On Friday at Wirral Writers we were sharing our Christmas stories, an annual event that always yield some lovely little gems. I got a really nice response to my story The Coffee Shop Don. It is kind of a Christmas truce but the soldiers involved don't normally have a cenotaph. I like the characters enough in this to think about developing them. See what you think...
The Coffee Shop Don
The Coffee Shop Don sits in the window of Rosa's Cafe sipping his
heavily sugared double expresso. A small biscotti perches on the edge of the
saucer. These days he has to dunk them. Back in his heyday his teeth were
fearless, for Rosa's biscotti are harder than the concrete that built the
Marylebone flyover. But his dunking is discrete, the Don has a reputation to
maintain.
The Coffee Shop Don's seat faces down the Edgware Road, never
towards Kilburn and the Irish. A wise old head knows facing the wrong way at
the wrong time means trouble. As a child in the backstreets of Istanbul he
learned the value of that lesson. He thoughtfully feels the scar just above his
temple. Nearly. His father, with eyes darker than the expresso, dealt with his
attackers.
'Pick your friends carefully,' his father told him, 'But pick
your enemies with even greater care.'
When he sent his young son to London he wept. The Don still
remembers the tickle of his father's moustache on his cheek, the smell of sweat
mixed with tobacco from tiny black cigarettes.
'Remember we are soldiers,' he implored as he patted the firm,
proud cheek of his scion. 'We are soldiers in the war against the rich. But we
have our honour and our codes. The rich man only has his greed. So fight
bravely in these foreign lands.'
His son did not cry, he was too afraid. So he hugged his mother
as if he was going to the souk and leapt aboard the truck. He didn't open his
eyes until they'd left Turkey.
The Don arrived in England on Christmas Day, the day the border
guards are careless. He remembers the
poor Lebanese family that took him in; the cold; the smell of cabbage; the
green parks and incurious white faces. His letters home told of lowly place in
the organisation, the errands, and then promotion as figures moved, some to
prison, some to eternity. He remembers his parent's pride, the bragging and
backslapping when he came to visit.
His father's enemy turned out to be those tiny, black cigarettes.
The Coffee Shop Don orders another double expresso and waits. He
has the infinite patience of the oriental. All come to him. They sit and he
listens to their woes. He says very little, deploying silence like a marksman.
Eventually they pay, after the tears and begging. After they leave the Don
orders an expresso and a biscotti. His hand never shakes as he lifts the tiny
cup, even when the news is bad.
On the Edgeware Road a few Christmas lights gleam, but they are
hopelessly out-blinged by the gold in the jewellers. Arabic writing scrolls
elegantly above the English signs. Red buses and black taxis remind him this is
not Istanbul. A lack of drunks on Christmas Eve tell him this is not quite
England. Further down the Edgeware Road the Irish of Kilburn will stumble from
the pub to Midnight Mass.
The door of the coffee shop swings open and a flock of women in
black hijabs enter, tempted by the swirling creamy confections for a late night
treat. Behind them is a man in a black leather jacket and hair as dark as the
Don's used to be. He stands opposite the Don, and offers a pale hand in
salutation. Eyes of Irish blue meet eyes of faded brown. The Don inclines his
head, the Irishman sits. A parcel slides towards the Don. He smells it.
Tobacco. He slides one back in return. The Irishman smells pastries scented
with honey and almonds. Eyes meet again.
Twenty four hours. The number is not spoken but the eyes soften on both
sides of the table. Then both men lift their tiny cups and sip, biscotti perched
on the edge of the saucer.
