A Table For Two

By Tom McElligott

Within the book of short stories lie comedy, mystery and tales of the vagaries of life and death. The collection begins on introduction with the title story ‘A Table For Two’ where the eccentricities of young and old are played out over a cup of tea in Momma’s Cafe.
Meeting the peculiarities of being selfish with Mr Crusty in ‘Grumpy’s Coffey Morning’ and Derry in ‘Better Late Than Never’ tells with some subtle humour how the lives of others are affected by them.
The frailties of reaching old age and difficulties in making delicate decisions, tell their story in ‘Losing Touch’ ‘An Old Age Question’ and in ‘Counting Down The Clock’. While three Flash Fiction stories are included in ‘Stone Cold Man’, ‘Arnie and Grunty’ and in ‘Nosey Parkers’ which is taken from a rural village, where nothing is missed.
In stories taken from the later part of the book, a woman is visited by the ghost of her past in ‘Can I Tell You Something.’ And in ‘Black Cats Have Black Kittens’, a woebegone misfortune returns to Gossiptown in search of answers, while a neurotic looks back over the dark ways of his life and obsession in finding love in ‘Meeting Constance’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Mar 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463357798

Tom McElligott

Tom McElligott stories, poetry and photography have featured in several publications including ‘Losing Touch’ and ‘Moments Thought’ The Clare Champion, ‘A Table for Two’ Limerick Writers Anthology No 12, ‘A Cup of tea’ Limerick City of Culture Anthology The Hearts of Limerick, ‘Stone Cold Man’ Liberties Flash Fiction, ‘Leaving the Country’ Write.ie Website Tell Your Own Story and ‘The Witching Tree’ UL Ogham Stone Journal. He was born in Israel and lives in Limerick. He is married to Alice and they have three children.

Book preview

A TABLE FOR TWO

Collection of Short Stories

Tom McElligott

Copyright © Tom McElligott 2017

First published in Ireland by

The Limerick Writers’ Centre

12 Barrington Street, Limerick, Ireland

www.limerickwriterscentre.com

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All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Book and Cover Design: Lotte Bender

Cover Image: Author

Managing Editor The Limerick Writers’ Centre: Dominic Taylor

Ebook Formatting: Máire Baragry

Available as an e-book at www.smashwords.com

All characters in A Table for Two are fictitious.

A CIP catalogue number for this publication is available from The British Library

Financially Supported by The Limerick Writers’ Centre Community Publishing Project

For Alice, Suzanne, Louise and Deirdre.

Thank you for your help and encouragement.

A TABLE FOR TWO

I got up early to have the longer day, not knowing that my transgression with courteousness would stir up a regrettable incident. My fault, I should say, brought about by my petulant aversion to sip a cup of tea and read the ‘‘daily’’ without interruption in solitary.

In the café, all that I had to do was pull out the vacant seat by the bay window, offer it to the old dear who wished to sit on it and make some friendly small talk. But I didn’t.

That morning, I arrived at ‘‘Momma’s Cafe’’ at twenty to eight. It was my first visit. Pinned on the door, a crudely written note advised; ‘‘pee with tea - no tea no pee’’ -¬ signed Momma. Once inside, a dull sounding bell tingled, announcing my arrival to a rotund moustached man with a carbuncle on his cheek. He was standing in the kitchen, wearing a black and white striped apron, a small white cap and a long tiresome face.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘Ugh,’ he grunted, throwing a peculiar look in my direction.

People like him, a customer communicator, had a nose for sussing out people like me, who may have had a discernible look of early waking contrariness.

First impressions had prompted me to up and leave, until Fatso eked out an economical grin, through yellow gritted teeth and asked; ‘what can I get ya.’ Then, I thought what the hell. I wasn’t expecting any fancy frills, why not? I ordered a pot of tea.

I was not in the mood to be joined by a sipping expresso or tea drinker, spitting out garbled words through a mouth full of ketchup on scrambled egg, maple syrup laden crepes or whatever.

