Old Friends

Coffee Break Tale

As I gather the museum visitors for the last tour of the day, I notice a man who looks like Tom, the boy I used to play with during the summer holidays. He’s a lot bigger, of course, dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase.

If he’s come looking for a cup of coffee, then he’s out of luck. The Museum of Local Life doesn’t do coffee any more – the manager, Mr Hargreaves, sacked my friend Lisa last week.

I have a feeling I’ll be the next person to go; I’m already on my last warning. Mr Hargreaves likes his museum guides to stick to the facts and I can’t resist making up stories about the exhibits.

I tell open-mouthed groups of children that the bloomers hanging on the wooden clothes horse once belonged to Queen Victoria, and that the cracked porcelain cup on the shelf was owned by the Duke of Wellington.

I have my gran to blame for my love of stories – which brings me back to Tom. His aunt lived next door to us. Tom and I used to play together when he visited her. Sometimes, if his aunt was at work, he stayed with us and then we would share a bath.

“There’s no sense wasting hot water,” my gran used to say. “Tom can share a bath with Helen.”

I feel myself growing hot as I imagine what that might be like now. I feel even worse because Mr Hargreaves has tagged onto the end of the tour and is looking at me oddly.

The man is fiddling with his mobile phone. I’m still not sure if it is Tom – his family moved away so I haven’t seen him for years.

“Excuse me, sir, we don’t permit the use of baths… I mean mobile phones on our tours.”

He looks a bit startled, but puts the phone away.

I think of Gran’s bathroom with its black and white tiles and the wallpaper patterned with seahorses and angel fish. On summer nights, the smell of newly cut grass would tease its way through the open window.

The bath had clawed feet like a lion’s and the cold tap leaked. Tom always made me sit at the tap end. There’s a bath that looks just like it in the museum. Just looking at it makes me feel hot again.

Mr Hargreaves is glaring at me, but I can’t stop myself.

“This bath is believed to have magical properties. It is said that on special nights of the year, the bath turns into a winged lion and flies all the way to Africa.”

“Lions don’t have wings,” said a little boy with glasses and sticking-out ears. “Magical ones do,” I said. A brief smile flashes across the man’s face and I wonder if he remembers the story Gran used to tell us.

“Lions can’t fly,” repeated the little boy, “and those aren’t real lion’s feet.”

“You probably can’t see them properly because you’ve never drunk your bathwater.”

The man turns away, smothering a chuckle with his handkerchief. I wonder if he remembers the time Gran told him off for sucking bathwater out of his sponge – or whether he genuinely has a coughing fit.

Mr Hargreaves has turned purple and looks as if he’s about to explode.

“Miss Green,” he says, when everyone has gone, “that was disgraceful. I don’t employ you to tell fairytales and flirt with the customers.”

“I thought she was great fun.” Tom emerged from the shadows.

“And who are you?” Mr Hargreaves’ voice was icy.

“I’m part of the new management committee,” said Tom. “Are you ready, Helen? We don’t want to be late.”

Was that true – what you said about being part of the new management committee?” I asked him as we walked to the house I still shared with Gran.

“Definitely not,” he said. “The train stopped at the station and I remembered your gran’s story about the enchanted train. It made me realise I’d stayed away from here too long.”

Later, when he kissed me goodbye, there was a crescent moon like a smile in the starry sky and I knew our story would have a happy ending.