Page 7 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

Otis Redding

(SITTIN’ ON) THE DOCK OF THE BAY

In any marriage, even one like mine and David’s, each party has their secrets. Mine, was that my little shop of wonders opened an hour after David thought it did. So when he kissed me on my cheek and sent me on my way for the day’s work – Christ only knows what his own plans were – he had no idea that he was, in fact, sending me to Dock of the Bay, my favourite café on the corner of the street where my own shop was. Here, I had my morning pot of tea, read my newspaper, and I listened to Bill’s, the proprietor’s, music choice. Interestingly, the dock of the bay bore no relevance at all to the titling of the shop, given that our city-centre dwelling only harboured anything resembling a bay when we had a heavy downpour and the potholes flooded. But it did serve as an indicator for Bill’s favourite music artist of all time, who was invariably playing at a low hum through the shop’s speaker system.

‘Good morning, Miss Patti.’

Bill also insisted on calling me Miss Patti even though I was technically Mrs, and technically Dr. He did know about my husband, but given I was now a shopkeeper rather than a university lecturer, he could be forgiven for not knowing about the education background.

‘Morning, Bill.’

‘Tea?’

‘A bucket full.’

He chuckled. That endearing, full-bellied chuckle that comes with age, experience and, in Bill’s case, eating too much of his own stock as the baker delivered it. I couldn’t blame him for that, though. It had crossed my mind to open a coffee shop for the very same reason; until it crossed my mind, too, that I would likely eat my profits.

Bill had found a marketable idea and a half, though. Nowadays, more and more independent cafés tried to cater to the long-bearded, flat-white, typewriter and Instagram generation. But Bill catered to someone who walked into a coffee shop expecting breakfast tea, instant coffee and an array of cakes that didn’t include the names of flowers. Put more succinctly, Bill was catering to the older clientele of coffee drinker. He was catering to– Me, I thought with a sigh and a smile at Bill, who had just brought over my favourite polka dot teapot with a single cup and saucer.

‘No David today?’

I huffed. ‘David’s still rolling around the flat in his dressing gown doing duets with Aretha Franklin at a guess, Bill.’ I paused to check my wristwatch. ‘Though by now it could be The Supremes.’

Another chuckle. ‘That husband of yours.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘You make a lovely couple, though, Miss Patti.’

‘Thank you, Bill.’ I smiled with thinned lips and caught sight of my hand. David and I had never worn wedding rings. It was too conventional, we’d both agreed. Besides which, it would cramp David’s style – and mine, too, if my husband got his way.

I’d proposed to him with a Haribo jelly sweet and the sentimental bugger now kept it in a box in his nightstand – along with one or two less sentimental things that I’d rather not mention. But in truth, David and I hadn’t married for love and the pair of us knew it; at least, not love in the regular, romantic sense of the word.

No, David and I had married for the same reason that most couples our age stayed together: we had both wanted to grow old with our best friend.

* * *

Before…

The door to the kitchen banged closed and I knew it couldn’t be anyone other than–

‘Patti, I’m done.’

I threw a fried egg sweet into my mouth and spoke around the chew. ‘With?’

‘Women.’ David landed hard on the sofa opposite my own, propped his feet up on one side and his head on the other, as though settling in for a therapy appointment. I was suddenly glad that I’d brought the entire bag of Haribo in from the kitchen. ‘No wonder you’ve washed your hands of them.’

‘I haven’t washed my hands of them, David, I just–’

‘You’re not the relationship type, of course, of course’ – he waved away the end of my sentence and then continued with his own – ‘but you don’t bother with the muss and fuss of relationships, that’s all I meant.’

Even that carried a bit of a sting. It was true, I wasn’t exactly much of a hand-holder. But that didn’t necessarily mean that I didn’t want a relationship. Only– That I’m terrible at having them, the thought cut in and I tried to soothe it with a strawb.

‘Anita found out about Catherine. Now neither of them want anything to do with me.’

I let a long pause roll out between us. It lasted so long that I managed to pick up with the paragraph I’d been reading when David had stomped in.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’