Mrs Popakanduolous strained with the eerie effort in the dank gloom of her marriage bedroom; Mr Popakandoulous snored deeply beside her in the dark, a long bony maggot resting in loud respiratory ugliness. She peered wanly up over the long slug of a husband at the mouldy yellow curtains, it was getting blue outside, a few early birds chortled occasionally somewhere outside, she sighed and heaved her not too great bulk from the warmth to the chill air that always greeted her in the morning.
-Poppa, are you awake? I shall make the tea and stoke the fire, if you let Miss Trixie in. She spoke softly and wearily, plodding as she did toward the door, her night gown fluttering about her dry stony ankles, which creaked abysmally as she plodded.
Miss Trixie O’Reilly sat on the chill bench outside ‘The Café Constantinople’ in her hand she held a worn out satchel, she gave the satchel furtive and curious glances from time to time, almost as if she was continually forgetting the purpose of it accompanying her, and being startled to see it in her lap, clasped tightly by two old branch hands, twig fingers and dry leaf skin. A few vans rumbled along Levy street, a few shop shutters grated and clattered open, as weary and tired eyes young shop assistants yawned in gaping sadness for the day about to begin. Miss Trixie O’Reilly loitered with the air of persistency that accompanied her everywhere. Despite her obviously tired and wrinkled face, one could tell that in her youth, a beauty was there, and even in the twilight of her body and mind, a charm still lingered, almost grotesquely. Whether on the bus home, or at the local conservative club, she gave the impression of having always been there, such was the uncanny capacity she had of perfectly blending into whatever room, vehicle or day she found herself – everyone noticed her in the same way people notice post boxes, vague curious glances but nothing unduly lasting. Miss Trixie O’Reilly turned her head slowly, whilst struggling with her body to motion as she heard the latch on the door slide back with a clanging thud. From the dark within Mrs Popakanduolous appeared, with tired grateful eyes. A post office van chunked to a halt at the local news agents across the road, two fat balding men, one in blue the other in a white shirt greeted each other sleepily, but with familiar congeniality.
-Morning Miss Trixie!
-Didn’t I tell you about that, honey? Enquired Miss Trixie as she puzzled her way past Mrs Popakanduolous.
-About what dear? Enquired she.
-Pardon lovie, (shouted Miss Trixie) I’m a bit deaf today, broke my hearing aid, or lost it, or both, do you remember I told you yesterday? Asked Miss Trixie secretly pitying her boss for the apparent loss of memory ‘old age, gets em all’ she pondered as she began rustling inside the café. Mrs Popakanduolous followed her in quietly.
First, Mrs Trixie set a pot of tea for two on the stove, after that she turned on the kitchen lights, checked the bins, then she began stoking the fire so as to heat the stove, this always took precisely 25minutes. Mrs Popakanduolous would slowly, with aching laboriousness, would lift each metal and orange plastic chair from the tables and place them on the white tiled floor; after this she would place a little white napkin and three pieces of cutlery on each table, this took approximately 25minutes. After that the two ladies sat at a table for two in the corner and drank their tea in hushed limb sore meditations.
-Mondays are always quiet, no market you see. Offered Miss Trixie.
-Yes, lovie always.
-Pardon sweetie, speak up duck, its me hearing?
Mrs Popakanduolous sighed with a deep fondness for her sprouting friend, for Miss Trixie’s thin grey hair shot up away from her skull, and fell about her ears and face like an old aged pot plant.
Around 9am the first customer would arrive, seven days a week, the same customer was always Miss Orrell, wearing a loose fitting chocolate cardigan, a long russet pleated skirt that caressed the tips of her black/brown shoes. Miss Orrell was younger than Miss Trixie but older than Mrs Popkanduolous, very little else was known. She would march slowly in, dragging a thick material tartan shopping bag behind her, which had two very small white wheels. She sat always in the same corner, beside the window, and always appeared more interested in what the birds were singing than what either Miss Trixie or Mrs Popakanduolous were saying. Miss Orrell always seemed to be waiting for someone specific, yet always left alone, she would have a hot chocolate and a chocolate brownie, always the same, always 9pm exactly. Miss Trixie put a large faded pan upon the stove and heaped lumps of damp cabbage into the simmering water, through the kitchens hatch she could spy Miss Orrell peeping out of the Café window at the now bustling street.
