New in Town

If pressed, Mrs Adamson would have said it was because you could always be sure of a smile when you walked through the door. Not even in a café or diner were you guaranteed of that; you never knew if the waitstaff might be in an off mood. But there, she claimed, a kindly air of intimacy enveloped you as soon as the threshold was crossed. As a matter of fact, it all spoke of quiet warmth, a soft focus on the customer as if they were briefly the centre of the world. Though it was but a larva in her unconscious, Mrs Adamson felt this way because she knew that the rest of the world had ceased to recognise her without some sort of calling card of intention.

She liked everything about them. The homogenous but cozy decor: deep pile carpets that must have been replaced quite often, so as to maintain a dignified muffled footfall; thick draperies whose runners seemed tailor-made to be drawn back and forth in the purest silence; the distance between reception rooms that allowed a quiet stream of conversation to flow; the scattered crystal dishes containing soft pastel mints or sweets in flavours like honey, comforting to both the eye and mouth. Her sole criticism was that the latter tended to be cellophane wrapped, which produced a crackle however quietly one tried to remove them that disturbed the stillness.

The proprietors, usually the sons of the sons of the original owner, were impeccably suited in respectful blues and greys. It’s a persistent myth, she thought to herself as she sipped her tea, that they wear black. A remnant from the old days of mourning. She never found this to be so. Once she dared to ask, posing the question timidly, as a kind of afterthought.

He looked pleased, as if no one had asked before (for no one had, although everyone wondered).

Once the polite condolences were dispensed, she liked to settle down to her favourite questions. She had an insatiable curiosity for what kinds of things were allowed as accompaniment, and what could be accommodated. They liked this too; it was the closest to gossip that they would allow themselves to indulge: revealing, but not too much, and so maintained their professionalism while breaking slightly free of the monotony of the administration of the deceased. She would query about fishing rods and books, small statuary and bottles of scent. She heard stories about musical instruments, not too intrusive so as to fit without special modification, but there had been a family who insisted that a cherished tuba should accompany their dearly beloved. She marvelled out loud at their capacity for accommodation.

After a pause and a chuckle to himself, he added:

Mrs Adamson never tired of these enjoyable tête-à-têtes. She remembered never to stay too long, but also to ask every practical question besides the one that was her reason for coming. As long as it takes to drink the cup of coffee they offer, she would remind herself as she sat in the plush chair across from the old oak desk (it was always old oak) and straightened her skirt.

She kept notes of these visits. Over the years she must have filled two dozen at least of the two-dollar (when she started they were much less) small ruled notebooks covered in oxblood imitation leather that you could buy in any drugstore. Date, name of establishment, proprietor, costs, special mentions. There had only been a handful of places that did not care to humour her favourite question beyond a “no” or an insistence on a specific item or inventory so they could estimate the cost before going further. For those, she had carefully drawn an even red pen line through the establishment’s name.

Yes, it had been near to a good thirty years or so. A hobby, some might call it, but she saw it as something more. You were getting to know folks in a way that was different to chatting at the market or even a cup with the neighbour. Some of the nicest people, she would say, spend their days tending to the things that we call the darkest, yet no one tends to them. She liked to collect their opinions and answers, comparing them to each other as well as to her own. How is it we go through life never asking ourselves in what way we would like to move along to the next, she thought. And here they are, doing just that kind service, and it’s just a shame no one stops to ask them about it.

She never travelled very far. Anywhere that one of the numerous bus routes to the nearby counties covered was enough. There were always multiple establishments in any town, however small. Once the thought popped into Mrs Adamson’s mind unbidden: and they say that other thing is the oldest profession, but surely it has always been this. She would go to the library in advance, ask for that town’s phone book and make a list, carefully noting addresses. Then one day she would put on her second-best dress and hat—adding a veil for a sense of sombre purpose—and walk to the bus depot. It was a regular day out: she made sure to stop in at a café or diner for a slice of pie and a cup of tea. Perhaps she would buy some flowers or produce if she saw an especially cheerful-looking shopfront. Then she would ride the bus back, and at home, sit in front of the fire and write up her notes.

The waitress hovered over her with a maternal air, despite being somewhat younger.

Mrs Adamson nodded with pleasure.

The waitress beamed as if she were the sole welcoming committee.

As she bustled off, Mrs Adamson looked out of the spotless plate-glass window at the usual scenes of passers-by shopping and talking and going to and fro with the kind of aimless determination you see in every town or city. She played a game with herself sometimes, where she would pick people out of the crowd and think of what they might like best to take with them on that long unknown journey: an heirloom cameo, model trains, a case of butterflies. Then she picked up the imitation-leather notebook on the table and began turning its pages. She murmured to herself slowly, rolling each word over in her mouth and savouring it:

A steaming cup was placed at her elbow.

She sipped and read with quiet satisfaction as the sun shone.