Sad Café

It was a cold, wintery day just before Christmas, not really best suited to a trip to the seaside. My granddad and I dashed gratefully into an unexpectedly open seafront ice cream parlour; an advance party sent to place an order while the rest of the family braved the weather. The caff was old fashioned even in the 1970s - all chipped Formica and tired linoleum; original, genuine retro. Alongside the rusty Horlicks machine and ancient Gaggia behind the counter, a woman who might have once resembled Sophia Loren was attempting a damage limitation exercise with a J-cloth. We ordered hot drinks and ice cream sundaes, slid into a booth and waited for everything – the family, the order, our non-stop chat – to flow.

At the next table sat another granddad, about the same age as mine was then but somehow much older, with skin the colour of the cigarette smoke and the worn, beige cardigan that surrounded his thin frame. Opposite him, a little girl of around five years old slowly ate an ice cream-topped donut – a ‘Brown Derby’ - with a plastic spoon. Her granddad gazed at her intently; she, with equal intensity, avoided his stare. Then suddenly, gently, softly, tears began to roll down her cheeks. As she dropped her spoon, the man reached across to her, dabbing awkwardly at her cheeks with a crumpled napkin. “Eat your ice cream, love”, he rasped. “Mum would have wanted you to”. And, visibly mustering up stoicism beyond her years but still unable to quell the torrent that leaked down her cheeks, she did as she was told.

I have never since taken the love, warmth, security and raggle-taggle emotion of my family for granted. And even today, the idea of an ice cream-topped donut brings a lump to my throat.