Other People's Lives - Meet Maisie O'Keefe

Wednesday afternoons in Northbridge usher a strangely eclectic mix of customers into September’s. This is due to a proportion of shops in the town maintaining their observation of Half-Day Closing – a practice now considered archaic as round-the-clock shopping fast becomes the norm. Never one to follow the crowd, however, Northbridge’s Chamber of Commerce remains fiercely proud of its 'Wednesday Afternoons Off' and, whilst no business is persecuted for not closing early on this hallowed day, traders are most definitely encouraged to join those who do. Consequently between 1pm and 3pm, September’s is the preferred sanctuary of a motley crew of shop workers from the town’s assorted businesses, exhausted from a hectic morning and in dire need of conversation, caffeine and calories.

One member of this chattering throng is Maisie O’Keefe, Assistant Manager of Bloomin’ Lovely, the largest of Northbridge’s three florist shops.

Maisie loves nothing better, after a frantic Wednesday morning shift at the shop, than entering the comforting warmth of September’s, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries enveloping her in a cosy embrace as she walks through the door. For the past three years, she has made her faithful pilgrimage to this sanctuary of Wednesday afternoon calm with almost religious zeal. Whilst she doesn’t consider herself a fully paid-up member of the ‘I-think-you’ll-find-that’s-my-table’ team (unlike many of the other customers), Maisie likes it best when she can find a table facing into the café – allowing her to indulge in her secret passion: people-watching.

As long as she can remember, Maisie O’Keefe has been an unashamedly avid people-watcher – from trips as a little girl with Grandma Josie to Branages – the opulently refined tea rooms in her home town of Utterton – to Birmingham’s coffee bars during her college years and a selection of staff canteens in several hospitals where she worked during her twenty year career as a nurse. Maisie finds an inexplicable joy in musing about other people’s lives: where they come from, what their stories might be. It’s a game that has captivated the best part of her forty-four years, providing a rich vein of treasure from which her mind can excavate elaborately crafted gems.

Today, for example, an old man seated by the window has caught Maisie’s attention. Immaculately attired in a tweed jacket, green-checked shirt and khaki needle-corduroy slacks, he appears to know everybody else in the café. As each new customer enters, they approach and greet him like an old friend, taking time to share pleasantries before finding their seats. Maisie puts his age at around seventy, although his pale blue eyes have the vivacity of a man half that age. A broadsheet newspaper is spread out on the table before him, summoning his attention between each new conversation. When he speaks, his accent is pure Shetland – a lilting half-Scottish, half-Scandinavian confection, warmed by a perennial chuckle that resonates through his voice. Everyone calls him ‘Mac’ – although Maisie suspects this is a nickname, an affectionate reference to his Caledonian heritage. As she covertly surveys her quarry over the rim of her coffee mug, Maisie wonders what his story might be. Maybe he moved to England to seek work; maybe he followed the love of his life here; or maybe he chose Northbridge’s picturesque river valley for his retirement after a long and prosperous work life in Edinburgh or Glasgow. Perhaps his children moved south and he followed them…

The possible lives of those she watches fill Maisie’s mind with countless storylines. One day, she often muses to friends, she will write a book about these people, frequently lamenting the lack of time available to pursue this literary ambition, due to the chaotic nature of her life.
‘Isn’t it true that everybody has a book in them? There's no doubt I have one in me. It’s just finding the time to dig it out that I have problems with!’

During her former nursing career, Maisie often found herself party to snapshots of people’s lives – although increasingly over the years these became unhappy, as she progressed from general nursing to working on Oncology wards. Mixed in with stories of heartache and suffering were ones of extreme bravery and hope beyond circumstances – a heady concoction that wrestled daily with her emotions. For many years she claimed that this regular rollercoaster of sorrow and joy didn’t affect her. Yet when her father died suddenly from lung cancer, the pressure of long-suppressed feelings, together with an intense self-inflicted blame for not recognising the signs in her own flesh and blood, exploded her world apart.

The day after her father’s funeral, Maisie abandoned nursing. For several months she drifted between guilt, mourning and recrimination, refusing to eat or sleep. Even thinking hurt: the all-encompassing shroud of her loss obliterating her capacity for anything but the most basic of tasks. Finally, in a desperate attempt to simply get her out of the house – which had become a prison – her best friend Cath persuaded Maisie to join her on the Floristry course with her at the local adult education centre. Over time, the soothing release of working with living things gently coaxed Maisie back to life and she began to sense a new hope birthing within her.

