“You order at the till.”
“Sorry? Can’t you just take my order here?” I murmur under my breath as the barista walks away to check his phone.
I’m in a new cafe, just opened about a mile from where I live. A nice part of town.
Just done the weekly shop. I’m tired. Definitely need a cuppa before heading home. Is that rain?
I’m standing in a queue of five or six people. Two very elderly women join me. They must be in their nineties, surely. Are they twins?
The queue is moving very slowly. Should I pick up a tray, I wonder, as I spot a stack of them piled up at the end of the counter.
There are tables and chairs stretching out on to a terrace outside. Shame it’s raining. Reminds me of a cafe in that village near Toulouse when the kids were little. At this time of year, in Britain, you think about those warmer, happier times.
“Table number?”
“Oh sorry,” I say, taken by surprise, “I don’t know, hang on.”
I hurry back to the table only to find a woman sitting there. I pick up my bags.
There’s a table outside partially covered by an awning.
“Twenty-three,” I say, returning to the barista.
“Or you can wait here for your order?”
I glance back at the table in case someone else grabs it, and take some cash from my pocket.
“We only take cards I’m afraid.”
“Oh, OK.” I pull out a card.
One of the elderly women sits down. She doesn’t look well. I’m pleased I did that first aid course recently; you never know. The rain outside is getting heavier, and having sat under the awning outside, I soon learn that it doesn’t keep the rain off. The wind is blowing it towards me.
Something’s going on. Someone’s dropped their tray. Hell of a clatter. One of the elderly women is lying flat on the floor, tray and tea spilt beside her. Her sister, well I’ve presumed it’s her sister, is kneeling over her. Other people are rushing to her aid. Shit! I must go and help. I join the throng.
Too late. A woman is on the case. Someone whispers that she’s a doctor. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. “Move away, please,” she cries as she proceeds with her lifesaving technique. Oh – that’s how you do it.
The other sister is holding back her tears. The barista offers her a cup of tea. He’s smiling. Her sister seems to be responding.
I go back to my wet seat. Best get out of the way. The tea’s good, maybe the raindrops have added to the taste.
Two burly ambulance men enter the cafe. I’m suddenly interrupted. It’s the rude barista. “It’s a bit wet out here, sir, why don’t we find you a table inside.”
“Thank you,” I say, aghast. He places my tea, milk and teapot on his tray and marches inside. I follow.
The ambulance men have lifted the elderly woman on to a stretcher. They make their exit followed by her sister and the doctor who’s comforting her.
“Hope she’s OK,” says the barista.
“I don’t think standing in that queue for ages did her any good,” I say.
He puts my pot, teacup and milk down on an empty table. Another barista approaches and whispers some instructions into his ear.
“D’accord,” he replies to his colleague, and then says to me, “Let me get you a fresh pot, sir.”
“Oh, merci, monsieur,” I reply, as if I’m back in that small village cafe outside Toulouse.
I sit down, close my eyes. I am in another country.
Dafydd Roberts is an actor and musician
