I Only Went in for a Coffee. | Creative Fiction.

I only went in for a coffee, that was it. One cup. Maybe a slice of cake if it looked good. Bus was in what ,forty minutes? Enough time to sip, maybe check my phone.

Morning, stranger!

That’s how it started, woman behind the counter, bright red apron, hair in a bun so high it was practically defying gravity, name tag said Lorna, she said it like she’d known me since birth.

I ordered my coffee. She said, Sit wherever you like. But before I’d even picked a table she was at my elbow with a tray. “You’re not from here.”

Uh, no. Just passing through.

And there it was. Hook in mouth.

She slid into the chair opposite me like we’d arranged to meet. Where you from then? Oh wait let me guess.” She squinted at me. “Leeds. No? Manchester?

Bristol.

Ahh! Knew it was something with an ‘s’ in the middle, she said, like that made any sense at all.

I took a sip. It was actually really good coffee. Should’ve been my first warning.

So what brings you to Greendale? she asked.

“Bus connection,” I said. Had a couple hours, thought I’d

Oh, couple hours! You’ve seen our duck pond yet?

No...

She was already off. “Best ducks in the county. Not like the ones in Crowford. Those things’ll bite your ankles soon as look at you.”

I nodded politely, that was when she leaned in and lowered her voice like we were in on some conspiracy, “Course, that’s because of Trevor, you don’t know Trevor, do you?”

“No.”

Lucky you.

I thought maybe she’d leave after that. Nope.

She launched into a full retelling of The Trevor Incident of ’09, complete with hand gestures. Something about bread rolls, a swan costume, and a very confused wedding party. I was halfway through my cup when she said, Ooh wait here, and disappeared into the back.

I thought she’d gone to serve someone else. Nope again. She came back with a photo album.

This is me in the swan suit, she said, flipping pages.

It was all there her dressed as various animals for local events, a pie-baking contest, and what looked suspiciously like her on top of a tractor with the mayor. That’s when his trousers split. Right there. She jabbed the photo.

I laughed mostly out of politeness and tried to stand. Well, I should probably

You haven’t tried the oat slice.

The what?

Oat slice. Family recipe. My nan swore it kept her alive till ninety-three. That and sherry.

Before I could answer she was gone again. I glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes till the bus.

She came back, not with one oat slice, but three. Can’t pick a good one without a bad one to compare, she said, like it was the most logical thing in the world.

I took a bite. It was… fine. A little dry. She watched me like I was judging a talent show.

So… do you work here full-time? I asked, hoping small talk would turn the tide.

Oh, this isn’t work. This is my therapy. Keeps me sane. Well—sane-ish.” She winked. “Better than talking to my cat all day. Not that she’s not a good listener.

And then I got the cat’s life story. Which somehow segued into the history of the café. Which somehow segued into her theory that the postman was secretly a novelist. I’ve seen him scribbling in that little notebook. Probably about me.

I checked the time again. Fifteen minutes. My coffee was cold.

Anyway, she said, that’s when I decided to stop dating plumbers.

I blinked. Sorry what?

Oh, did I skip the bit with the sink?

Apparently I had. She backtracked, filling in the saga of the leaking tap, the missing wrench, and the man named Colin who’d ruined both her kitchen and her birthday.

The bell over the door rang. I thought, finally someone else will distract her. But it was just a teenage boy buying a can of Coke. She took his money in ten seconds flat and was back at my table.

Ten minutes to go.

I tried again. Well, I’d better

Not before I tell you the secret to that oat slice, she said.

And she told me, In graphic, oat-related detail, halfway through, she stopped suddenly, like a thought had just smacked her in the face.

Oh. You’re on a bus, aren’t you?

Yes! I said, standing so fast the chair scraped. And looked at my watch three minutes.

She gasped. Oh, you’ll never make it unless She grabbed the counter bell and rang it like a fire alarm. Brian! Get the man to the station!

From the kitchen emerged a tall man in flour-covered overalls, blinking like he’d just woken from a floury dream. “What?”

Bus. Station. Now! she ordered.

Brian shrugged, grabbed a set of keys, and we were off in a battered van that smelled like bread rolls.

We pulled up just in time to see the bus… pulling away.

Brian winced. Sorry, mate.

I sighed. “It’s fine. Next one’s in an hour, right?”

Two.

When I walked back into the café, Lorna was already waving from the counter. “Good news!” she called. I’ve got more oat slice!

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