Encouraged by her tutor to progress further in her studies, Maisie completed her Floristry training, graduating three years ago and subsequently being offered a job at Bloomin’ Lovely. Now she finds herself privy to precious details of her customers’ lives – the celebrations, memorials, apologies and declarations – all of which increase her curiosity about their possible stories.

Watching Mac greet another customer, Maisie smiles. Then, a thought occurs: what would an onlooker make of her?

© Miranda Dickinson 2008

Open Roads - Meet Hal Corbett

Some customers at September’s are instantly recognisable, either because of their larger-than-life personalities or because they stand out from the crowd visually. Hal Corbett is neither of these, but Nessa always notices him nevertheless. Each Wednesday afternoon, at around 2.30pm, Hal enters the café, seeking a seat on the roof terrace if the weather is fine or, if it’s raining or too cold, somewhere near a window. On sunny days, he can often be found enduring barely-whispered criticisms from Annie and Edie, resident elderly spinsters at September’s, as they vehemently object to the laid-back manner in which he rests his feet on the lower rung of the cast iron tables or tucks a leg up under his chin as he enjoys his coffee.

But the reason Hal catches Nessa's attention isn't for the irritation he causes to certain fellow customers. From the first time she encountered him – during one of her first shifts at the café – Nessa has found herself fascinated by the air of complete peace that seems to surround the quiet, unassuming man. Whilst they only ever exchange polite words briefly as he orders his coffee, Hal’s steady countenance speaks volumes to Nessa as she studies him covertly from the serving counter.

Hal is a man of uncertain years; Purdy and Nessa have guessed anywhere between mid forties to early fifties. His greying hair has receded completely from the top of his head, settling happily in a half-ring from ear to ear, yet his face is surprisingly young. He always enters September’s with glossy, string-handled bags from one of Northbridge’s designer boutiques, resting them on a vacant chair by his chosen table (much to the further annoyance of Annie and Edie) But far from bearing the visible signs of a man caught in the iron grip of a mid-life crisis, Hal exudes classic, relaxed style – clearly taking pride in his appearance. Purdy suspects he may be gay, a verdict she proclaimed too loudly last week: ‘No straight man ever looks that good’ – much to Nessa’s alarm.

In truth, Hal is a man reborn.

For twenty-three years, Hal Corbett worked for the same company – L&H Pharmaceuticals – in the nearby town of Netherborough. Joining straight from college, he gradually progressed from trainee lab assistant to Department Head, always diligent in his work, never happy to accept praise for his successes without including his colleagues in the equation. Yet despite his generosity and great humility, Hal never fully received the recognition he deserved in his position – either verbally or financially. Instead the plaudits fell to his immediate manager, Derek Lorrimer – a small, spiteful man of limited intelligence, short temper and over-inflated ego, who greedily snatched sole credit for Hal’s work time after time.

Year after frustratingly fruitless year, Hal endured Lorrimer’s endless personal insults, blatant disregard and professional jealousies – all without a word. Promotions eluded him, vital funds for his work were denied and blame for Lorrimer’s own mistakes was planted firmly on Hal’s head. Despite the crushingly personal blows rained mercilessly on him by a man whose only virtue was an ‘old boy’s network’ frequently called upon to save his sorry hide, Hal never spoke to anyone – neither colleague nor friend – about his predicament.

Until six months ago.

On a completely unremarkable Tuesday, he opened his email to learn of Lorrimer’s plan to take a personal patent out on Hal’s recently formulated anti-bacterial hand-wash, which had been proved to eradicate hospital-acquired infections. Quite by accident – but devastatingly indicative of his woeful lack of skill – Lorrimer had copied Hal in on a private memo to another colleague in the company. Without warning, something inside him snapped. Moved by an ice-cold compulsion, Hal calmly typed his resignation, emailing it – together with a copy of Lorrimer’s email – to the CEO of the company. Then, his feet propelled by an almost unearthly force, he marched into Lorrimer’s office slapped a copy of the evidence on his desk.
‘I’m leaving.’
‘When?’
‘Right now.’

