Heart of Stone by Jennifer Sinclair Roberts, milky coffee

It was early morning on Hampstead Heath, but already lunch time in Shanghai, where Lucy and her friend Sophie were apparently feasting on Ba Bao La Jiang, or Eight Pleasures with Meat.

 ‘What are these Eight Pleasures?’ asked Linda, pleased to receive a rare call from her daughter, and isn’t Sophie a vegetarian?’  But the line went dead. Later, as she squelched across the lawn by Kenwood House, there was a text.

 Hi Mum, treasures not pleasures!!

 Linda was none the wiser. She texted back a question mark, but there was no reply. Pausing by Barbara Hepworth’s sculpture, Monolith, she leaned against the cold limestone to peer through the upper hole. The view today was icy, almost colourless. There were no flowers. She imagined Lucy and Sophie under a red lantern in some raucous eating house, a world away.

 By the time she reached Flamme, it had started to rain, a penetrative winter rain that worked its way inside her jacket.

 ‘Hello,’ she said softly. She always greeted Flamme; he seemed so lonely, hunched in the wild grass, his six-foot granite back turned against passers-by. Others didn’t share her view of his tragic story. Lucy claimed he was a woman sunbathing. Eric had nicknamed him Stoneheart.

 Perhaps my heart has turned to stone, thought Linda. It was for the best, really, that she had stopped feeling anything much. Hampstead Heath was riddled with people whose volatile hearts had got the better of them: estranged, uprooted, jilted, lost or bereaved, all wandering about, occupying the ends of benches, crossing paths in tight silence.

 She would not give in to heartache. She would keep herself hard as limestone, strong as granite. And here was the magnificent Henry Moore, Two-Piece Reclining Figure No.5. Each time she saw it, it seemed a little different. Sometimes a dialogue in bronze; sometimes two beautifully matched halves of a whole; at other times, a broken soul, peeled apart. Eric had said....

 Her phone beeped. Treasures = vegetables. Sophie M veggie, not Sophie R. Having Drunken Chicken now XXX.

 Linda tried to revise her image of Lucy and Sophie, but she could not visualise Sophie R. Perhaps they had never met. She felt mildly disappointed that the Eight Treasures were simply vegetables, and she guessed that Drunken Chicken was just a casserole. Such magical names, such ordinary realities.

 There was little magic in the name of Two-Piece Reclining Figure No.5, she thought, but perhaps its power lay exactly there. It was a plain, strong, naked name; the viewer made their own magic. She would never grow tired of it.  

 On the way back to the mansion, she stopped to gaze at the lake. Years ago, there was a stage on the other side, big enough for a whole orchestra. She had loved those classical concerts on summer nights, when she and Eric, a brand-new couple, had strolled up, late, to sit on the grassy hill, with a bottle of wine and a bag of crisps to share. Sometimes, the musical notes were so soft they could hardly be heard across the water, but the air trembled with their sound. The trees darkened to blue-black along with the sky, and afterwards, they felt their way through the dusk towards the gates, carried along in the murmuring crowd.

 Everything was different today: the time, the season and even the century. But she, Linda, was still here, treading the same old paths, stranded somewhere in her own past, while Eric lay in Highgate Cemetery and Lucy kept on travelling, ever more distant.  

 By the time she reached the café, the rain was torrential. Her fingers were numb, and her body felt stiff, as if she’d been painted with ice. She ordered a large milky coffee and on impulse, a freshly baked chocolate brownie.

 As she bit into the brownie, an intense sweetness flooded her mouth, and she noticed that the centre was studded with miniature white chocolate chips, like seed pearls. They shone under the bright lights. Small treasures, thought Linda suddenly. I am eating small treasures!  

And the idea surprised her and made her smile.

 Still smiling, she looked up and a man sitting alone across the room smiled back. Linda felt a tiny jolt. It wasn’t a huge smile. Just a blink of acknowledgment from one lone human being to another. But unexpectedly, her skin grew warm, and the chocolate pearls began to melt on her fingers. All at once, she felt her own heart beating softly, demanding to be heard. 

About the author

 

Jennifer Sinclair Roberts lives in London, U.K. She is a retired Psychology lecturer and long-time writer of short fiction. Recent publications include 'Visiting Hour' (Best Women’s Short Fiction 2023, Mslexia) 'Decisive' (Thin Skin magazine, April 2025), and 'God’s Creatures' (Literally Stories, coming in December 2025). 

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