My trouble began, when she chose to join me. Selfish, I may have seemed to her but freedom of choice to sit on one’s own with a cuppa or not, rankled with me.

One small rectangular table, a plastic red flower in a gaudy yellow vase, two pots of tea, one croissant, a forgotten small jar of blackcurrant jam and my daily paper, lay between us when the word jousting began.

I hadn’t figured on the stinging tongue of my uninvited opposite, a weedy little octogenarian, who subtly choose to differ with my indulgence to be solitary. Snide and telling were the words that she used, without a requirement to be verbose, their meaning being somewhat with holding. While at the same time, drip feeding just enough venom in those small worded salvos, to leave no misunderstanding of what she meant and teach me a lesson in the process.

Not that I was an oddball or anything like that, perish the thought. But perhaps having the propensity to be seen as being a bit whimsical and out of sorts at first light.

An Edith Piaf recording played a moody song in a nasal drone, amid scratching sounds and intrusions of popping invasive crackles.

Leaning my finger on the muslin curtain, I wiped away a peephole on the condensation of the window and looked across the busy street. I couldn’t help noticing. Cars honked at her. She hip hopped across the street, playing old age Russian roulette with the tootlers and shaking her brolly at them in defiance, as if exercising her right of the road through her seniority.

Hiding behind the newspaper with one eye standing sentry, I took intermittent peeps at the narrow entrance door.

And then, at exactly eight o’clock everything changed. The doorbell tingled once more. God only knows why. She, the old lady, had made it across the street and stood in front of Fatso, looking irate and pointing. He took little notice of her. She cast a wincing eye at the vacant seat at my table and stared at it or me or both.

There she stood, arms folded, holding her index finger to her lips, moving from foot to foot in a will I won’t I consideration. She shuffled towards me. I pulled open the paper, double page wide and high. Selfish git, stern faced and rude as hell.

All of her five foot nothing presented itself before me. Inquisitive I thought, impish and mousy faced, cheeks pale pink, dappled with over powdering and lip-stick lips painted as bright as lucent cherries. Leaning sideways on her head, she wore a sooty tam. Her three quarter length navy herringbone coat clung tightly to her body, over a tartan skirt that fell splayed above the ankle over suede purple booties. And a blue scarf was tied to a long strapped black bag that hung like a dead cat from off her arm.

Other diners saluted her and cast curious looks at me. They knew you see. After plonking her bag on my table, she peeled off her well-worn velveteen gloves, finger by finger, eyeing me up, squinting out a little granny smile or two and humming – ‘‘dee dee dum, dee dee dee.’’ A finger gesture beckoned the waitress to come and take her coat, revealing a black and white striped apron. I didn’t cop the significance of it.

‘Might this seat be free?’ she enquired in a whisper.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘You don’t mind if I join you, do you?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘I hope that I am not intruding, am I?’ she asked.

‘No, you are welcome,’ I said in a rather churlish tone.

‘You are sure, are you?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, a lie written all over my face.

‘That’s very kind of you, isn’t it?’ she said and sat down.

Not really, I wanted to say but didn’t. Fatso directed the lantern faced waitress to my table sharer with a pot of tea and croissant. I looked at my opposite and she smiled. I looked again seconds later. This time, she tilted her head sideways and wrinkled out a smug grin at me. The amnesia stricken waitress was reminded three times, by her nibs to bring the blackcurrant jam. The old lady spilled two sachets of sugar and about a thimble full of milk in her tea.

And then the slow steady clanking began. The noise got under my skin, leading me to distraction. Lowering the paper with lips pursed and grimacing, I cocked a half raised eye-brow at her cup and spoon. My veiled reprimand was ignored and she continued to clink clank, clink clank, seeming to enjoy the stirring moments of my irritability.

After sparrow pecking at her croissant, she took just one sip of her tea. Suddenly, she crunched up her nose and directed squinty eyed disapproval at Fatso. The waitress took away her tea.

