Twenty Minutes

Twenty Minutes
by Keith Henson
She looked at the clock that beat the seconds of her life away. It was
gone ten, three minutes gone and soon to be four. 'Coffee is at ten,'
she could remember the Fat Manageress saying that to her son on the day
that she was dumped. 'Breakfast at eight, coffee at ten, and lunch at
one. 'What time was tea? After Blue Peter on the telly. Ask Cook, when
she'll be finished with the washing up bottle. Maybe she'd get one more
look at the advent candle. A drink would do for now.

Five minutes past and still no sign of it. The Boy Who Did The Garden
had got his. She could see the him sat on his little tractor, steam
rising from his red mug. He always had that red mug, except for two
weeks ago, that one had been yellow. It was as bright as a daffodil and
it had some words on it, but they were too far away to see. There had
been a time when her eyes would have picked them out clear as a spring
morning. She liked the red one, it reminded her of Charlie's Sunday
braces.

Charlie had been the only man who had ever really made her laugh. The
way he would sneak a thumb underneath his best jacket and pull out an
inch of the pillar-box-red elastic for her to see. A burst of colour in
a world of brown and black. She would have married Charlie - only he
never came home. There was a stone, somewhere in France, and they'd
carved his name in gold on the memorial in the market place, two lines
above her brother's. They never did find them.

Just before her husband had died they'd gone to the cemetery in France
and stood among the white markers. She found Charlie's stone, and
quietly and secretly she had bent down and kissed it. They say time
heals, but really, it only patches over the cracks.

Six minutes past, and she can hear the chinking of china and teaspoons
rattling, but they seem a long way off. She hoped that it would be the
Nurse from Barnsley, who always had tales of drunken bingo nights and
male strippers. Barnsley, would wink her creased eye and say, 'Tha
knows,' at the end of every story and she would do her best to wink
back, eager to hear more of this other world. Not once in her life had
she ever been drunk, and it was only now that she regretted it. Oh, for
one last night, out on the 'Razz' with the girls. Get 'em off,
handsome.

Seven minutes past.
It could be the Thin One. She would come in dawdling and muttering
through bubble gum stuffed cheeks. There would be a clattering of cups
and coffee slopped around like a factory tea girl. She knew very little
about the Thin One. What was there to know? She didn't talk much, and
what few words were uttered, came out in small grunts and mumbles. And
she stole things. You would often hear the rustle of candy wrappers and
see the smudge of chocolate around her thin lips. She didn't care for
the Thin One, but The Boy Who Did The Garden liked her. She'd seen
them, locked together with arms twined, and bodies pressed. They
thought that they were invisible, but they weren't. The lights may be
turned off but the curtains are drawn.

Eight minutes past.
They used to hold hands, arms swinging and he caressing her fingers in
a secret pledge of love. Once, he had lightly brushed the back of her
hand with his lips. Now, after all these years, her memory had failed
to hold on to that face, but she could remember his eyes.
Forget-me-not-blue, shot through with Cornflower.

Ten minutes past.
The Boy Who Did The Garden has finished his coffee, and as he passes
the window he looks in and smiles. She wants to smile back and wishes
he would stay for a moment longer. His smile goes on, and as he leaves
her view, he waves his hand. She would dearly love to lift her own hand
and wave back, but he's gone.
She wanted to wink. Tilt her head and gently wink at him, so that he
would stop and let her see his face a moment longer. He had a face so
fresh that it hurt to remember that she had been so young once. How
could she tell him that she had been more beautiful than the Thin One
he was so fond of. There had been a time.

Eleven minutes past.
She had said goodbye to Charlie. They'd been stood by the memorial, the
one that now bore his name and he had wiped the tears from her face,
holding her close to his chest. Itchy wool, she could remember, itchy
wool. It had been his uniform, stiff and new, pressed to her cheek.
Still no kiss, but they had held onto each other, until it was time for
him to meet his parents at the station. They were the ones who had put
him on the train and sent him out of all their lives.
When he gets home I'm going to kiss him. She would be in the garden,
sowing or writing a letter, and Charlie would appear through the garden
gate. They would fall into each others arms and then they would kiss.
How they would kiss.

Twelve minutes past.
The back of her throat is dry, but the coffee seems as far away as it
did on the stroke of ten. The baker's van is parking by the kitchen
door. On the side of the van, she can see the words, 'Fresh Cream Cakes
and Danish Pastries.' She would have loved the chance of a fresh cream
bun, with gooey, rich, thick cream spilling out onto her chin. That
would have been a real dainty. Instead, she would be forced to nibble
at a dry wafer, or if they were very lucky, a custard cream. Somehow, a
custard cream didn't seem such a treat any more. A chocolate eclair
would be her choice, one with the chocolate sauce still soft and warm,
and the eclair, light and airy. It was Rich Tea day. Funny how you
remember the things you don't need to.

Thirteen minutes past.
When Charlie went missing, nobody let her know. No letter through the
door, the sorry-to-inform you letter. Why should there be? It was the
black ribbon on the garden gate that had told her the news, on the day
she'd been cycling by Charlie's house. One simple black ribbon, hanging
limp and mournful. There weren't enough tears to cry that
morning.
His parents had unwrapped her fingers from the gate and pushed her
away, scolded for making a scene. Just a silly child. An absurd young
girl who had been through a foolish crush on their son. Charles David
Hooper, an only son. Grief was for mothers, and wives, not for the
likes of her. She had been left to mourn alone for sixty years.

Fourteen minutes past.
All she wanted was to remember his face one last time.

Sixteen.
There had been too many faces down the years, clouding, unnecessary
faces.

Seventeen.
Blue eye's.

Nineteen.
A scar on his chin. She could see it clearly. A roman nose, a dimple, a
carflick in his hair. The smell of ink and lead from the printing shop
and the sound of that voice saying her name. Her name? She couldn't
remember her own name. Isn't that stupid. And the coffee was late. They
always brought it at the same time. She could remember that fat woman
saying, 'Coffee at ten.' There had been someone with her that day, but
she couldn't recall his name either. Charlie. That name rang a bell.
There must have been a man called Charlie because it came into her
head. Red and Blue. Did he wear red and blue?

Twenty.

When the Barnsley Nurse, breezed in to room twenty-two, she knew
straightaway that something was wrong. The way that the woman's head
listed uncomfortably. The total silence, the stillness of fading life.
She knelt beside her and took her hand.
"Sorry I was a bit late, Mary."
By the door, stood a steel trolley, with one final coffee sat steaming
in a blue cup.
Forget-me-not-blue.
End
13 May 2001- !400 words