by DJ Black
"You're a pretty little thing aren't you?" The old man had a friendly jocular manner.
Tracy giggled by way of reply, not knowing what else to say as she placed the rest of the tea things on the table in front of him. Instead of the usual 'dip' at the knees, she bent right forward so that a good portion of her thighs became visible under short waitress skirt. It was a cheap stunt, but since the old man was in a flirty mood she might get a better tip, she thought.
Two elderly ladies on the next table rocked back in disgust, their mouth moving as they muttered to one another under their breath. Tracy giggled again, but this time with a blush. She felt naughty. No, she was naughty, she amended.
Most of the customers at the sleepy seaside town tea shop were elderly. It was out of season and the only trade about came from the retired sort and the old people's home down the street.
Then she saw him. His look of disapproval fixed on her.
He was younger than most of the others, perhaps only in his early fifties, more than twenty years her senior anyway. He had the look of an old soldier, with rich white sideburns under thick jet black hair cut to a rash at the back and sides. She had seen him before and knew that he lived in a grand stand-alone house at the end of the promenade by the sea front. It was one of those Victorian town mansion type affairs set a little back so that it was higher than the other houses up the cliff road.
"You girl, stop dawdling and bring me my order," he challenged her.
As he spoke he took an old-fashioned fob-watch from his pocket and opened it to look at the time. He wasn't as posh as she had imagined, although he was well-spoken nonetheless. It was just that he didn't have the 'steady the buffs' parade ground manner she had expected. He spoke like her doctor or a teacher.
"Sorry Sir, I'll come at once," she called over to him, conscious that the two elderly ladies who saw her flirting were scowling at her now. "Coffee, wasn't it?"
"It most certainly wasn't," he said as he bristled indignantly. "I order a pot of tea for one with two iced ring-doughnuts."
"That's right Sir, eh... I'll go and get it." Her voice sounded coarse next to his, common even, and she knew that she spoke too loud.
It took some minutes to complete the order. Especially as Johnson the short order cook and beverage-maker insisted on arguing with her.
"So who did order the coffee?" he growled as he stared at the cup he had made and set on tray with a slice of apple pie.
"No one," she said wearily.
"Someone must have," he persisted.
"No, I got the order wrong," Tracy whispered, bouncing up and down as if she might have to go somewhere urgently, which she did of course. "Customer's waiting."
"So you got both parts of the order wrong, even the pie? How did you manage that?"
"It's busy, okay. Now just give me a pot of tea and the fucking doughnuts."
Outside in the tea room Anton Dexter had given up hope of getting his tea before he had to go. The air-headed blonde excuse for a waitress had taken too long. The trouble was she was too pretty and was too busy milking the old boys for their tips. He knew the type, thought the world owed her living. But she must be nearer thirty than twenty by now, he thought, too old to play those games.
In final surrender, he got up and marched across the room to cancel his order before leaving. It would be too impolite just to leave and besides he might want to come back another day.
He got to the kitchen door just in time to hear the last part of the exchange between the cook and the girl.
"What kind of behaviour is that? And the language," Dexter barked at Tracy. "Appalling service, if I wasn't in a rush, I'd put you over my knee. As it is, you can cancel my order."
Despite the loss of a customer, Johnson laughed out loud as Tracy blushed and all-but melted into the floor. To make matters worse the two old ladies and several other customers had heard the threat.
The next day Tracy was staring out of the window of the tea shop watching the rain. Not a soul had entered for an hour and by the look of the weather none were going to. So lost in boredom and catching flies was she, that she didn't even hear the bell ding.
"Oh heavens, you again," Dexter said when he saw her. "Lucky I'm not in a hurry this afternoon."
"Oh Sir, you startled me." Tracy blushed when she saw who it was. "Sorry about yesterday I was..."
"Tea and doughnuts please," he said snippily. "Or do you need it in writing? Crayon perhaps?"
Tracy blushed and hurried away. She wanted to be angry about his rudeness, but he was within his rights given her muck up the previous day.
Instead of giving the order to Johnson who had slipped out for a fag break, she took some effort to make up the tray herself; picking the best two doughnuts and making the tea in a large two-person teapot.
By the time she returned Dexter was in a better mood.
"Ah, lovely," he said rubbing his hands in expectation. "Listen sorry about what I said. Bit of a rough day."
"Not at all Sir," Tracy said with a suppressed giggle. "I expect it wouldn't do me any harm sometimes."
"Eh?" Dexter was puzzled. "What wouldn't?"
"Yesterday, you said..." Tracy blushed and demurred with her eyes.
