Page 25 of A Miracle on Hope Street
‘Fire away,’ he says, tilting his head to the side, more interested in what’s going on behind me. I move out of his way. ‘Sorry, table four are just finishing and Gloria told me to keep an eye out for them. Do you mind? I need to see to them. Won’t be a second.’
He walks past me, his navy shirt that matches his navy hat that he wears every day brushing past me and a smell of familiar aftershave lingers as I watch him at work, so meticulous, so focused as he chats to the customers, nodding and lifting plates out of their way.
He is taller than I thought the homeless man from Hope Street might be. Broader in the shoulders and stronger-looking and not at all how I had imagined him to look.
I wait, wondering why I am even bothering. This is not what I was expecting when I envisaged asking someone to help me with something that’s so close to my heart.
And then he returns. He puts the plates and knives and forks and empty glasses in the dishwasher and he comes back to me as Suzi gets the customer’s bill.
‘Sorry,’ he says, wiping his hands down his apron when he comes back behind the counter. ‘What is it you wanted to ask me?’
‘Christmas?’ I blurt out to him, about to explode with frustration but gritting my teeth to appear calm.
‘Yes.’
‘I was wondering if you had any plans for Christmas?’ I say to him. ‘Christmas Day to be precise? Not the most conventional question to ask a stranger, I know, but I have my reasons.’
He glances quickly my way and his face does that thing again, like it did earlier when he was trying to figure out the crossword clue, all scrunched up like a puzzle. He shrugs. He looks away and then he walks away towards the dishwasher again. I follow him.
‘Michael?’
He stops and looks down at his hands, and when he eventually does look back at me, I can see huge tears well in his eyes as if I’ve hit a nerve and this pains me deeply. I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable. That was never my intention. He fixes the peak of his cap.
‘Why do you ask?’
He briefly bites on his bottom lip, then takes the tea towel from his shoulder and walks back to where we were. He finds something on the counter to wipe down and I try to find the words.
‘Well, you see . . . I’m – I’m going to invite some people around for dinner and I was hoping you could join me, you know, have your dinner with us,’ I tell him.
‘I’m not your problem, Ruth,’ he says, leaning over the counter and going back to his crossword now. ‘I’m not a charity case any more.’
‘No, that’s not what I mean.’ Shit, this isn’t going well at all. I try to explain. ‘To be honest, I need you to help me. I need you to help me cook dinner and prepare it and decorate my big empty house because I don’t think I can do it all by myself.’
I can’t see his eyes under that stupid hat and I want to tell him to straighten up and just talk to me. What on earth has happened to this man to make him so nervous?
Eventually, finally, for the first time during our conversation, he looks me directly in the eye.
‘I really didn’t ever want you to find out it was me from that night on Hope Street,’ he says to me softly. ‘I have a better life now, Ruth. It’s far from perfect, but it’s getting better and I don’t want anyone here to know about my past. I’m not that person any more.’
‘We don’t have to ever, ever mention it again if you don’t want to talk about it,’ I say. ‘Ever.’
I can’t help it, but I feel sorry for him right now and I want to reach out and touch his arm, even give him a light hug to tell him that it’s fine.
‘You really did save my life that night,’ he whispers. ‘I was so, so low but I don’t want to be reminded of it any more. So you can go back now to pretending that I don’t exist. It was probably easier for me that way. I should never have told you.’
I feel tears prick my eyes. The noise of the café dins into the background and the world stops around us. I had no idea of any of this until yesterday, no idea ofanyof this and now I’m looking at this man straight in the eye, a man whose life I apparently saved on the night my own father was leaving this world.
A cool shiver runs up my arms and into the back of my neck. Michael takes off his baseball cap and runs his fingers through his shining clean black hair with its salt and pepper sides. His face looks younger now, smoother and a lot more handsome than I have ever noticed. He puts the cap back on and fixes it, smiling just a little as he catches me staring, like he knows what I’m thinking. His teeth are perfect, beautifully white and well cared for. I am so intrigued, so baffled and I want to know so much more.
Then, as if I’ve just read his mind when wondering about his past, he looks more serious. Not just serious. He looks sad.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not the person to help you, Ruth,’ he tells me, ending our conversation once and for all. ‘I’ve a few things in my own world that I need to focus on right now, but good luck with it all. I’m sure you’ll do a great job as you always seem to do with everything. Please just pretend I’m not here from now on, unless you need table service. Okay?’
I hold his stare, taking a deep breath in defeat. My way with words has left me.
‘O-okay, Michael,’ I stutter, as tears pierce my eyes. ‘If that’s the way you want it, then that’s very much okay. Thanks for your time.’
He goes back to wiping down his counter and I shuffle past the row of tables, push open the heavy glass door and leave the warmth of Gloria’s with a pain in my heart, my pride in tatters and my confidence at an all-time low.
