I close the shop at five thirty, prompt, as I like to clean the shop before Egg Heads is broadcast. It is not a suitable alternative to Countdown, but after Des Lynam left, I must say there was very little in it for the ladies. This evening, however, I had to pop to the supermarket for one or two essentials. I was dithering over brands of washing up liquid (my usual was not on offer, you see) when I instinctively felt a pair of eyes staring into the back of my head. In such cases as these, the options are simple:
- Mock ignorance and walk away blithely
- Turn and confront the starer
- Fling the Morning Fresh at them and run
"Miss Mortimer, isn't it?" said the man as he placed the bottles in my basket. I must say, I thought this very forward.
"Yes?" I said, my mouth suddenly dry and unable to close properly. I accepted the hand that was offered. It was warm, rough and gripped me firmly, though without pain.
"Owain Gruffudd," he said. I recognised the faint Welsh lilt to the accent. "I have heard so much about you."
"Have you?" I said, surprised.
"Betty is effusive in praise of your florentines." I coloured at this, and looked at my shoes. Fifteen florentines in one sitting. Maud, you should be ashamed of yourself.
"That is very kind," I mumbled.
"I hope you don't mind my troubling you like this," he continued, holding a timorous hand out that appeared to be torn between offering me a friendly arm-pat and grabbing his keys and running for the door. I wished he would do the latter. "Its just..." He sighed. I pulled a face. "I seem to be terribly good at ruining things."
Of course, I had no idea what to say in such a circumstance. I could see, indeed it was patently obvious that some sort of heartfelt confession was about to pour forth from the man. Did he not know I was a spinster? Could he not tell that my sixty odd years of singlehood had not prepared me for such an outburst? Was there no sense of decorum in the fellow that he did not notice the Morrisons detergents aisle was not quite the place for this conversation. He must have read my thoughts, as at that moment he asked if I would join him for a cup of tea in the cafe.
Reader, I parried him.
"I must get home, really..." I prattled.
"Please?" Maybe it was the fluorescent light accentuating the sadness in his eyes, or the fact that despite running a successful tea shop, I rarely had time to indulge in a cup myself, or perhaps it was due to my feeling as awkward as a child on a first day in a new school, and being introduced as Jack Schitt. I relented. I put my washing up liquid in my basket and followed him to the cafe area. I noticed with a sneer they served only two types of tea, from a terrifyingly small steel tea pot.
As we sat, he gave a small mirthless laugh and commented on the irony of him bringing me to an establishment such as this, given my own "delightful" enterprise. I batted the compliment, however patronizing ('delightful', indeed), away with a wave of the hand. As expected, the tea was awful.
"I suppose you think me quite mad, Miss Mortimer." I brushed the treacle tart crumbs away from my lips and replied that I did not. He smiled. "I am not mad. They say that love is a madness, don't they?" My eyes widened. "I disagree."
I have to admit, during his confession my mouth hung open like one of those children with runny noses who stare at my glass cabinet of cakes as if it possessed magical properties (it does, of course, but they don't know that). I only noticed this indecorousness when a small piece of pastry fell from my lips and bounced off my fork, onto the table. I snapped it shut, though, thankfully, Mr. Gruffudd did not seem to notice. He was too busy cataloguing Betty's charms and virtues to care about licentious old spinsters who allow food to fall out of their mouths. And, to be honest, he did go on a bit. I was starting to tire when he attempted to find the particular shade of grey to liken her eyes to ('periwinkle' apparently, though I'd have plummed for 'glaucoma raincloud') and, I cannot deny, I did drift away as he progressed to her cheeks and lips. Before he could venture any further south, I raised a hand.
"I'm aware of her capacity for ensorcellment," I lied, finding his wide, Betty-adoring eyes rather too saccharin for my palate. "What I cannot see is any particular problem."
"Ah," he said. "My problem. My problem. Oh Miss Mortimer!" I suppose it would have been pertinent at that point to tell him to use my Christian name, but, after the agitation he'd caused, I was feeling peevish.
"Betty and I were childhood sweethearts," he continued. "We were to be married, though before we did, I decided I must travel. I am a surgeon, you see. I take my work very seriously. I did not think it enough to fix the hearts of those whose diets and respiratory habits procured for themselves an sickly denouement. Smokers and drinkers and men whose lives were full of vice and torpidity did not deserve my skill. My hands were not made to pick up the pieces of their inactivity. And so I took my hands abroad, to help those who were not so fortunate as us, to save the lives of hard working folk who had no other choice."
"India, was it?"
"No, New Zealand." Oh. I frowned in confusion, but he continued. "As such, I lost Betty. She would not come with me. Her mother was sickly and needed constant care. She felt abandoned. I felt betrayed. My compunction to help was so strong, so important, it was a slight to me that she would not follow. It was stronger, it seems, than my love. As it was, I married a fellow surgeon in Christchurch, Alana her name was, and Betty, well you know what happened to her. My wife died three years ago and I made it my quest to find my first love and finish what I should have finished all those years ago."
"And she said no?"
"On the contrary," he said, looking at his shoes. "She was delighted to see me. We went out on little jaunts, we fed ducks, we discussed times gone by and hopes for the future. We promised ourselves to each other once again." His face darkened. "And then..."
"And then?"
I suppose I was expecting some sort of surprise-my-wife's-not-dead tale, or some unidentified skeleton in Betty's cupboard, a secret child perhaps, or a filthy habit, or some such like. What he said next was definitely not on my expected list.
"And then, Miss Mortimer," he sighed. Again I refrained from allowing him to call me Maud. "And then I made the terrible decision to disclose some information pertaining to my occupation."
"You're not a vivisectionist, are you?"
"Good Lord, no!" He chuckled and patted my hand. I found myself blushing, stupid old woman that I am. "Dear me, no. I'm a Houngan."
"Pardon me?"
He smiled at me, a strange thing. I saw a flash in his eyes. "My dear Miss Mortimer, I am a Voodoo Priest."
Well, what do you say to that? All I managed was: "Oh, do call me 'Maud'."
Ridiculous.