-Bless the dear, never married apparently. Sighed Miss Trixie whilst heaping green lumps into the pan.
-Well, maybe she is wiser than you and I? Replied Mrs Popakanduolous as she began peeling a potato.
-Cry, no I never seen her cry, just looks at them birds in those trees! Replied Miss Trixie eying her friend sadly ‘time gets em all’ she muttered condescendingly under her breath.
-Yes of course, well we all cry! Replied Mrs Popakanduolous. ‘Yes sweetie time does get us all, horrible time’ she thought sadly, turning her back to the boiling stinking pan of cabbage that Mrs Trixie toiled about as if it were a cauldron magical, and the elixir within would restore her youth at the merest sipping.
-Of course we all die, think about my old Frank, I divorced him good, cos he winks at anything in a skirt, but I was broken to me heart to hear of his passing, now that Miss Orrell ain’t never been married, I can tell you see, on account of my being married, she smiles to much, much too often, well I think she’s a Jehovah’s Witness anyhow, aren’t they not allowed to marry or something like that? Asked Miss Trixie as she now turned her attention to a bag of bright orange and disfigured carrots, leaving the broiling cabbages to themselves, turning with an air of melancholy, only Mrs Popakanduolous could have detected.
-I knew a Witness, they marry but, well she looks so lonely, may not have been a beauty like you in her youth.
-I don’t need much proof when it comes to them that have, and them that have not been married, think of my poor Donald, now I knew him before my dear sweet Frank like, but he was married before he knew me see, so I knew that then. That Miss Orrell strikes me as being a little, I says simple, but I don’t means daft, if you follow’
At approximately 9:25 – 9:50 the second customer of the day, everyday each week was a Mr Swann, a man of indeterminable age, clearly over 50 yet moving and jauntily chatting with vigour that beguiled most; a man of middle height and curiously curling greying hair which fell about his shoulders in cotton like tangles. Mr Swann greeted the three ladies cordially as one; always smiling quietly and sitting himself in the corner where Mrs Popakanduolous and Miss Trixie had drank their tea. Mr Swann carried always an assortment of books and papers in varying carrier bags, some supermarket, others off licence most bland white or blue, always frayed as if long kept inside a kitchen draw or underneath the stairs. His shoes were always beaten and his socks peeped out like little turtle heads from beneath their twisted and tattered leather shells.
-Morning ladies, and how radiant we all are, how deliciously you make even the sun appear nothing more than a burning matchstick in the sky! He boomed gladly. Mrs Orrell never acknowledged Mr Swann’s greeting, Mrs Popakanduolous merely nodded, yet Miss Trixie with a turn of pace that surprised her own frail body, dashed in wobbles and erratic gestures out to greet him.
-Hows we then Peter, if I may? Miss Trixie took a seat opposite Mr Swann.
-Dear lady you may (Mr Swann leant toward Miss Trixie conspiratorially as she sat) I have just completed a series of poems, that I believe will send shockwaves through the literary community.
-I’m sure, whats them about this time?
-Rivers, I have called this volume ‘When the River Comes’ epic, I can confide you that at least several publishing houses have already been desperately knocking at my door, desperate little mongrels that they are! Mr Swann winked with a charming lasciviousness that thrilled Miss Trixies echoing tender parts. A crashing of feet on creaking stairs, the rustling of paper, and fat heavy slipper slops came from the stairs; Mr Popakanduolous had awakened, fetched the morning star and then ascended the stairs in dull going. Mrs Popkanduolous leaned her head out of the kitchen in an effort to catch a glimpse of her husband, but he had vanished too swiftly, she returned to her potatoes. Miss Trixie flushed with giddiness hobbled back into the kitchen, grinning. For a brief spectacularly brief instance, a flash of youthful beauty shone mesmerising from her eyes, however the dried out, wrinkled face parodied even this fleeting glimpse, and Mrs Popakanduolous felt a vague disgust for her dear friend. ‘better to have always been ugly, ugly people age better, old age to us is a glove, an excuse, for women like Miss Trixie it is a failure and indictment of mortality’ pondered Mrs Popakanduolous.
-He’s educated man is that Peter, like you was sweetie, but he did well with his books, you married’ sighed Miss Trixie and picking up a large knife she attacked a slab of cold cooked ham with gratuitous brutality. The lunch rush never began, because it was a Monday, and there was no market on a Monday.
