Cafe Terrace by Night

The brilliant golden hue created by the oil lamps littering the stone walls was a welcome sight to his tired eyes. Throughout the course of the day his senses had only been host to people and events that had worn him out. Waiting had worn him out. Harry would romanticise about this kind of day when he was fighting in the war. He would dream about sitting down in a street café only to spend the whole day doing nothing but people watching, eating and relaxing with a good book. Unfortunately, much like the rock formation that has no place in a field of striking flowers, so too did he feel as out of place in the modern world. He would tell himself when he was most frightened by the deafening bomb blasts and the drilling machine gun fire that if he made it through to the end of the conflict heaven would be sitting here in peace and quiet. Unfortunately, peace and quiet had been replaced by the chaos of a busy street and the polite “how do you do” he longed for was traded in for a less than courteous “Sortez de ma voie”. The world had changed from a community of family into a swarm of angry strangers.



The sun had set an hour ago and the street had slowly calmed. Waiting was all that kept him seated and the hope that he could capture an element of the experience he had dreamt of during those dark times. He mused that darkness isn’t as oppressive as one might think. You can get used to it. Something seemingly beautiful at first can become tired through too much exposure to it. Darkness is malleable it can become everything whilst remaining nothing at all. It was this Darkness that allowed the contrast and appreciation of light. The briefest glimpse of the sun through the horror and blackness of war was just enough to bring hope, warmth and life. Though this light teased the soldiers giving them a short burst of something pure it was enough to remind them what they were fighting for. As the sun hit each man they thought of better times with people they loved.



The bell tower loosed its hourly chimes. One, Two, Three …. He smiled and remembered the small red haired girl who waved at him as she strolled by with what he hoped was her older sister earlier in the day. Four, Five, Six, Seven. He pulled the long silver chain from his pocket and caressed the back of the attached pocket watch. The inscription he knew by heart but took out the watch to read it anyway. It read “Who forces time is pushed back by time; who yields to time finds time on his side”. The words hadn’t meant much to him when his friend had given it to him. He had originally only kept it for sentimental reasons. James Duncan Burgess looked out for him in the early days when he was stationed in Dunkirk. James was a big man in every sense of the word. His stature, voice and character made him just about the most formidable soldier Blighty had to offer the Germans and unfortunately the easiest target. James had the kind of demeanour that afforded few compliments and less social invitations. Harry reminisced that the sort of social invitations he came to expect was joining another officer for a hot cup of muddy tea. James had been one of the few soldiers that had seemed positive taking about taking on the Nazi’s always using Edmund Burke’s quote “All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing”. One would think a man of James’s description would not take fancy in the words of an eighteenth century philosopher but that is the way with preconceptions and first impressions they are rarely proven right. James had found Harry wandering around the trenches like a child lost in the woods. It had been a particularly lively day in the trenches and Harry had witnessed limbs exploding, blood splattering and the noise of a thousand guns raining down upon their location. James had slapped Harry around and set him straight making sure he was ready and able to fight the next day.

After a particularly relentless air raid made by the Germans James was left with multiple Shrapnel wounds. He had died shortly after handing Harry his pocket watch. There were millions wounded in the war physically but it was the loss of life that hurt the most. These were the wounds that would never heal. Harry almost envied those long dead soldiers, they no longer carried the burden of remembering those troubled times and having to carry the long dead in his memory.

Harry looked at the time, seven o three. He glanced across to the bell tower. It was much like that of his local church where he grew up. The large stone building seemed erroneous compared to the buzzing metropolis that surrounded it. The huge bronze bell was housed in a rough stone column rising from the main church building with a small spire that seemed to irritate the sky. The village where he grew up was the sort of village one might stumble across while taking a short cut down a particularly narrow country lane. It was the sort of place where a person might say something to the effect of “what a quiet, pretty place this is” whilst flinging their litter out of the car window as they drove through. It was too small for tourism and not quite picturesque enough to picnic in, but it was home. The river Avon left a shallow stretch of water in the area behind his house where he and his two brothers used to play in the summer months. There was never any thought of how unhygienic or unhealthy that was back then. At this stage in his life memories of his home and his family were all he had left.

