Chapter Four
Aggie
If you can survive working in a shop or a cafe at Christmas, you can do anything. Seriously. You’re a Ninja, a UN negotiator and a circus juggler – and that’s just for starters. You could argue that I have it easier than most, being a coffee shop owner. I’m providing welcome respite to weary Christmas shoppers, a rest from the craziness and treats for the eyes and soul, right?
Wrong.
Right now I have two people complaining because their hot chocolates aren’t right. One has too much cream, the other not enough. They look identical to me, but what do I know? I only own this place. I’m tempted to hand them each a spoon and tell them to sort it out amongst themselves, but that isn’t how it works. It’s my job to smile, apologise and resist the urge to slam their heads into the driftwood counter.
‘No problem,’ I say, my singsong tone deliberately chosen to irritate them the most. ‘Let me remake those for you.’
‘Maybe you should,’ the bloke says in the most patronising manner, as the little beak-nosed woman beside him nods in pathetic solidarity. They didn’t know each other before I offended them with festive beverages, apparently. Maybe they'll bond from this experience, get it on, find a bit of joy and go away . . .
It’s only when I turn to the coffee machine that I let my sunny expression slip. Bleddy idiots. Even the absolute worst of the high summer tourists aren’t as rude as Christmas shoppers. Season of goodwill, my ass.
I take a deep breath and turn back, all benevolent smile and angelic attitude.
‘There,’ I say, handing the bolshie bloke the cream dispenser. ‘Probably better if you put your own cream on this time, eh?’
He nods, eyes widening like a kid who’s just been given the keys to a sweet shop. And I wait, taking more than a little pleasure in the thunderous explosion of cream that follows. Tricky little things, those dispensers . . .
They quickly retreat to their tables, too embarrassed by their own mess to complain any further. And my smile becomes genuine. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job and the vast majority of my customers are lovely. I live for my business and nothing makes me happier than a room full of satisfied customers. The awkward beggars just seem to come out of the woodwork at this time of year, that’s all.
‘Please tell me you’ve started your Peppermint-Bark Lattes again,’ says a familiar voice and I turn to see Cerrie Austin leaning on the counter. After the steady stream of difficult customers I’ve had this afternoon, she is a vision of loveliness – an almost-Christmas angel right here in my coffee hut. She looks tired, but then doing what she does for a living I’m amazed she can even stand up at the end of the day. Christmas shoppers are nothing compared with a classroom of kids.
‘Just for you, bird. My cousin sent a bag of Ghirardelli peppermint bark chocolate from San Francisco yesterday.’ I reach under the counter and drop a handful of brightly wrapped chocolate squares onto the counter. She rips one open and bites into it like it’s manna from heaven.
‘Ag, you’ve saved my life,’ she breathes, eyes closed.
I chuckle and fill a coffee arm with rich, dark ground coffee, attaching it to the coffee machine and setting two coffee shot glasses beneath to catch the glossy espresso as it drips down. ‘Tough day?’
‘You could say that.’
‘David?’ I can’t imagine how awkward having to work with your ex every day must be. Poor love.
‘And the rest.’
‘What’s up, lovely?’
She bats away my question with the empty chocolate wrapper. ‘Nothing that can’t wait till Monday. I’ll be fine. I just need one of your magical coffees and then it will all be okay.’
I give her the time it takes to steam the milk to let her enjoy her chocolate without any further probing. She’ll tell me when she wants to. So much of being a good barista is waiting, not just for milk and espresso but also for customers to share what’s on their minds. I’m as much an agony aunt as a provider of refreshments. Add that to the list of necessary superpowers in this job . . .
‘Have you heard from Lou?’ she asks finally, when her festive drink is ready.
‘Only about two hundred times this week. Which, for him, is quite quiet.’
‘He seems really stressed about the Christmas festival this year. More than usual.’
All of us love Lou dearly, but Cerrie’s right – this year he’s been like a terrier with a slipper. Personally, I reckon he just becomes more obsessed every year. I imagine he wakes in the middle of the night sweating about tinsel shortages and Father Christmas getting lost at sea instead of heading into the harbour on the lifeboat. ‘He’s decided he’s in competition with the festival in Penzance. For some unknown reason he thinks they are sending spies into our volunteer teams.’
It’s nice to see Cerrie laugh after her worryingly downbeat entrance. ‘Seriously? Why ever would they do that?’
‘Search me. Maybe they think we have some top-secret formula for fairy lights. You know Lou: when he gets a crazy idea in that head of his not even a force ten storm can shift it.’ I watch her closely, proud of the calming effect the drink I made is having upon my friend. When I make a difference to somebody that appreciates it, this is the best job in the world. ‘You are coming tonight, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. After the day I’ve had I can’t wait to talk Christmas plans all evening.’ Her smile fades a fraction.
‘Want to talk about it?’
She considers my question for a minute, her eyes drifting from me to her latte. Then, she shakes her head. ‘Nah. Better not. Thanks for asking though.’
I grab a cloth from the machine and wipe the counter. ‘My pleasure. All part of the service.’
I love talking to people. Being granted a snapshot of their worlds as I trade coffee for conversation. But lately I’ve felt a glimmer of jealousy when my customers talk about their worlds. Not because I want their lives, but because they have a life beyond the well-loved wooden walls of this place. For so long all I wanted was to be here, to call this my own. But I’ve started to notice the light between the gaps in the weatherboard cladding, the slivers of outside world peeking in at me as I work here every day. It’s almost as if my beloved business is giving me a glimpse of something else.
I don’t ever want to leave here. I’ve worked my butt off to make this coffee hut a year-round success – a big achievement in this town. But I feel like the world is passing by at high speed outside my door. And I’m scared of being left behind.
Christmas makes it worse. I don’t mind being single at all. Compared with my last relationship, every day on my own is a gift. But there’s always a point during Christmas when you suddenly realise everyone around you is talking to someone else, zoning in on a part of their world you’re not party to. Christmas magnifies aloneness when people are celebrating love all around you. It won’t always be like this, I know. But this year I feel it more, like the winter cold slowly seeping into my bones.
I think I want more from my life. I don’t want to only exist behind this bar forever. I feel like the wind is changing, like something new needs to happen.
I just wish I knew what that was . . .