close to torture, its being rudely awakened at quarter to six in the morning by a teddy bear jutted up against ones nose, with ventriloquist kisses in the background after a night of little or no sleep. Milly thinks this is funny. I think Milly is evil and has no concept of empathy for her sleep deprived parents.

For the last three weeks, little Bay (who shares a room with us) has been waking on average, three to four times a night. Initially we thought he was teething as we could see two upper teeth waiting to burst through the gums, but as yet those little enamel demons haven’t made the journey.

We now know this to be wrong.

The fact of the matter is – the baby hates us.

He wants to see us suffer.

And to prevent himself from being flung out the window during his torturous tirades, he erects well executed defense mechanisms such as sweet giggling, or heartfelt crying which triggers a sympathy chemical to be released into my brain; making me do stupid things such as picking up and soothing him, offering him my boob, whispering in his ear or smothering his soft cheeks in little butterfly kisses.

This chemical needs to be syphoned and removed instantly before the window seizes and can’t be opened.

Wolf child on the other hand, with her insistent whispering when entering our bedroom, thinks it quite normal to thwack me with her teddy bear and then blame the vile toy for jarring me awake.

“Mummy, are you okay?” she whispered hoarsely as I threw my eyes open after being accosted by the stuffed blue animal.

“Teddy was naughty and woke you up and I said STOP TEDDY but teddy didn’t listen and now he has to go straight to bed because he’s a naughty teddy and the sun is up look mummy it’s light outside can you get me some bwekfast mummy – pleeeease?” all said in one breath as I struggled out of a deep sleep.

And while focusing on her silhouette I pondered malevolently on which limb to rip off the bloody bear first.

Ned on the other hand sleeps as if he were in a coma with a random “I LOVE YOU MUMMY" being thrown out as he dreams. However, trying to wake him from his unconsciousness is like trying to resurrect the dead when you’re an atheist, although the word ‘ice-cream’ whispered into his ear seems to be having a favourable affect lately.

It’s a well know fact that, when the children enter their teenage years, I’m leaving home!

More Cafe Musings

I went to my favourite cafe to write another chapter on the Tooth Fairy Chronicles, instead, once again, I was seduced by what was around me, and with very cool music in my ears (courtesy of iTunes), I fell into a writing trance.

The couple dressed in matching hues of green, (the colour of nurture and creativity), are sharing a late lunch. He stares at her with intensity; his focus surpasses one hundred and one percent as he gazes deeply into her face. He leans in and seduces her mouth with his eyes. I can’t see her face but I know its animated with happiness and mirroring his smile, her eyes I bet, are dancing. The man is smitten and his happiness is evident by his movements; quick and rapid, he is literately jumping out of his skin.

There is a buzz in the atmosphere around them.

She flicks her hair back and drinks her coffee, he watches her closely and grins, his eyes large, his smile wide. By invite he leans into her essence and in response she leans into his.

A match made in heaven I think.

~

A smell of patchouli lingers past me and soars me into a world of mysticism and desire. In this world, the trees greet the sensitive in an ancient tongue. I walk forward to a clearing where secrets are buried, then whispered free and carried away by the wind. The elders are watching, guarding, but do not move from their shadows.

He is waiting for me, a love from another world, balancing on the thread of what is time. He holds out his hand and I take it, his fingers warm, his hand strong. I am led to the lake where the hum of life vibrates through my soul and I am lost into its depths. Am I in heaven, or floating, spent in a watery grave of yearning.

Not a word is uttered as he touches my spirit and I rise up dancing, the dark sky my stage, the stars my audience. I am at the mercy of my demons, each ripping through me, tearing at my sanity.

“Where are you? I can’t find you” the little voice cries. The braided cord spun of gold promises, jerks me back to earth where I crash through your reality.

“I am here” I whisper, “I never left you”.

“I love you” he whispers, “hold my hand while I fall asleep mummy”. I take his hand in mine his fingers so small, so fragile, and together we sleep, walking side by side in our dreams.

~

And it is here I have to end my writing journey as I’m being kicked out of the café, it’s closing time; but not before I have one more coffee, sit and ponder.

A woman at an adjacent table stares and smiles at me. I smile back. She looks at me quizzically for a while and says something to her friend, who turns to gaze at my direction.

Finishing my coffee, I pack away my laptop and reading glasses and throw my handbag over my shoulder. I smile at the women as I leave and as I pass the window, I glance back to catch them staring.