His mother had the beauty of the most finely crafted statue of a Greek Goddess but unfortunately for him, as a child, shared an almost comparable personality to one. It was not that she was cold more that she was simply not an affectionate lady. Harry used to believe she didn’t love him and it was not until he looked back on all the things she did for him and the family that he realised this was far from the truth. Life had a left his mother just enough time to perform the tasks necessary to keep food on the table and clean clothes on their backs, she had little time to show love. As Harry had grown he had learned that love wasn’t a hug or kiss or even a kind word. Love was an action that meant you would do anything for a person even if it meant sacrificing your own happiness, or indeed in the case of war, your life. Harry had left to go to war for that very reason; he went to fight because of love.

The waiter strolled by offering him a menu. He took it and forced a smile. He wasn’t hungry. Anxious Maybe, tired definitely, but not hungry. Appetite was something that had left him over the years, sometimes he would forget to eat which added to his now gaunt complexion.

Was time to be his enemy once again? Time that had passed so slowly during those agonising days, time that had stopped whilst running amidst fire and explosions. Was he once again to fall prey to this invisible predator? It seemed everyone was overly time conscious these days, always so busy with so much to do. There was a time when family, was the most important thing to a person. Work could always wait although his experience growing up did not reflect this but then he didn’t grow up in a nuclear family. Expensive living costs, inflation, greed all contributed to people spending more time at work and less time at home. So many broken homes due to the fact that society wouldn’t allow families time to grow with each other, unable to enjoy the passing of time with the ones they love.

War often plays a cruel ironic tune especially in times of distress. Those who deserved to die didn’t, those who were innocent did. His son was only eighteen months old when Harry left to fight. He went to war to secure a safe future for his family. “We’ll be home by Christmas” was the propaganda banded around the camps. When he finally came home there was no family left. The blitz had seen to that. The cold dreary day that had accompanied the funeral complimented Harry’s vacant grey mood. He remembered staring at the bitter mounds of earth encasing everything he had ever loved and felt nothing. We are limited as human beings and it is when we go past the threshold of despair and pain that we simply can no longer feel. War is horrifying; his loss was beyond anything he had experienced whilst fighting for his country.

It seemed to get colder. A disadvantage of growing old harry cogitated was that heat would find even the smallest pin hole to escape. As Harry had grown older he felt almost imprisoned within his own body. He wasn’t as quick, as strong or as free as he used to be. His body was as wet clay that had dried and hardened over the years. As time past he was less malleable until eventually he had become solid, immoveable yet brittle. One would think that a person would be rewarded for traversing the many dangerous pathways of life. Instead he was left to simply shut down, fade out and be slowly extinguished.

A shadow fell upon the table. “How have you been Harry?” He looked up and took in the tall lean figure looming over him. The man was wearing a long black trench coat and a dark blue polo neck jumper. The man’s face was unshaven but not bearded. His hair was shaggy and hung on his head like straw in a hay cart. “Finally here then? I’d almost given up. Though you might not come” Harry replied. “The time of my arrival is entirely inconsequential to why we are here. I thought you would be glad of the extra time”. Harry looked into the man’s eyes. They were cold and grey reminiscent of a dreary autumn sky. “You haven’t answered my question Harry. How have you been?” The way this man spoke to him reminded him of his Uncle George. His Uncle had a voice that was never loud but always full of purpose. Often during the winter months when money and food were scarce he would stay with his Uncle in Surrey. He had a vivid memory of the moss and lichen lined rooftops appearing in the distance as he would walk from the station to his Uncles abode. That image held a certain comfort for him. It brought with it a feeling of warmth. Perhaps that was because his Uncle would always have a bubbling bowl of soup for him to eat down by the open fire as he arrived. Maybe it was because his Uncle would take time to listen to him and at the end of a day would read stories from his vast library of fantastical journeys and adventures as Harry drifted off into a very comfortable sleep. As Harry had gotten older he realised it was probably because Uncle George was the only father figure he had had. His brothers were too busy growing up to help his mother out with him and his mother had to work to provide for her family so Uncle George once a year became Harry’s surrogate Father. Harry never met Uncle George’s wife as she had passed before he was born. He never remarried however nor had any children of his own. How he remained so calm and generous when confronted with such loneliness Harry could never comprehend. Being alone all these years had disfigured Harry into a resentful, bitter old man. Like the once tall proud tree now felled to the ground, damaged and rotten he had been weathered by life and the ravages of time. Uncle George had ridden life’s storms and had come out content and peaceful. How one achieves this Harry had never discovered.

