David Gilligan
All we need to see is Ben, in his Hawthorn football club beanie, hum in through the front door of our café and the team swings into action. The chairs are pushed back and his favourite table is turned so that he can read comfortably. Within a minute a steaming long black sits at the corner of the table and a Herald Sun lies open at the sports page.
Ben and his passenger are strapped together and riding the afternoon thermals high above Queenstown. In the distance Ben sees a hawk rising with the spiraling currents of warm air. He explains that the hawk has found a thermal and he aims the glider toward the bird. They feel themselves rising. Ben is an experienced paraglider pilot and he senses the familiar mix of excitement and anxiety as his passenger asks: ‘How high are we?’
A sudden gust of wind surprises Ben as they enter their descent; he firmly pulls the glider back into control. The forecast storm has arrived early. He struggles to keep the glider headed for the safe landing area and feels the leading winds from this new storm pulling him off course. Treetops begin to rush by below their feet as Ben aims for a clearing in the distance. In a moment they are crashing through the trees and then to the ground below.
Ben and I often chat as he enjoys the ritual of his daily coffee. We talk sport, in particular football. Ben’s time alone is spent reading about his beloved Hawks and studying the form of every other team in the competition; he wants to do well in the tipping. He has an art scholarship and paints with the brush held in his mouth. Ben often tells me he should be at home painting but I get the feeling he loves being out and about. I often see him with his young daughter, who rides on the back of his electric wheelchair; they fly past the café, Hawthorn scarf waving in the breeze and a look of mischief in Ben’s eyes.
Dining alone in a café is expected and welcomed. Your table becomes a refuge from where you choose to engage or observe. Some diners look for company and conversation; others make it clear—this is their time.
Tess dined alone at our bar every weekday for eight years. She spoke with a gentle British accent, in the manner of someone well educated in England. Her first visit each day was for her morning coffee. Tess never ordered, the coffee essence poured like honey into her cup even before she had paid. At lunch, she would sit gracefully on one of the tall bar stools in our window, wondrously balancing her lunch on the narrow bench whilst reading the newspaper.
I remember her on one occasion proudly introducing me to her son, and yet, our conversations rarely allowed us to reveal much about ourselves. Two years ago she stopped coming for lunch. She had said it was time for a change. I thought about asking her if there had been another reason why, but I knew she would smile, finding unpleasantness difficult, and tell me again that it was time for a change. Perhaps that is all it was.
I watch the milk as it spins in a vortex, an initial hiss then a gentle purr as the steam wand works its magic. The grinder clicks into action and the aroma of freshly ground beans fills the air. It is 3.00 pm Saturday afternoon and, as she has done for years, Ellen arrives for her cappuccino. Ellen sits straight at her table and reads from behind fine-rimmed glasses; her hair is greying, short and neat, her cheeks are rosy and her eyes bright, but there is fragility about her.
I take my time over her coffee. She once told me, ‘When you make my coffee it is always so creamy and smooth.’ The compliment stays in my mind so I try to make sure it is that way every time. Ellen savours her coffee and chats with the staff. She observes as well, and often surprises me with her good-natured insights into the café team. Ellen stopped coming for a while, we heard she was unwell. One Saturday, months later, she walked through the door at her usual time, a little grumpy about now having to drink herbal tea but still smiling and curious as to what had been happening.
It is late in the day, the black vinyl floor shines and the bentwood chairs are upturned on the table tops. There is one corner table still occupied. She had rushed in looking for a very late lunch and breathed a sigh of relief when I told her there was still time for a sandwich and a coffee. ‘I have just finished a three-hour presentation,’ she said, ‘I need some time alone.’ I told her she had come to the right place.