And with that, Hal Corbett magnificently abandoned the only job he had ever known, walking out into the bright sunshine. Three weeks later, he patented his hand-wash and, a month after that, sold the formula to a global pharmaceutical conglomerate for a figure with more noughts than he ever bothered to count.

Sitting in his favourite spot on the roof terrace, gazing beyond the froth of his cappuccino to the meandering silver river curling through the valley below, Hal has no plans beyond this moment. He may travel the world. He might write a book. He may even buy his own personal Caribbean island. But for now, Hal is enjoying the priceless luxury of simply waking up every morning without dreading what lies ahead…

© Miranda Dickinson 2008

A Brave New World - Meet Blanche

Blanche visits September's every Monday morning, around 10.30am, for a bit of a treat before her lunchtime art class at Northbridge Community Centre. If possible, she loves to sit in her favourite place – the faded red velvet armchair by the window. Snuggled safe within its ample dimensions, Blanche enjoys her latte from a tall, elegant glass mug, which she always requests. It is small decadences like these that she secretly revels in: unremarkable to anyone other than herself, but important nevertheless. This morning, however, her thoughts are elsewhere as she gazes out of the window…

Nobody ever expected Blanche Maurice to amount to much, least of all her stern Jamaican mother, Sophia. But it didn’t matter. The second eldest of five children, Blanche was always a dreamer – happy in her own company and seemingly unaffected by the cacophonous chaos of her childhood home. With her mother, two sisters, two brothers, her octogenarian maternal grandparents, two elderly maiden great-aunts and the charismatic Uncle Eddie (whose precise relationship to the family was delightfully tenuous) all living together in a cramped three-bedroom Edwardian terrace house, life in the Maurice home was never uneventful or quiet. But Blanche was always contented, lost in her very own Hollywood dream.

From the moment Auntie Ezola took her to the Majestic Cinema in Etherton to watch The Great Race on her seventh birthday, Blanche dreamed of being a beautiful film star like Natalie Wood. All day long, as she did her chores around the house, she would imagine arriving at Hollywood film premieres dressed from top to toe in expensive clothes and dripping with diamonds. As she polished Uncle Eddie’s shoes, or ran errands for Grandma Tya, Blanche pretended she was acting in a movie, practising her expressions and crying technique - which, coincidentally, also came in useful when David or Lionel, her troublesome twin brothers, accused her of stealing their toys, as they did with monotonous regularity.

Hollywood was going to be Blanche’s Great Escape from the world around her; from the cruel taunts of the white kids in the school playground, making fun of her wildly untamed afro hair and milk chocolate-hued skin; and more importantly, from the unstintingly disapproving eyes of her mother.

But it was not to be.

Her siblings married and started families of their own; her beloved grandparents died; Auntie Ezola and Aunt Isobel moved to a retirement home, passing away within two weeks of each other in Blanche’s thirtieth year; and Uncle Eddie ran away with his twenty-five-year-old probation officer, never to return. When Sophia was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, there was nobody left to care for her but Blanche.

With each passing year, the daily battle over every single task with a mother increasingly slipping into depression and sleepless paranoia, ground Blanche’s starry dreams further into the ground.

‘What you tellin’ me dis for, useless girl?’ her mother would bark as Blanche tried to show her how to wash herself or use her knife and fork, ‘You are nuttin’ to me, hear me? Nuttin’ but a bag o’ disappointment. You are jus’ like your Fadder was – useless, good-for-nuttin’ waste o’ my time.’

And so it continued. Until, quite unexpectedly, Sophia passed away. Dr Smith said it was probably pneumonia, or maybe her heart had just had enough. Whatever the cause, Blanche found herself suddenly, at the age of 49, with a life of her very own.

On a whim, she joined the art class at the Community Centre – having always harboured a desire to paint – and discovered a new group of like-minded friends. She became particularly close to Cynthia Watson, a recently widowed lady whose bank manager husband had done everything for her - so much so that she didn’t even know how to change a light bulb – and the two ladies jokingly christened themselves The Hopeless Cases, making a pact to learn as many new skills and experience as many new things as possible.

