A Bastard in PB!

("The idea comes to me from outside of me - and is like a gift. I then take the idea and make it my own - that is where the skill lies." (apparently said by Brahms) And it is what I understand about the nature of ideas... that they are free and available... and not something that come from inside us, and so do not belong to us in any real sense... and what makes anything your own is what you do with it. What is your own is the thing you have done with it and not ever the idea itself. Makes sense really.)

‘BASTARD TOUCHED MY ARSE’

Guthrie stood at the window of The Bobbing Boat café. He was watching a woman seated on a green wooden bench in the street just opposite. There was something about her and he wasn’t sure what it was. Something that snagged at his memory.

He called Eileen over. She ignored him or hadn’t heard. There was so much to do if she was to ask to get away on time this afternoon. He looked across at Eileen. She was moving between tables, and smiling at the customers. They were smiling back at her. He wondered what it was had put her in such a good mood. He hadn’t heard her swear once today, not even under her breath.

Guthrie looked back to the green bench opposite. The woman was gone. It bothered him, but again he was not sure why that was. He looked to left and right but the woman was nowhere to be seen.

Then Eileen was at his shoulder. ‘Coffee machine’s fucking playing up again,’ she said. And there it was: everything as it should be in his world. He pretended to be cross with her and scolded her for swearing, scolded her quiet so no one else could hear.

‘And I’m not serving that bugger at the table by the door,’ she said. ‘Bastard touched my arse as I passed. I swear he did. A gentle pat like I was something he owned. You’ll have to serve him.’

Then she was away from him and smiling at the other customers as though nothing had happened. He watched her again. Just for a moment. The way the fabric of her skirt moved against her, the line of her underwear showing through her white blouse. She was making an effort to be all that Guthrie had asked of her. Dressing properly, like the maids at The Victoria Hotel. Bringing a bit of class to The Bobbing Boat. And though she was still swearing, she did it more and more so that only he heard.

The man by the door was a visitor. Guthrie saw the way his eyes followed Eileen around the room. Guthrie believed what Eileen had told him, about the touching. It happened sometimes. They usually tipped extra, his sort, and she would have to learn how to deal with them. For now Guthrie would take the man’s order and be as nice as nine-pence to him.

Later, after the man had drunk his coffee and paid and left, Eileen came up behind Guthrie and laid one hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I owe you. And sorry about the swearing.’ Then she kissed him on the cheek. He wanted to rush off to the mirror to see if she had left a mark.

They worked later than normal, later than either of them had expected, and when Eileen had gone Guthrie dropped the tip the man had left into Eileen’s jar and a little extra besides. He looked up suddenly, aware somehow that he was observed. On the other side of the closed door stood the woman he had watched earlier. She’d seen what he’d done with the money and was smiling at him through the glass.