Our sharing interlude was hanging in the balance of uncongenial annoyance. I felt uncomfortable.

‘Is everything alright?’ I asked.

‘Never mind – just feeling a bit giddy today, tea not to my liking. Weak tea is like weak character you know, unwelcoming, don’t you think?’ she said dropping the hint.

Fatso replaced her pot of tea. She eyeballed me over the cup that she held to her lips, little pinkie stuck out.

‘Is the tea to your liking now?’ I enquired.

She shrugged with indifference, barely responding, cutting me off. I glanced up at the clock, it was ten past eight. I decided to change the subject.

‘Miserable damp morning,’ I said.

‘Do you think so?’ she replied curtly.

Should have kept my gob shut. And then, she leaned forward and placing her elbows on the table said; ‘you didn’t mean it, did you?’

‘Mean it?’ I replied, trying to look surprised.

‘My table, you didn’t want to share it with me, did you?’ she said.

‘Yes I did.’

I wondered why she said ‘my table’. She swallowed the tea in deliberate slurps. Her false teeth click clacked, while she chewed and cogitated, chewed and cogitated, lip smacking and looking me straight in the face. What next I wondered?

‘You said I was welcome, but you didn’t mean it, did you?’ she said in a guttural drawl.

Quite irked, I looked away. Fatso watched, elongating in and out on the top of his red trouser braces. She continued.

‘You cannot look me in the eye now and say that you meant it, can you?’

I felt like a small boy getting a scolding.

‘Got out of the wrong side of the bed today, did you? Light on but still in the dark, are we?’ she said.

My fuse was about to blow.

‘Bit giddy today, you know the way that it is, don’t you?’ I said, responding with sarcasm.

‘Indeed I do. Weensy bit contrary in the morning, are we?’ she countered.

‘Must be off,’ I said, tea half taken.

‘My table is your table too, no need to run away, is there?’ she said, giving a covert signal to Fatso.

I mustered up a begrudging lie smile for a good bye and went to pay Fatso.

‘Momma has treated you,’ he said.

I turned and looked down at her. She was smiling at me and giving me the tiniest wavelet, more of a diplomatic beck perhaps than anything else. I could feel my face turning tomato red. Conscience pricked by her generosity and my rudeness, I returned to her table.

‘Ah - you are back, you are welcome to join me,’ she said.

‘No thank you,’ I replied.

‘Something to say for ourselves, have we?’ she asked.

She made me feel like a naughty four year old.

‘Thank you for the tea. Sorry if I was rude,’ I said, seeking absolution.

‘You were as rude as hell and with no if about it. Silly little boy, weren’t you? Sharing is caring you know. Well that’s it anyway, off you go now,’ she said, humming dee dee dum, dee dee dee.

I walked away feeling chastened, longing for the shorter day and longer night.

SWEET EXPECTATION

On Shrove Tuesday, we rushed in to Cissy Fitz’s shop to buy a sweet feast. The four of us galloped to the counter, leaving the door to swing shut with a bang.

‘Will ye have a bit of manners, ye young blackguards,’ said Cissy, who was a bit eccentric, but no fool none the less.

Moran and Spider were all on for a bit of fun and banter but Milo had more sinister matters in mind. She stood there, arms folded, with a puss on her, not over enamoured to see us and even less so with Milo.

Said Moran to Spider, ‘ask her for a penny worth of the dear ones ¬ and tell her to mix ‘em.’

‘No way - feck off and ask her yourself,’ said Spider.

Cissy looked on, getting more agitated by the second.

‘Anthony, the buckos from the avenue are here. Come out quick before they clean us out,’ she called to her brother.

We sniggered from behind cupped hands, shouting out our orders together, confusing her. Milo was wearing his dodgy look, cheeks red as rosy apples, hands dug deep in penniless pockets and standing to one side.

‘Lads, give us a bite of a black jack,’ pleaded Milo.

‘Toughest, get your own,’ said Spider.