That Girl From Nowhere (6 page)

The barista turns from playing with the coffee machine and makes his way slowly to the counter. He’s almost languid as he walks, unrushed and carefree – either he’s the owner or he’s a very laidback employee. At 7 a.m., I suspect he’s the former because no employee that laidback would even consider getting here at this time. It’s early spring, at this time the world is drenched in the orange-grey half-light of this side of the planet still turning to face the Sun. ‘Sorry, we’re not open yet,’ the barista says.

‘Oh. Well, the “open” sign is showing and the door’s open, so I just assumed …’

He listens intently, carefully, to what I say. When I finish, he rests his elbows on the counter, rests his face in his hands. Frowns then sighs. ‘I used to open this early, believe it or not, but no one ever came. It seemed to me those who were up this early and were walking to work, needed to get nearer to Brighton before they got a coffee. Probably because they’d had one already at home and by this point of the journey another was too soon. On a weekend sometimes I open up early, catch the clubbers on their way home. Especially Pride weekend – I have a lot of customers that morning. But mostly, I open at eight and it works.’

‘Right. So I’m not going to get a coffee from you?’

‘Not before eight, sorry.’

‘OK.’ I don’t move. ‘I’m not going to get a coffee even though I’ve stood and listened to you talk for far longer than a person who doesn’t know you should have to?’ I say.

He grins. Naturally he has flawless teeth because he is disturbingly, almost unrealistically, handsome. He seems to have been drawn and constructed from the blueprint for the perfect man, rather than birthed like the rest of the human population: the shape of his eyes, the size of his nose, the curve of his mouth, are all precisely proportioned, his dark brown skin is smooth and touchable, and his hair is shaved at the sides and at the back, short and neat on top.

‘I suppose I could make an exception just this once,’ he says. ‘It’ll teach me to remember to lock the door.’

‘Thank you.’ I unhook my bag from over my shoulder and place it on the black vinyl padded stool beside me. It’s not often my cheekiness pays off. I hop up on to the stool next to my bag.

‘Don’t get comfortable,’ he says. ‘It’s a coffee to go.’

‘I know, but there’s nothing wrong with sitting while I wait.’

He moves to the far side of his machine, places coffee beans into it. There’s a brief grinding sound before he removes the small metal basket, the shape and size of a small tea sieve. He taps down the top with what looks like a metal stamp. In all the times I’ve been to cafés to buy coffee, I’ve never watched someone make it before. There’s always been a queue, a rush, something better to look at. Watching him work is fascinating. When he fits the solid metal sieve thing into the front of the machine, he grabs a paper cup and stands it beneath the curved metal spout where he inserted the sieve.

‘Where are you coming from with that cute little accent?’ he asks over his shoulder. While he speaks he pushes a button and the black liquid of my coffee swirls down the curved spout into my cup.

‘ “Little” accent?’ I reply.

He bobs down in front of his fridge, removes milk and glugs some into a metal jug. He moves to the other end of the machine and places the jug over the spout that I know is the milk frother. It hisses a little as he heats and froths the milk.

‘Sorry, where are you coming from with that cute accent of yours?’ he corrects.

‘Nowhere,’ I reply. In my head, in my heart, that is where I am from: nowhere. ‘I’m from nowhere.’

‘Everyone’s from somewhere,’ he says.

‘
Not me
,’ I reply silently.

‘I can’t place your accent. Usually I’m quite good with them, since I speak to so many people on a regular basis. But yours, it’s a mystery.’

‘I was born in Brighton and lived out near Lewes until I was about three, so that’s where most of my accent comes from, I guess. We then moved to a place called Otley just outside Leeds where I lived most of my life, I went to university in Liverpool, and recently I moved to Leeds proper, which has all probably influenced my voice. Add to that the fact my dad was Scottish, and my mum, even though she’s from Leeds, sounds like she grew up in Buckingham Palace, and you get an accent like mine.’
Add to that the fact that I’ve never felt I’ve belonged anywhere and you get a girl from nowhere. You get me.

The milk is frothed and hot, so he moves back to my cardboard cup and pours it in then spoons on the white foam. ‘Wouldn’t you say that was more “everywhere” than nowhere?’ the coffee guy says.