Harry once again looked the man up and down. “Do you have a name? We’ve never met and it is customary to introduce oneself although it is clear you already know who I am” he muttered. “Call me Pete if you like. You seem distracted. What’s on your mind?”. “Oh so you’re a councillor now are you?” Harry blurted out. “You know why I’m here. I am not your councillor; I am here to do my job. If you want to keep our business short and unpleasant I will understand but the journey will take a lot longer”. He was right. Harry knew only too well that journeys with awkward or even impolite conversation could drag and become very uncomfortable. His numerous experiences of train journeys with less than enthusiastic neighbours or family friends taking him to visit his Uncle were always wearisome affairs. Journeys were fascinating to Harry. He had heard it said that life was a journey though he had disagreed with this analogy. When one takes a trip they have usually planned it and are in control of the destination. In life, no matter how much you plan, you are never fully in control. In life no-one is truly free, there are limitations that cannot be overcome. Harry thought of life more as a fish bowl and we are the fish free to swim but only so far. It never occurred to Harry that this was pessimistic thinking it was truth to him. There are very few real truths in life but this was one of them. Death had always been another real truth to him. He knew he would die one day and this knowledge had freed him somehow. Death was a welcome friend, someone who would remove all inequality, all suffering and would bring peace.



Harry hadn’t felt real peace since the final time he had fallen asleep at home next to his wife. This was the last time he saw her before he left for war. When he had heard about the bombed roof of his small one-bedroom house he held out some hope that perhaps his wife and son had survived. When he found out this was not the case he locked up his heart and melted down the key so it would never again be open. Harry had discovered over the years however, no matter how you guard your heart the smallest of things can ignite the fires of memory.

It was on a particular cold morning mid October 1948 that he found a letter. Small moments and seemingly insignificant events help to shape the grander paths we follow. This occurrence was a small coincidence that had led to an obsession.

He recalled the prospect of arriving at work that day was horrific at best but it was a necessary evil if he wished to keep food on his table. Life had become unfamiliar since his return from France. He was lonely, he felt almost obsolete. For a time however terrible it was he had been part of something, a sort of fractured military family unit and he felt he was fighting for a better future. As with all things he had wished for in his life it hadn’t quite turned out how he had imagined it.

He couldn’t say what prompted him to sit at the back of the bus as usually he sat in the middle. Humans are creatures of habit and one’s choice of seat on the bus, if of course you can find one, is very deliberate yet at the same time made completely subconsciously. He had to arrive early every day to open up the shop and so the bus was always sparsely populated. ‘Mary’s Bakery’ was a small alcove in an old thatched cottage house, home to a few baking ovens and work space enough to create a few variants of bread based products. The house itself belonged to Mrs Samuel an old widow whose husband built and ran the bakery from their house. When he had died she lost the passion for running the place that she had had whilst her husband was alive. Harry always thought she had pitied him when she had heard what had happened to his wife and child and had offered him the position running the shop through some kind of twisted empathy. Harry always thought she’d have been better off closing the shop and moving away but then again many people refuse to let go of the residue left on the possessions of the ones we loved in life. He still to this day carried various mementos of persons long gone including a handkerchief of his mother’s that he remembered her using to remove any blemish from his face after coming in from play.

As Harry entered the bus he said good morning to Jonathan the bus driver and gave him the usual penny fare. He sat down at the back and saw a sheet of brown tinted paper with very neat swirling words on it. It had an address but no name and simply read:



“Thank you for your message.

I hope things have eased for you a little around this. Our path’s crossing was an invitation to explore something. We reminded ourselves of ourselves. Our longing, our hearts, who we were, and who we most wanted to be and though we got lost along the way, we did what we could at the time. 



Please know that I think of you with kindness and love, never with hatred and anger. For me the world seems a brighter, better place because I know you are out there somewhere, being you. Perhaps one day, in this life or another, our paths will cross again.



