I was feeling rather pleased with myself. Work had gone well that morning; the sun was shining and tomorrow was Saturday. I was sitting in my favourite cafe enjoying my Spanish omelette. Joan, the waitress knew me well enough to ensure that mature cheese would be melted on top, that the salad would be copious and crisp, the tea strong enough for three cups and that my Neapolitan ice cream would be garnished with golden syrup.In an otherwise crowded restaurant I had a table to myself, room to open up The Times and struggle with the crossword.
I was halfway through both puzzle and omelette when I realised Joan was standing at my shoulder, saying, “Sir, would you mind it this lady joined you. We’re rather full you see". I looked up. A woman, middle-aged in a dark suit and black hat waited for my decision.
I could have said – “I’d rather not be disturbed,” but of course I smiled a little grimly and said she’d be welcome. Both women thanked me for my kindness and sacrifice and I went back to tackle 17 across.
“You must be one of the regulars here,” the woman suddenly said. I admitted that I was usually here on Fridays.
“That’s why I haven’t seen you before,” she said. “I come earlier than this usually, and it’s on Mondays.”
I said something or other and rejoiced in the silence until: “I came here to cheer myself up. It’s been a trying morning I’m afraid,” she said as I tidied up my plate and pouredout some tea.
The waitress was back to take the lady’s order for a ploughman’s lunch and coffee. I ordered ice cream with golden syrup, because it was Friday.
I realised that lady was speaking again. I looked at her directly for the first time. She was dressed like a woman of business, black trouser suit, dark blouse, no jewellery. Her lipstick was generously but unevenly applied and her mascara had smeared. A spray of reddish hair had escaped from her hat.
“Yes, I’ve come to cheer myself up,” she said again. “I had a funeral this morning. It was not a big affair on account of the lockdown.”
She must have drawn comfort from whatever trite reply I made. She caught me glancing at her wedding ring.
“Not my husband. He died ten years ago. It was the real love of my life this time. The most fulfilled relationship I have ever had. He was wonderful.”
She dabbed her eyes with a napkin. Joan delivered the lady’s lunch, hoped she’d enjoy, scampered off.
“My name’s Mary – Mary Mackay. But I’m not Scottish. And you?"
“Jack Smith” I lied. She offered me her damp hand. She squirted mayonnaise on her meal and herself, sipped her coffee and was ready to talk again.
“My great satisfaction is that I was with him at the end. I know he appreciated it. After 10 years where else would I be but with him, holding him right up to the last breath?”
She took a mouthful, chewed fast and resumed. “Yes, Gilbert died peacefully in my arms.”
“That must have been comforting for you both,” I suggested.
“We always communicated so well. We never had an argument. He was a loving and true friend.”
“I’m glad,”
“I sometimes thought he was communicating between me and my husband. I even realised after a while that he somehow had my husband’s personality, was even my husband reborn.”
What could I say to that? I wisely grunted. Joan was back with my ice cream. “Was your ploughman’s OK?” she asked. Mrs Mackay said it was just right.
“And where’s Gilbert this morning, Mrs MacKay?”
“In the cemetery.”
“He was such a wonderful dog,” said Joan as she gave me the bill.
I thanked Mrs MacKay for her company; and Joan for her attention, and hurried back to my office for an afternoon’s work.