‘Depends on how you look at it, I suppose,’ I reply.

‘Most things do – depend on how you look at them, I mean,’ he says. The white, moulded plastic lid with the cut-out oblong drinking hole is fitted on to the cup with a dull pop.

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ I say to him. We stand at the door, his hand resting on the metal handle. I don’t want to leave. I’d like to sit here, experience the world through the picture windows, and to carry on chatting to this person.

‘It’s a cappuccino,’ he states. ‘I know you asked for a coffee, but you look like you’re going to have a cappuccino kind of day.’ He makes no move to open the door. Maybe he doesn’t want me to leave either. Maybe I’ve fascinated him enough for him to let me stay a while longer.

‘I’m not sure what a cappuccino type of day is, but I’m looking forward to finding out.’

His gaze drifts casually to my left hand, the one not holding the cup. ‘That’s an impressive number of rings,’ he says.

I am a walking advert for my work: I always have on at least my butterfly pendant, a necklace which holds a couple of rings, earrings, and at least one ring on every finger. Each ring shows off a different technique I have tested out, gives clients something solid and real to examine. My hands feel naked, vulnerable and incomplete without my rings; my neck feels bare and unfinished without my necklaces.

‘Thank you,’ I say to him.

‘Any of them …’ he stops, embarrassment suddenly crawling across his features like an army of ants out looking for cake crumbs. ‘Erm … any of them, real?’

That wasn’t what you were going to ask
, I think.
I’m surprised you were going to ask the other thing, but that wasn’t what you were going to ask
. ‘If you mean are any of them made from precious metals, then they all are.’

‘Right, right. Of course.’ His hand jerks open the door. ‘I’ll see you then?’

‘I might drop by again.’

‘Well, you do that. What’s your name, out of interest?’

‘I told you, I’m That Girl From Nowhere.’

‘Cool. I’m Tyler. No way near as exotic as yours, but I thought I’d tell you. In case you wanted to know.’

‘Bye, Tyler,’ I reply.

‘Bye, TGFN,’ he says.

To: Jonas Zebila

From: Abi Zebila

Subject: Just a quickie

Tuesday, 2 June 2015

Jonas,

Gran is coming home today. Mummy actually told me that she’d rather Gran went to somewhere people could take better care of her but Daddy wouldn’t hear of it.

Mummy seems so sad, so burdened. She loves looking after Lily-Rose, she told me that, but everything else seems too much for her at the moment.

The other day I was in the loft looking for my old dolls’ house that Ivor has been promising to bring down for Lily-Rose for months. In one of the boxes I found Mummy’s drawings, paintings and sketches, like the ones she made on the boxes we used to sleep in as babies. She’s so talented. She could teach art or even sell some of her stuff. Over the years she’s drawn and sketched and painted a lot of butterflies. They’re breathtaking. No two butterflies are the same, but the patterns on the wings are so perfectly symmetrical, you’d think they were done on a computer. I sat there going through them and completely forgot the time.

When I’d finished going through the artwork, I felt almost bereft that it was over. I couldn’t help wondering why she stopped drawing and painting except for the stuff on our boxes.

Is that what’s going to happen to me? Am I going to become so consumed by being a mother and wife that I end up giving up my passions? That’s what scares me about being with Declan properly. The idea that I’ll lose myself; I’ll simply become an extension of him and Lily-Rose, and I’ll disappear.

When I was cleaning up the dolls’ house with Mummy and Lily-Rose, I asked Mummy why she never decorated any of our boxes with butterflies since she’d practised them so many times. She looked alarmed and said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I saw your artwork in the loft. That was why I was so long. I liked the butterfly drawings the most. I was wondering why you didn’t decorate any of our boxes with butterflies. And actually, why did you stop drawing?’

‘I only decorate the baby boxes, you know that,’ she said.

‘What about not putting any butterflies on one of our boxes?’

She just stared at me like I was talking a different language until Lily-Rose said, ‘Can I see the butterflies?’