Be gentle with yourself”



His heart stopped, the bus slowed. He grasped for breath and after an age he eventually found it. Words are ciphers that convey meaning and yet these words did more than that, they moved him. 



Harry sat staring out of the window. Who was this voice in the letter? What was her relationship to the person this letter had been originally meant for? Sometimes we are moved because we feel empathy as we have experienced that which has provoked an emotion in us. For Harry he simply felt numb.

The opening line “Thank you for your message” implied there was a correspondence there, a history of letters passing from one to the other, though this one seemed rather further along in the chain he imagined.

He reread the letter imagining various scenarios that led to this almost final statement. The language used was gentle even though she seemed to have been hurt or wronged in some way. Love is perhaps the most powerful emotion of all, people have done great and terrible things because of the intoxication of this emotion. The memory that engulfed Harrys mind whilst reading the letter was of his wife, their first meeting and an experience that he would not forget as long as he lived. Though he never found out where the letter had come from still to this very day it remained synonymous with his memory of meeting Marion 



Marian Sloane was perhaps the most chased woman in Harry’s village. Harry had never been a particularly sociable lad growing up but he had a few friends that he clung to when playing. He mainly played with his brothers and their friends perhaps because he lacked the confidence to bridge the gap between himself and a stranger in order to become friends. As they often lazed around under summer blossoms or in tree built dens conversation would drift to the qualities of the female contingent of the village. The common misconception about adolescent boys is that climbing and mud are at the forefront of their thoughts when this is rarely the case. It is the female of the species that plagues the minds of men from birth till death. Harry would always laugh when men would argue women being the weaker species as he knew every man makes a fool of himself gladly for the sirens that walk in and out of our lives all the while feeling like that was what we intended all along.

Marian was of course the talk of the boys one particular day and a rather unusual wager arose as to who would get to court her first. The winner was the person who could ask Marian on a date and she had to accept. Harry knew this would not be his forte and so decided not to take part in the wager much to the teasing of his brothers and their entourage. The next day the boys went into the village centre to the flower shop in which Marian worked on a Saturday. One by one they entered with their best winning smiles and meticulously groomed hair and one by one they came back outside red faced and clearly dejected. The boys hastily made their retreat and Harry watched as they all went their separate ways clearly embarrassed by what the thought would be an easy challenge. Harry laughed and gave a start as voice said “I suppose you’re next eh?” Harry spun around to see Marian shrouded in light. The feeling was as if someone had removed every thought, every feeling and replaced all that was Harry with a warm healing sensation. He tried to speak but his mind was slurry. “Quiet eh Harry? Well I’ll make it very easy for you” she trailed off as Harry realised she knew his name. It was a small village but Marian went to a very posh private school and Harry didn’t move in her circles. He also realised that he couldn’t leave this conversation until there were assurances from Marian that she would see him again. “I’m sorry if my friends offended you. I had no part in their silliness I just came along to um” Harry was grasping to finish his sentence when Marian spoke “And why would you not want to ask to court me?” Harry paused and thought for a moment this was one of those loaded questions that had no correct answer. “I just thought perhaps you had higher standards” Harry replied. A smile broke out across her face, the kind of smile that is infects one’s heart and it cannot ever again be healed. Harry and Marian laughed for a good few minutes and then she grabbed Harry’s hand “Harry, would you like to go on a picnic with me tomorrow? My family are going to meadow by the river and I’d like you to join us?” Harry was stunned did this seraph ask him to spend time with her? “I would be honoured” he shakily replied. The rest of this memory was too joyful and altogether painful for Harry to recall. He remembers holding her hand down by the river, he remembered the cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off being his main focus during that perfect day because looking at Marian filled him with such bliss he could only handle it in short bursts. He recalled the sun setting over the river and Marian cuddled into his arms wrapped in his jacket. It was the kind of moment that changes a person forever in the best of ways.

