Notes of a Note-Taking Man by Paul Flack

Click to play NOTES OF A NOTE-TAKING MAN

Read by Andrew Baguley

I had been observing a young woman and decided to call her Teacup.

She often sat at a table beside a mirrored pillar in a coffee bar I visited before work. I also had a preferred table, which happened to face the pillar, about fifteen feet away. This is how she became a feature in my daily journal, though it wasn’t her alone that triggered my interest. Ten minutes after her arrival each morning a man would join her. He wore a wedding ring. She did not.

 

I resisted giving him a name for months. He was older than her, by fifteen years at least. She was about thirty, possibly less. And there was no chance of them being father and daughter. Not by the way she looked into his face, which was not an impressive one. Instead, I began to wait outside the café and time my entry so that I could follow her in and learn more about her. She only drank tea, for instance, with just a little milk. I arranged it so that two or three customers were between us in the queue. More than once I rushed up to the counter to catch the sound of her voice but she was too softly spoken. When she did eat she chose a cheese sandwich, or an egg and tomato roll, or a beaker of fruit. I noted down all these particulars. If she’d ever wanted to know when she’d had a cheese sandwich over the last few months I could have told her. But we never spoke.

His strongest feature was his hair. It was thick and grey. I wasn’t going to call him Silver. That would be too complimentary. The shade was more dingy anyway. So I decided on Grit. Something rough that gathered by the curb. Something the course of rain would one day carry down the drain.

I made an inventory of Teacup’s wardrobe. Of course, this was just her office wear, but I could imagine those winter boots having some weekend outings too. Though formal, her style was elegant. Grit, meanwhile, looked like a haggard parent. That much we had in common. Our own children had fled. They’re at the never calling, never visiting stage. It’s a healthy phase. Just temporary. Though it’s been a while now. Victor’s getting over his inferiority complex and Hope’s coming off the tablets. Or so Flo tells me.

Sometimes Grit and Teacup hardly talk, as if being in the presence of each other were enough. She’s always looking for eye contact, often smiling, while he’s less certain, sometimes scowling away. But he’s there. And she’s there. No words needed. It’s never been like that with Flo and me. She’s always busy. Lots of do-gooding to do. Church this and that. Usually with Jan. I hardly see her.

Teacup was a punctual person, much like myself. It occurred to me once when I reviewed her arrival times in my journal that she had the advantage of a well-performing train service. Much better than Grit’s. I remember once when he was particularly late and Teacup reached for her phone to perform some urgent texting.  When he did arrive and sat down with his latte I felt like going over and complaining. Both Teacup and I had schedules to keep to.  He simply wasn’t in her class. Our class.

Now that I knew their routines inside the café, I began to wonder about their lives outside it. I’m interested in people, you see. Take our new neighbour, for instance. We knew nothing about him, yet he suddenly appeared in our lives. You have to be on your guard. So I followed him to his place of work to verify his story. Why shouldn’t I? It’s a free country.

Likewise, I decided it was time to follow Grit to his office, a Norwegian bank near St Paul’s. Naturally, I wanted to know more, so two evenings later I zigzagged through the crowds to find which train he took from Liverpool Street. Platform Eight, destination Stansted. Next day, I bought a ticket for the full journey, but he left the train at Bishop’s Stortford. I knew it was a risk following him up the hill, but I used one of Victor’s baseball caps and figured there was no reason Grit would recognize my overcoat. He entered a close of mid-1960s executive homes, similar to our own. Under lamplight I noted down the address. I could find the post code from the internet. It wouldn’t be a long letter. It would be addressed to just ‘Mr’. I reminded myself of other plans: use a computer terminal and printer at the local library; use gloves; don’t lick the stamp. (Even your saliva can give you away).  And the content of the letter? I would ponder that on the train. He shouldn’t be allowed to ruin the lives of two women. Teacup deserved better.

Maybe that’s what Teacup had decided too. When a woman has a radical haircut she intends changing more than her appearance. Not that anyone beyond myself, amongst the regulars at the café, detected the new Teacup. Umbrella wasn’t the sort of guy who could offer her the love interest she was looking for – he had a penchant for bow-ties. While Laptop had probably never even noticed her.

But what would Grit think? Before he arrived I could see her catching her image in the mirrored pillar. In truth, her haircut was appalling. Her shoulder length locks had been hacked into a pageboy style. I could have modelled it better myself. What a shame I couldn’t have had one of the tresses swept up off the hairdresser’s floor.  No, that would be wrong. I didn’t want to possess her. I wanted to set her free. Anonymously.

I saw her face rise as Grit approached. She breathed in with apprehension as he set down his coffee. He still didn’t say anything. Then he grinned widely. What an actor he was! A practised liar. Though surprised, he obviously said the right words and she was lit with happiness. Yet they never touched, never kissed.

Perhaps Teacup was a step-daughter from a previous marriage? Or a niece? But that didn’t explain the regularity of their meetings. Before posting the letter, I discussed some of my observations – minus the names – with Flo.

‘What do you want from this?’ she said. I didn’t mention the letter.

‘From the lovers? Nothing.’

