Bronte's Inferno II (The Mysterious Mr Mitie)

I watched the two people, whom the management of the café believed sufficient, deal with a steady parade of builders, social workers from the council’s child care unit next door, nail technicians, and barbers while I waited for the mysterious Mr Mitie. By the time I finished the second coffee, it was a quarter to eleven and the rush was over. I stood. I always paid my bill at the till. The brother and sister sharing griddle and customer relations duties looked young enough to be my grandchildren, if I had had any. I had just handed over the cash when the door opened and the cold January air made me shiver.

‘Ah’ll ‘ave two of whatever Mr Sabatini’s havin’’.

I turned to look at the person who had used my pen-name, rather than – well, it doesn’t matter now. The mysterious Mr Mitie’s apparel belied his accent. He wore a long, military-looking greatcoat, not threadbare by any stretch of the imagination. Except for the buttons it could have been the one my father used to stride about in, at RAF Catterick, many years before. The greatcoat was open, perhaps to cut a greater dash, as it swashed, as in buckler, when he stamped his knee high boots on the coir mat in the doorway. I almost laughed at the jodhpurs. I half expected a monocle and a flying helmet. I’d have said the man was around 60, except for the barely lined face and the luxuriant – if grey – hair. The man made a shoo-ing motion with his hands, clearly expecting me to retake my seat at the cheap and unmatched table in the corner. I did, but with a reluctance I was somehow unable to escalate into any kind of refusal.

The young man brought over the two not-whatever-cheenos just as the man was taking his seat opposite me. He slid his coffee to one side and leaned forward, elbows on the table, fists under his chin. I looked at him, feeling disinclined to start the conversation. He gave a slow nod, which moved the fists a little and I almost laughed.

‘It iss easier if I sspeak a language they know.’

Any accent at all would get you strange looks in a town like ours. Mine always did, and there was no trace of the latinate in it. Still, his dalesman’s schtick was exemplary, though it did no good. I could see the two Arkwright siblings in the small kitchen, pointing at Mr Mitie’s outfit and whispering. They’d be telling customers about him for a month.

‘Mr Mitie, I presume?’ I said, any verve in my conversation had disappeared with my ability to write.

‘I amm a kind off explorer, yess, you could ssay that.’

I couldn’t place his accent, it was as though a Scandinavian was doing a Bela Lugosi impression. But I wasn’t going to ask him. Where he was from, I mean. That question had been on enough lips, since before Brexit. Besides, I didn’t really care, I was thinking about which of the other four cafés in town I was going to be using from now on.

‘That e-mail ... How did you know my real name?’

I took a sip from the instant coffee, burnt my mouth and waited for him to answer.

‘Nothing is ssecret nowadayss. Now ssacred, that iss another matter.’ He winked, actually winked - and I saw that his skin was only unlined because it was stretched so tightly over his face.

‘Where would the profane be without the ssacred?’

[TBC]

Part I is here, if you're interested.