Winter in Edinburgh

Emma left the library and paused on a cracked concrete step, surveying the uninterrupted greyness with resignation. The damp chill at least meant that the square was relatively empty and so she could pass on her way unobserved by the usual social spectators who sat and gossiped outside the brutalist hub of the university campus. She untensed imperceptibly, once again having escaped from the claustrophobia of the library’s endless rows of watching eyes and whispering mouths. She turned in the opposite direction to her flat and began a purposeful march along whatever street was emptier, clutching an armful of books and steering a path of avoidance. The wind tasted fresh and clean and awoke a yearning in her for open space and freedom; the endless buildings penned her in, the endless eyes kept watch on her, forcing her to be ever on her guard. She could not stop yet, for her destination was a cold and cheerless room where she would be trapped with herself again, and the tormenting little voice in her head which quietly but insistently sapped away her confidence.
Her limbs were aching and small specks of harsh rain jabbed her eyes. She found she was further from the flat than she had realised, the roads subtle curving having led her astray while deep in morose thought. A café gave out a welcoming glow in vivid contrast to the increasingly threatening charcoal glowering overhead. It was painted a charming gypsy-caravan red the name-board doubling as a window box, planted with small purple cabbages and a hand written blackboard announcing a fair trade coffee special and something freshly baked. Nudging the door open caused a string of bells to sound a discordant alarm, at which Emma froze, eyes darting, horrified at the thought that she had inadvertently invited the attention once again of the eyes which unnerved her and ready to slip out again; but no-one turned. A girl behind the counter had her back to the door as she deftly tipped old coffee grounds like lumps of wet earth into a compost heap and simultaneously lined up a cup for the fresh brew. The room was half full, yet everyone seemed immersed in their private worlds, head bowed in perusal of the daily papers, frowned in concentration over a leather-bound tome, pen at the ready, or locked in low-key conversation, oblivious to the interloper who was so excruciatingly aware of her entrance. Emma relaxed minutely, self-consciously shifted her books to her other arm and pursed her lips as she concentrated on the menu board.

Miranda placed two cappuccinos on the counter, the froth curving expertly over the brim, and turned her attention to the next person. She was aware of the entrance of customers in a detached way, but rarely gave them a second’s thought beside that momentary locking of eyes which invited them to give their order. She would readily admit that the job was undemanding, even mindless, but it suited her circumstances and temperament; she was in the habit of moving on after a stint of six months or so, driven by interminable wanderlust, seeking warmer climes and new sights. She was a long-term backpacker, never really settling somewhere in the sense that she ever put up a picture on the wall or bought food in quantities to last and put in the freezer in preparation for the eponymous ‘rainy day’, for when that rainy day came she would relish the fact that it took only an hour to repack and cut all ties with whatever temporary roost she had established. A modern-day gypsy, someone had suggested as a classification of her restless species. But that did not quite suit her independent nature; she did not travel as part of a clan. And more importantly she did not have a nomadic history to back this romantic claim; she was, in fact, firmly rooted in a suburb of Perth, Australia, where her parents remained in unchanging tedium, convinced that their only daughter was suffering a pernicious ‘phase’ and would one day return to sensibly follow in their footsteps. So cafés such as this and colourful hostels provided transient families for Miranda, as well as routine and income, without ever ensnaring her in the web of a career which would chain her to a desk in an artificial world of freeze-dried sound-bites and robotic corporate relationships. On the move, she never lacked human interest; the wide variety of life stories forever fascinated her and redeemed her jaded view of suburban conformity. The alternative appalled her; to be defined as one of many mediocre names intrinsically linked to a workplace of repellent dullness and to be endlessly repeating anodyne pleasantries on a weekly basis until a decade has been wasted before you noticed it, so blinkered were you in the anticipation of every endlessly repeating weekend. But Miranda did not dwell on these thought. She was not prone to mulling retrospectively over past decisions.
“Hi, what would you like?” she asked raising her eyebrows slightly and giving an encouraging smile which came naturally to her – one of the reasons, though she was unaware of it, why she so easily slipped into new communities and was accepted automatically. And also why she was considered by her boss to be a first class waitress – that and her wholesome prettiness which she would be irked to know had clinched so many positions for her in the past.
There was a second’s pause in which she stood facing the girl, who was enmeshed in a knee-length coat and endless scarf like a self-imposed straight-jacket of asphyxiating convolutions, and who clutched a solid wedge of books against her chest like a shield. Momentarily her eyes registered alarm and surprise as they held Miranda’s gaze. Then they flicked evasively to the side and in a thin pale voice the girl said,
“Could I have a coffee with milk please?” with a brittle politeness, and fell to chewing her lip and her eyes wandered plaintively over the plates of decadent cakes, parading their gluttonous wares shamelessly behind the glass display cabinet of the counter.
Who knows how long she would have stared enraptured had the coffee not been placed in front of her with a muted rattle of pragmatic china. Miranda caught once again the flash of panic that shot through the girl as she realised she was in the spotlight, that she had a part to play, and watched her hesitation and anxiety as she clumsily shifted the books onto one hip, hooked into her elbow, and slipped her bah off her shoulder to hang on the crook of the other arm. The girl’s consciousness of performing to a constant audience, and hating every minute, was palpable, and made Miranda feel awkward and uncomfortable. Anxious to relieve the tension for them both she said,
“No rush. Find yourself a table first if that’s easier.”
There was no-one else in the queue. Her compassion was further piqued as she noted the surreptitious glace the girl gave around the room before heading towards a corner table as far from the next as possible and the gaucheness of her movements as she turned back, fumbling handfuls of change and muttering apologies.
A torpor settled over the café, its illuminations colouring the pavement with increasing vibrancy as the dusk began to fall. It was mid-afternoon still, that anonymous time between three and four, neither lunch-break, nor yet the end of the working day. Custom was sporadic and low-key; students, housewives, pensioners and others whose lives allowed them to while away time of an afternoon in contemplation or literary pursuits. Miranda suspected several budding novelists who regularly left their coffee stagnating as they mutilated biros with anguished frowns.