‘Then why not leave them to it?’

‘But what is “it”? That’s what I don’t understand.’

‘You sure you’re not after something here?’

‘Certainly not. He must be blackmailing her. Extortion of some kind. Something’s not right about “it”.’

I posted the letter. All I wrote was: ‘Leave the young woman in London alone. You’ve been warned.’

Given the usual service, the letter should have arrived on a Friday morning. Given the trek from Bishop’s Stortford and the early departure required, he probably opened it on Friday evening.

Monday morning. Teacup appeared as usual. I was waiting inside the café at my preferred table. She sat at her established one. As Grit’s usual arrival time came and passed I felt my gut tightening with the tension. Then he emerged. His actions were as normal: his stony countenance, slight crack of a smile in greeting her and then sitting down as if the moment had no special significance. I had my journal open and pen ready for anything to note. He didn’t even look away and scowl that day. I was ready for her eyes to fill and for her to rush away, but she maintained that transfixed gaze that had no logical justification. Then he left on time and she sipped her tea.

Tuesday. Teacup was late and had nothing to eat. The pattern I saw in my journal was that she ate later in the week, probably having something healthy at home earlier when self-discipline was easier to enforce on Mondays, Tuesdays and sometimes Wednesdays. Then something different happened: she took a free newspaper from her bag and read for a period that went over the threshold time for Grit’s arrival. There was no reaching for the phone or scanning through the window. What were the possibilities? Grit was packing his case in Bishop’s Stortford? He’d slashed his wrists over the dilemma and crisis? Probably not. If she knew of either of these she wouldn’t be there.

Wednesday. The same.

Thursday. Ditto.

Friday. He must be on holiday. Playing Dad.

Monday again. Gritless.

Tuesday again. No change in her. I expected a more intellectual newspaper at least.

Wednesday. I began to miss him more than she appeared to.

Thursday. Umbrella tried a beaker of fruit. Maybe a digestive problem. I’m down to detailing marginal points like this now. Have I ruined my own entertainment?

Friday. No Teacup.

On Saturday, I found that Flo had slipped out of bed. Another church fundraiser with Jan. I was obliged to make an appearance. I met them at noon in a marquee beside the bandstand. The usual rustic soup, homemade cake, Fairtrade tea. I rested back in my chair.

‘Someone’s  looking at you?’ said Flo.

I didn’t respond. It was a comment meant for Jan even if Flo directed it at me. Then she tilted her head and said it again.

‘Behind you,’ she said. ‘Robust type.’

I turned round. Grit was two tables away. His arms were folded and he was looking straight at me as if he’d totally forgotten his carrot cake in front of him.

‘Who is it?’ said Flo.

‘It’s Grit.’

‘Is that a Scandinavian name?’

‘I don’t know. I have to go.’

‘Where? Introduce us.’

She waved at him with window-cleaner theatricality. Grit continued to glare. As I left and received more of his stare I saw that on his table there was an exercise book of the brand I use and a biro.

I rushed home and locked the doors. He would already know where we lived. He’d probably followed me from the train station. And now he knew who my wife was. I checked the windows were closed. Flo could be in danger. He might kill her. Then I relaxed. She was fully insured. 

It would be impossible for him to prove I wrote the letter. Then I saw an envelope on the doormat. No addressee. I opened it. He had returned the letter. The first line – ‘leave the young woman in London alone’ – had been scored out. The second line remained: ‘You’ve been warned’.

I shredded the letter. Then I buried the shreds in the garden. The journal was next. Three journals, in fact. All those notes and insights into Teacup and Grit had to be disposed of immediately. This time I used fire. As I watched the flames die down on the garage floor, I considered how Teacup had sat in the café knowing that Grit was about to follow me to my office, and then later to Waterloo and my home. They must have seen me in the mirrored pillar. I swept up the ashes and scattered them around the garden. All that would remain would be my envy.

Hopefully, Grit and Teacup could find a resolution to what drew them together. Perhaps they already had before I intervened.

Six hours later, Flo pressed the doorbell. Her key was useless against the bolted front door.  Her face was flushed after another soiree at Jan’s.

‘Your admirer came over,’ she said.

‘You spoke to him?’

‘Reckons he knows you from somewhere. I didn’t know. Then he wondered if it was from his army days. I laughed. You in the army! He sounds tough.’

‘You didn’t tell him my name?’

‘No. Jan did. And where you work. He wrote it all in his little notebook. Are you okay? Do you need your inhaler? You know, I think he said he would see you soon. Sit down. You look as if you need a drink. I know I do.’

(c) Paul Flack, 2013

Paul Flack grew up in Stevenage, Hertfordshire. His work has also appeared in The Mechanics’ Institute Review. Amongst themes that have emerged in his short stories and novels – such as nature and travel writing – are characters his wife finds scary.

Andrew Baguley worked for the council in the seventies, acted in the eighties, was in business in the nineties and noughties, and is now back acting in the twenty tweenies. He may return to the council for the twenty twenties. His most recent project was a German TV adaptation of a Rosamund Pilcher novel where he played an unsuitable date.