Cynthia’s World

Coffee Break Tale

SOUTH AMERICA

Here she comes again. Louise says you smell her before you see her. But that’s because Louise is a snob who only cares about commission. Actually, Cynthia does smell. Of soap. “Good morning, dear.” She shuffles to my desk in clothes even Oxfam wouldn’t want. As usual, she’s parked her trolley by the travel agency door. “Gives us a bad image,” Louise sneers. “Good morning, Cynthia.” I smile. “And where are we going today?”

Cynthia may be an old bag lady like Louise says; maybe she does just come in to keep warm and fantasise about faraway places. But I don’t care. She’s always cheerful – which is more than most “customers” who come in to pick my brains and then book on the internet.

“I was thinking South America. Perhaps Peru.”

She beams and even though I’ve made no sales today I feel instantly better. As I’m telling Cynthia about Machu Picchu tours, Louise smirks and waves the card machine at me: another deposit taken.

“And where was Madam going today? Much commission, was there? Family of four to Crete, I’ve just taken.”

“Cheer up, Hannah,” our manager says. “Travel agency work is about customer service: they can’t get that on the internet. Your lady might be loaded.”

As if,” I scoff to Jim that night over washing-up. “Well, I think it’s lovely that you take time with her when everyone else pretends to be busy. You’re a kind person, Hannah. And I love you.”

“Maybe. But kindness doesn’t pay bills. How was the boiler this morning?” He scowls. “Lukewarm water again.” “Fabulous.”

THE CARIBBEAN

Days roll round; sales don’t improve. The cost of a boiler replacement continues to trample over my mental tranquillity. “We’ll have to think about it.” The wife’s eyes flicker non-too-subtly towards the door.

I sigh: more internet bookers. I hope the rain soaks them to the skin. Gosh, I’m getting almost as mean as Louise.

The trundling of Cynthia’s trolley is a welcome distraction. “Where are we off to?” I smile fondly. “The Caribbean, I think. I could do with some sunshine.” “Me too. I’ll put the kettle on.” “You seem a little down, dear,” Cynthia remarks as we scan images of golden beaches. Her face shows a flash of concern. “It’s just been a bad day,” I say. She nods sagely, as if low commission and broken boilers were part of her world too.

There is a pause, broken only by the click of my computer keys.

“You know, there is something beautiful to be found on any day if you take the time to look for it.”

“What? Even out there?” I nod at the torrential rain.

“Oh, certainly,” she insists. “A cosy bus ride – a warm home to go back to.”

“I suppose,” I say, chastened, and wonder: does Cynthia even have a home? I’ ve never asked.

“It’s a kind of game, looking for it.” She grins. “Try it.”

So I do. Not only on the bus ride home that night, but on the following days. It doesn’t fix our faulty boiler or provide funds for its repair. But I suppose Cynthia’s game just makes me feel luckier. And I reckon that’s a better gift than a bit of commission.

THE WORLD CRUISE

This morning’s shower was freezing; not much beauty in that.

I’m just comforting myself with coffee when Cynthia arrives. It’s been a while, so I’m glad to see her.

“So many places to think about,” she says. “So today I’d like to look at a world cruise.”

Even for Cynthia’s imagination, that’s pushing it, I think.

“…Of course, you can just do sections of it,” I explain.

“Really?” She’s hunched over my computer in concentration.

“Yes – you just choose where you’d like to start and finish.” “How perfectly marvellous!” She claps hands with childlike enthusiasm; I am suddenly flooded with affection for her.

“You’re so knowledgeable, dear. And so kind. I shall definitely recommend you to my friends.”

Great – a legion of old bag ladies queuing up for free coffee and fantasy holidays. THE BOILER BOOKING

She’s tall, elegant, and states she is looking for a South American cruise segment with Caribbean beach stay.

My manager is pink with pleasure; Louise gushes over.

“Gemma?” The woman swivels an expensively coiffured head. “I’m Gemma.” I rise, blushing, and the woman beams at me.

“My friend, Cynthia, speaks very highly of you, dear.”