Mummy frowned at me and gave me this
Now look what you’ve done
look, and said, ‘There is nothing to see.’ And that was the end of that. She got up from the floor in the living room where we were doing the cleaning and went off to start dinner. If I had a talent like that I’d be talking about it all the time, not pretending I didn’t know what my own daughter was talking about. What’s the betting if I go back up to the loft tonight those pictures will have disappeared?

What do you think? Was I being insensitive? Maybe she had a miscarriage and the butterfly box would have been for the baby she’d lost. Oh, I feel awful now. Maybe that’s it. Why she feels so distant sometimes. It would make sense. I know I’d feel worried about everything if I went through that. Add that to how Gran treats her sometimes and I’m not surprised she doesn’t share much with me. Sorry, I’m being insensitive to you now.

I’m not sure if you want to talk about what happened, but how are you and Meredith after everything? I’m guessing because I haven’t heard anything to the contrary that nothing’s changed? I’ve been keeping an eye online on what you’ve been up to. Congratulations on your award. I’m really proud of you.

I miss you. Remember how it used to be me and you against Ivor? That man always took himself far too seriously even when he was, like, twelve. At least you knew how to have a laugh. I wish … I miss you. I know I said that already but it needs repeating. As many times as I can until you reply. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

Love,

Abi

xxxxx

P.S. Mrs L says hello. Again!

Mum is in her pink silk dressing gown, sitting on the sofa, staring into space when I return to the flat. The TV is off and the room is now bright from the rising sun.

I was heading for the shop and my workshop, but for some reason my feet had turned towards home instead when I left the café, Beached Heads. I thought it was because I was bunking off work, but actually, I must have known on some level that this would be a bad day for Mum. It’s been almost three weeks without a serious setback, so today she is obviously due one.

Usually a healthy-ish pink, Mum’s face is pale, each line more pronounced than usual. Her blue eyes are glassy and unfocused. Grief. Grief has made her fragile, delicate and friable; sorrow has carved itself deep into every part of her.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I whisper. Along with my bag I place my half-drunk coffee on the TV shelf in the living room, then go to her. She doesn’t move. I put my arms around her and gently tug her towards me. We’re not the huggy type, Mum and I, but she needs this.

‘I’m not meant to be without him,’ she says.

It’s been too short a time for her not to feel like this, and too long a time we’ve already spent without him.

‘I think feeling like that is normal,’ I say. Anything else I say will sound trite and rubbish and as if I’m telling her how she should grieve. My mother’s grief is a world away from mine. He was my dad, he was her whole world. Even before he became ill Mum didn’t seem to function very well without him. If he was away for whatever reason she would find it difficult to concentrate, she’d be up and down several times a night, would stare into space as if counting down the minutes until he returned.

I found it hard every day, knowing I wouldn’t see him again, wouldn’t be with him again – Mum must have found it impossible. Despite everything, I couldn’t have left her in Leeds on her own. She would have fallen apart.

‘Clemency, I’m so glad I have you. Please don’t leave me. You must promise me you won’t do that to me. You won’t leave me.’

When Mum says things like this, however infrequently, they are said to last a lifetime, to burn in my head like a beacon in case I forget who she is and what she means to me. When Mum begs in her own quiet way, she is begging me not to do that thing I could do that would replace her. When Mum pleads and asks me not to leave her, and it probably is once in a blue moon, she is imploring me not to look for my biological parents. She doesn’t want me to find the woman who gave birth to me. To her, it’s not about me needing to find people who look like me, those who could hold the pieces that complete the puzzle of the quirks of my personality or adding another branch to my family tree that could help me to stop feeling like I’m from nowhere and could be from somewhere. To her, it’s a source of unknown terror and anxiety.

Mum doesn’t have Dad any more so the thought of me finding another mother, maybe half-siblings and maybe even finding another father, is frightening to her. Her fears have been heightened, cranked up to a level nearing hysteria now Dad isn’t here to reassure her she wouldn’t be replaced. He was good at that, at calming her fears and encouraging her to accept any decisions I made.

Even then,
even then
, it’s always been an unspoken agreement that I wouldn’t do it while she was alive. Me moving to Brighton, where I was born, must have pushed the panic button in her mind. She must have been convinced that I was about to renege on our deal. Her fears are mingled, like dye in water, with her grief and uncertainty about the future.