One of the book-buried heads looked up quickly and seeing the time leapt into a flurry of packing and piling, pulling on layers of clothing with the urgency of a child at a party, desperate to get to the chocolate before the music stops. She made several rounds of the small table, retrieving an umbrella from beneath the chair, glancing this way and that, mentally running swiftly through a check list, before heading for the door. Just past the counter, she half turned and called breathlessly,
“Thank you so much!”
“You’re welcome!” Miranda replied as the door clattered shut. Her words faded out, the end of a brief vocal opus, leaving the hushed shuffles and coughs of the unwitting audience.
The girl was watching though, in admiration. The carelessly raised voice of the woman, which imparted such warmth and sympathy in its tone, impressed her, and she longed to attain such confident ease. She felt cold-hearted and thoroughly unworthy of a kind word from anyone. And as this went through her mind, a lump rose to her throat at the prospect of the utter desolation of her existence, before being banished before she allowed it to take hold. She concentrated again on the real and present, if transitory, pleasure of hot coffee, allowing the froth to linger on her tongue and savouring briefly the sinful hint of chocolate.

Jenny was still rifling through the scattered pin-board of her mind for something she was convinced had been buried at the bottom, and whose possible importance was niggling at her like a persistent mosquito. Time had leapt ahead again, always impatient, and she was very nearly too late to return her books if she was to be at the school gates on time. Her conscience was routinely haunted by the image of her daughters joyfully erupting from their classroom, searching the faces of the gathered grown-ups in vain, their features falling in confusion and uncertainty…
Her brief cup of tea had been much needed and was a relished post-lecture reward, but she automatically felt guilty at having put her own pleasure first.
The sky had dimmed to an impenetrable indigo against which the avenue of webbed branches stood out, but which seemed to hide a multitude of sins in its velvet depths. Silence spoke in fearful complicity with the sinuous sibilance of the wind that sadistically whipped at skin and unwrapped scarves in vicious whirls like an impatient Olympian deity. The cobbles harboured hidden puddles amid their uneven depths, maliciously hampering the approach to the library entrance, whose light, though welcome, was not so very warming. She slipped gratefully through the glass doors, attracting barely a glance from arrogantly over-stylish post-teens, and glad to avoid the all too frequent looks which in their curious blankness said ‘What are you doing here? You’re too old to be a student!’ with all the cruel frankness of youth.
Jenny was unperturbed by this and certainly would never consider herself a student – she had done that, played that role, two decades ago - and the label was alien to her current situation. The card, necessary to borrow books and enter lectures, was faintly amusing in its suggestion of proximity to this generation of bleached blondeness and self-consciousness, to whom three essays a term was a deeply stressful chore and an impediment to their hedonistic social lives. To her it was a treasured pleasure; she revelled in the reawakening of her intellect, stagnant with years of dog-tired baby-rearing and deadened by the mundane rigmarole of shopping and washing, cooking and ironing. It was a reversal she wished she could make clear to the stunningly oblivious young. She felt privileged to have a second chance to study at this stage, experienced yet not world-weary, comfortable in her skin, without the angst or idealism which blinkered one’s early years…
She returned her books to the librarian, who greeted her with a friendly respect - clearly unaccustomed as her features seemed to strain slightly as they lifted out of their disapproving glower like cold porridge giving a resentful bubble – and collected a further two which she had had the foresight to order and thereby save time. She glanced at the clock above the desk, which held a supercilious position, glaring down at the bustle of learned humankind, poling fun at their anguished entreaties for a little more time, for one more book, for one last amendment. Time waits for no man, the harsh black numerals seemed to intone like tombstones, as the hands marched solemnly on. People moved in meaningless diagonals, some lingering, some impatiently diving and weaving through the maze of unpredictable bodies, groups gathering, hesitating, departing, all suddenly like so many colours in a kaleidoscope, or chattering budgerigars in an aviary.
Jenny left the building with a modest textbook on Medieval theology, which she slipped into her tapestry bag as she descended the shallow steps, slicked with light rain, and gleaming dully in the reflected strip-lights. The square was empty – no-one wanted to hang around on a cold, damp evening, and emerging figures sidled quickly off to one side or another, automatically hunching their shoulders or pulling down their brim of their hats. Jenny quickened her step, her mind skipping ahead two blocks to the school gates with a happy excitement she never approached without – the small faces drawing her on so she was unaware of anything else. In the dark, wet night, full of luminous reflections, she saw a green light and, turning her head unconsciously to the right, stepped briskly into the road – but never reached the other side.

Emma sat at a table in the corner of the café, her eyes glazed, but still fixed on the book she had not read a word of, unable to move for fear of attracting attention. Miranda wiped down the surfaces in preparation for closing time and wished the girl would go of her own accord. Both heard in the almost empty café the distant sounds of traffic in the dark city, and disregarded them as so much ever-present background noise in the quiet struggle of their own lives.