"Oh that," Dexter laughed. "No, I meant the crayon remark and being a little short with you."
Instead of the sniggering giggle she usually employed, she laughed like a delicate bell and clapped her hands to her mouth.
"All you said was that I was a bit of a dummy," she said, pulling a face. "Fair comment, I call it."
"Oh I am sure you're not," Dexter replied magnanimously.
Tracy leaned back and stole a glance towards the kitchen and then she sat down at the table.
"I am a waitress in a stupid seaside teashop. I have been a waitress at one café or another since I left school more than ten years ago. I expect I'll be here or somewhere like it in another ten years."
"I see," Dexter said pensively, although he didn't at all and was rather disconcerted that the girl had sat down at his table.
In the forty minutes that followed, Tracy blurted out her whole life story. At one point Dexter managed to interrupt her to take a tea cup from the next table to pour her some tea.
"Oh ta," she said, barely breaking her stride.
Finally Dexter managed to get a word in and stood up to go.
"Here, keep the change," he said placing a 10 pound note on the table.
"It's only £4.50 Sir, it's too much." Tracy was mortified that she had descended on him like that. She had only meant to talk for a moment.
"Keep it." He waved her protests away. "Buy a book maybe."
"Thank you Sir."
Tracy watched him go with a sense of loss. He wouldn't be back again. There were other teashops with more competent staff. Then at the door he stopped and looked around.
"Tell you what, I live..." he began.
"I know where you live Sir," she said excitedly.
"Do you?" He paused as if considering or reconsidering something. Then deciding he added, "Well drop by and we'll talk. I used to be... well, I used to help people like you. Before I retired I mean. Come and see me."
Then he was gone.
Over the next several days, Tracy walked by Dexter's house several times in the hope of bumping into him. One night she had even leaned against a tree nearby in the rain until she had been drenched.
Even at the café she had started every time a new customer entered and looked up with a strange tingle in case it a was him.
On a good day she realised that she was just some silly kid to him and doubted he had any interest. Even his invitation had been out of politeness, she was sure of that.
Then finally, more than a week after his last visit to the tea shop, she plucked up the courage to knock on his door.
The town house entrance was of black wood with bearded pagan faces moulded from brick set above the doors and windows. They gazed sternly down at her as she waited. She was certain she was making a fool of herself. Then somewhere inside there was the sound of a footfall on something hard. A moment later the door rattled and then opened.
"Tracy," Dexter said with a hint of surprise. "Come in."
Tracy leaned forward nervously and then put one hesitant step on to the inside doormat.
"That's it," Dexter said encouragingly as if to a child.
The floor inside the door had a black and white chequer pattern in hard stone. She had seen one like it in other Victorian houses, but usually they were cracked or had missing tiles. This was immaculate and far more elaborate than the usual surviving patterns.
She walked with her head down as if in the presence of God, or a church at least. But if she had looked up, she would have seen the century old moulding in plaster elaborately carved into the ceiling.
"Come through to the drawing room and I'll make some tea," he said with an easy smile.
"I don't want to put you out," she said.
It was a ritual saying of her mother's, but in this case she thought he seemed too important to make her tea.
"No bother," he said breezily.
"I bet yours won't turn out as coffee," she said nervously.
"Oh, would you prefer coffee? I only have instant I am afraid," he said, suddenly less confident. He wasn't used to young people anymore.
"No, I mean... I got the order wrong, I was..." Tracy was flustered.
"Oh, ha, yes, I see. A joke." He forced a laugh. "You don't want my coffee, it's terrible."
They talked for a couple of hours and Tracy learned that he had been in various jobs in his life. None of them in the army, as it turned out. But he had been a teacher at a public school, a youth leader and a writer and lecturer in psychology of all things.
When she came to talk about herself, she found she had nothing to say, although Dexter seemed to have her thoroughly pegged on what little she did manage.
"Call me Anton," he said with a smile.
"Oh I couldn't possibly Mr Dexter Sir, I..."
"Okay, if it makes you more comfortable," he said soothingly, "but can we stick to Mr Dexter or Sir, using both is as old-fashioned as this house."
"Yes Sir." She relaxed. "What did you mean, you could help me?"
"Well, you could visit once a week say and I could listen to what you think and feel about your life and suggest things that might improve it. Give you advice and such," he offered.
"That sounds cool," she gushed.
"Good well let's make a start shall we."
"But what if I say something you don't like, or do something that is well... naughty?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well like, when I flirted with the old guys in the café or got the order wrong, I mean that was naughty wasn't it?"
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.