Harry stared deeply into his coffee cup. Over the years he had perfected the robotic stare that masked the desolation he felt inside. Marian had saved Harry he only wished he could have saved her. So why did the letter he had found at the back of a bus remind him of Marian who had become his wife? Perhaps it was because the letter was so honest and described a lost love. Harry could empathise with both. Maybe it was because Harry could imagine if Marian could write one last letter to him these would be the words she would use. Harry considered that we as humans are not dissimilar to the rebellious Biblical Angels, we are allowed to taste paradise only to be cast down to live in grief, forever remembering the perfection we once had. “Is this all life is at the end, a collection of sad memories and duty?” Peter stared at Harry and replied “I thought that you were determined to stay mute Harry. A long obstinate silence ensued. Harry thought. Harry grappled for a happy thought, a positive nugget that would disperse the dark cloud oppressing his thoughts. He scanned the cafe terrace and noticed the café window. It was modern, garish now but back when he first came here it was simpler. He had stepped out of the very same Café he was now all those years ago to smoke a woodbine. Woodbines weren’t that bad as tobacco went and smoking was a small luxury that he would allow himself back then. As he stared up at the starry night he heard the faint sound of weeping. As he moved around the corner to the narrow alley at the side of the café he saw a young woman sat on the ground with her head buried in her knees. One makes a choice in these situations, and helping a stranger was something that was being slowly phased out of his once compassionate persona. He thought the war may have drummed out any shred of humanity left in him, he thought he was cold and hollow but regardless he stopped and asked “Are you alright?” The young woman looked up with tear tracks streaking her face. She had deep green eyes, prominent check bones, thin yet rosy lips which were the perfect complement to her long brown hair. She was wearing the sort of clothing Harry considered stereotypically Eastern but then his knowledge of geography was poor at best. She had a red patchwork top that revealed some of her midriff and was covered in silver beads and her blue trousers were equally as decorated. She had no shoes which for some reason Harry did not find odd. Without warning she leapt up, grabbed his hand and sat him at a table. She sat opposite him and stared at him. She then grabbed the woodbine from his mouth and began to smoke it. No woman Harry had ever met had been this confident or forward. “Uh, would you like your own cigarette? I have quite a few left. I’ve sort of gone off them a little bit recently” A long silence followed Harry’s awkward outburst. “You are American?” she cogitated sounding impressed “Oh no, no English actually” Harry replied in a less than confident manner. “You are no English man. You look too healthy” she proclaimed. “Um well thank you, I think. Sorry, what do you mean healthy?” “Well you English always look so close to death, so pale so drained of colour. Americans always look well fed and kissed by the sun. I am Lara pleased to meet you English”. Lara had a way of painting a picture when she spoke. “You look, well you are handsome” Lara announced again with no sense of reserve or embarrassment. “I’m sorry I am married” Harry said a little unsure of why he had mentioned it. “And she is a lucky lady I think” Lara responded whilst maintaining her fixed gaze on Harry with her endlessly deep green eyes. They didn’t speak for a moment and instead sat simply staring in silence at one another. Harry broke this rather beautiful moment out of fear perhaps that he might lose himself entirely in her perfect gaze. It is only after the fact he now realised that next to the horrors of his experiences just to be acknowledged by another human was the magic in the moment. He was lonely, traumatised, and afraid. At that particular moment the world seemed to envelop him and then fade away until all that was left was just the two of them. After what seemed like an age Harry spoke. “Why were you crying?” she stared at him unblinking but a single tear rolled from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. “Because life is loss but loss is learning. This is the only truth I know”. Harry broke her gaze and searched the surrounding area. He was confused and perhaps a little tense considering the nature of their exchange. Harry turned back to face her “I don’t understand; we gain as well as lose?” Harry was taken aback by his bluntness. The war had drummed out more of his humanity than he first thought. “Life is beautiful, love is beautiful, and I weep for the loss of everything in this world. Your war takes what is dear for such a silly prize, I cannot understand it” “It is not my war. I barely understand it myself” Harry paused as he realised his response was a little abrupt. Harry’s voice softened “We fight, day in, day out men who might in other circumstances be our friends” Harry stopped himself. He remembered the first German soldier he had killed. A boy of no more than eighteen. He had died frightened and at the end of Harry’s Bayonette. Harry watched the life drain out of the boy as he seemed to try and understand why this was happening to him. Harry had killed many others since then and with each death he had numbed to killing. He felt nothing now, just a slab of meat sent out into the field each day who potentially may or may not return. “Well, enough of that talk, I am not fighting tonight and I plan to enjoy a beer and a smoke?” Lara let a small giggle infect Harry’s darkened mood. “You seem distracted” she said as she took his hand in hers. Harry retracted his hand with an unnatural swiftness. Lara looked at him and smiled “I want to read your fortune. Don’t be afraid”. She reached out and took his hand again this time he didn’t resist. He was curious and had no strength of will anymore. “Ah, you are acquainted with death, he walks with you. You do not resist him anymore; he is a companion. Be wary those who walk to long with death. Life is a gentler friend I think”. With that Lara stood up and looked at Harry. “Thank you for the smoke and beer” she downed the rest of Harry’s pint, hugged him and Harry lapped it up. He had not felt a compassionate, positive human touch in a long time and this felt heavenly. Lara jumped up and went off down the street. Harry watched her leave and was grateful. He missed his wife and son so much that perhaps a little of his fascination with this woman had come from misplaced feelings of affection meant for his family. Harry’s smoke had almost gone out and he reached into his Jacket to pay his bill. This was when he noticed his wallet was missing. He searched all around the table his first thoughts being he must have dropped it. It dawned on him quickly that perhaps his female companion may have lifted it during their embrace. To this day harry had no way of knowing if she had stolen it but right then Harry felt stupid and cheated. Harry then thought harder about the things she had said “Be wary of those who walk too long with death. Life is a gentler friend”. She was right, Harry had forgotten why he was fighting and why keeping going was so important. He was fighting not just for the life of his family but all the other people and the future lives that will one day be. Harry released a laugh that felt as strange as a snow storm in summer. He hadn’t had much to laugh about but the advice he had been given was worth much more than the paltry pennies in his wallet. He felt as if he had gotten a good deal. He did however realise he would have to leave without paying but in his mind vowed to return one day to pay back what he owed.