So followed a dizzying array of new ventures: Wednesday evening salsa classes with Mick, a seventy-year-old former ballroom champion, and Vernon, the only male class member, who took a worryingly ardent pleasure in throwing each unfortunate new partner violently around the room; days out with the Northbridge ‘Crafty Ladies’ craft group, most of which involved a lot of tearooms interspersed with toilet stops and the odd bit of sightseeing here and there; and Sunday afternoons spent in Cynthia’s palatial summerhouse in the garden of her riverside home, watching DVDs of old Hollywood movies and reminiscing about times gone by.

It was Cynthia who suggested Blanche should meet her friend, Eric. At first, Blanche dismissed the idea outright; she hadn’t had a date in over thirty years and the prospect filled her with dread. But as time went on and Blanche’s confidence grew, she began to warm to the suggestion.

So, last Sunday afternoon in Cynthia’s summerhouse, in the middle of watching Funny Face, Blanche found herself agreeing to meet Eric for dinner.

Dinner. With Eric. Tonight. Staring out at the passers-by struggling with umbrellas against the torrential rain, Blanche feels her heart flutter with anxiety for the thousandth time this morning. At the age of fifty, she never expected to be planning a first date – or to be beset by chronic apprehension, like a timid teenager. Surely she should have grown out of this type of behaviour years ago? Taking a long sip from her latte glass, Blanche grapples hold of her wayward thoughts. Tonight, I will be Natalie Wood, she tells herself, cool, calm and in control.

After all, how scary can one fifty-something garden centre manager be?

© Miranda Dickinson 2008

Open for business - Meet Nessa

It's early morning. Too early for Nessa. But it's her first official day as Assistant Manager at September's, so she's keen to make a good impression. Despite the fact that she is currently nursing a contender for The World's Worst Hangover™, she is determined to show Laura, her boss, that she is Management Material. Now, if only her head would stop throbbing so much, she might actually be able to find the keyhole on the front door. Hmm, things aren't boding well for a cracking first day...

All her life, Nessa wanted to work in a coffee shop. As a little girl she loved nothing better than to create elaborate tea parties for her assembled dolls, teddies and Action Men (ever the entrepreneur, Nessa had identified the lucrative male client market even at the tender age of five-and-a-half). She would spend hours drawing menus and signs to hang in her 'shop' and, whilst other little girls her age were pretending to be ballet dancers or nurses or fighter pilots (as in the case of her best friend Purdy), Nessa dreamed about making coffee and tea and baking huge, homemade cakes to sell to hungry customers.

As soon as she reached 16, Nessa found a Saturday job at Cleggs, a small bakers and café in her home town of Midswinforth. Cleggs was definitely a no-frills establishment; its custard-yellow melamine tables and plastic bench seats, designed for durability rather than comfort, were always packed with noisy families and groups of rowdy kids. Mr. Jefferies, the owner, had never heard of air-conditioning (or personal hygiene, for that matter) - so the atmosphere in Cleggs was permanently stuffy. The dishwasher never worked properly, meaning that all cutlery and crockery in the café featured the extra delight of small remains of someone else's teacake or jacket potato, along with the distinctive metallic aroma of stale water. The only coffee available was instant with hot milk, none of the metal teapots poured properly and you couldn't get a mug of anything for love nor money. But Nessa loved every minute of her day in the stifling heat of the small café, surrounded by too many pushchairs, screaming children and irascible pensioners.

After several years at college, Nessa finally entered the world of work, securing a job at a local restaurant as a waitress. Whilst the position was relatively well-paid and afforded her valuable customer service experience, Nessa still longed to work in a coffee shop. So when she saw the small ad in the Northbridge Gazette for a Coffee Shop Assistant, she applied immediately.

From the moment she stepped through the door at September's, Nessa knew she was finally in the right place. Its comfy sofas and armchairs, mismatched crockery and relaxing atmosphere were all perfect. It felt like home.

And then, after three blissful years, a heavily pregnant Laura invited Nessa to her flat above September's for lunch and asked her if she would like to become Assistant Manager.
'I need someone to take a bit more responsibility in the coffee shop, especially with this little chap due any moment. What do you think?'
'Yes. Absolutely. Count me in!'

So everything rests on this day going smoothly... If only the room would just stop spinning so much...

© Miranda Dickinson 2008