Picking up the coffee cup she saw it was empty, except for the dry residue of theCappuccino froth. Sighing as she replaced the cup back on the saucer she looked out of the window. It was beginning to rain. She checked the time on her phone. 14:53. There were no messages. No missed calls. A waitress cleared away the dirty cup.
'Would you like anything else?'
'Um...yes, another cappuccino please'
When the coffee arrived, she stirred it, slowly. Clockwise. Then anticlockwise. She read the menu and contemplated having something to eat. Ham and cheese toastie. Club sandwich. Victoria sponge. Lemon drizzle. The choice was tempting but she decided against it. She checked the time again. 15:08. Carefully she took the postcard out of her handbag and read the front: 'To boldly go where no night bus has gone before' was printed above a map in the form of a constellation naming the stops on the bus routes. She studied the locations. Trafalgar Square, Croydon, Edgware and Dagenham, amongst others. Places she was familiar with. Turning the postcard over she smiled to herself as she read what he had written. Apart from her name and address, the only other words written on the card were 'Love, Tim x' Her finger traced the words and tears pricked at her eyes. Remembering her coffee, she took a sip. It was now luke-warm. She read the front of the card again, and then checked the time, first on her phone then on the large clock on the café wall. 15:16. Looking at the postcard again, she read the post mark; Mount Pleasant, 14 July 2015. Had it been that long? And Mount Pleasant, which was two minutes from her flat. If he'd posted it there, had he lived that close all this time? Could she have passed him in the street? Sat next to him on that night bus? Stood next to him in a queue at the newsagents? Sitting here now, she wondered if this was a good idea after all. Up until now he had been nothing more than a rough description; a voice on the telephone. An e-mail. A text. But after today, he would be flesh and blood. He would be a real person. Really real. The postcard had been the personal contact, until then all communication had been through a third party. She could never have met him before now, out of loyalty to her mother. But after her mothers' death almost three months ago she agreed to meet him and today was the day. Hearing the bell of the café door she looked up from the postcard, to see, for the first time, the man who was her biological father.
About the author
Jean lives on Anglesey, N.Wales. She has a BA in Creative and Professional Writing and an MA in English Literature with Creative Writing. Having published several short stories, she is currently writing her first novel. Jean also is a part-time exam invigilator and chair of the Anglesey Writing Festival.
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