Harry slipped five hundred Euros into black leather binder containing his bill. His food and drink for the day couldn’t have been more than forty euros but this was the last piece of business that he had left, to fulfil a promise he made all those years ago. “Are you ready” Peter asked knowing full well what Harry's reply would be. There was poignant pause before Harry gave his reply. “Yes. Yes I rather think I am. Will I be able to visit?” “No. Your time here is at an end. All things end Harry but that is the only way new things can begin. You are part of a cycle but each person’s rotation is unique. None who come after you will ever emulate your unique life. In your time you have impacted on others for better or worse and you have made a difference consciously or not. Are you sure you're ready?” Harry stared at Peter resolute and responded “Let's go. I think I understand”.

A Rolls-Royce silver wraith pulled up at the end of the street and Peter gestured towards it. Harry looked up and let out the sort of sigh that could break the hardest of men “One final question and then we can leave. What does it all mean?” Harry asked. “That depends entirely on you Harry. We place meaning on a number of things in our lives, art and the stars to name but a few but when it comes to life we feel there is some mystical profound answer that we could not possibly comprehend. You place importance on symbols, objects, nature and yet when asked what life means we are stumped. In truth life is a blank canvas it means nothing at all. How you fill that canvas is the meaning you give it. It is the picture you paint for yourself and is either admired or loathed by those around us, but then I think you've already figured that out”. Harry knew that he had and on looking back wasn’t bitter, more relieved to have come to the end. He was thankful he had loved, he was thankful that he had been able to make difference and above all he was thankful he had been alive to fill his canvas. “Not all colours we paint are pleasing to the eye” Harry thought “but they are part of my picture”. Harry stood up with an agility he had been missing in recent years, took a final deep breath and walked towards the shining Roller. He got into the car, sat on a plush leather seat and Peter closed the door.



The evening had closed in and the stars looked huge littering the painted obsidian expanse. Nancy had never seen a Rolls Royce in real life before but she knew it was one by the little silver figurine of the woman who looked like she was skating on the bonnet of the car. She sat down in the seat that had previously been occupied by the old man who had gotten up with impressive nimbleness and drove off in the car. She thought to herself that he must have been very important, the tip he had left for the waiter certainly seemed to suggest this. She wasn’t sure why she had sat down here but was currently on a leave of absence from work and this spot had seemed as good as any to kill some time. She looked at the menu then got out her mobile phone to check her e-mails and entourage of social networks. The robotic input of statuses and e-mail responses dominated her mind. The world continued to revolve but Nancy remained in a technologically induced coma.