Rose's Den

A Christmas story.

The café at the end of Brooks was small and delicate: squished between tower blocks it was dwarfed by modern trappings and swamped with fluorescent lights that basked the wooden clad exterior in a warm orange glow. The windows were frosted with wintery condensation and dainty Christmas decorations lined the panes; through the glass, families and couples drank coffee and ate mince pies with double cream. Above the door, lined with hand-painted roses, hung a sign that danced in the light December breeze; it read ‘Rose’s Den’.

The type of folk that visited Rose’s Den varied from week to week, month to month and year to year; there’d be the boisterous businessmen with suits and shoes worth more than the seats they sat on and they would discuss numbers and figures of some obscure company before leaving healthy tips, half drunk on good company and fine brandy. Next came the young people with overly large coats and skinny trousers; they’d sit and discuss music and art, ordering herbal tea and fair trade sandwiches: the tips they left were significantly more unwell.  Couples came and held hands over sweet home cooked meals, tea and the fragile roses that adorned every table. The room, only small, was lined with many of these tables, each buzzing with their own sphere of conversation: the café was warm and comfortable and hung heavy with the atmosphere of Christmas spirit.

It was thus that I first entered Rose’s Den, half lost in an unknown city and looking for some directions or something warm to abate my growling stomach. I’d recently moved from the country to take up a job as a ‘professional’, in the weakest sense of the word, journalist; I was en-route to meet a publisher, but became overwhelmed by the festive surge of people.  Dazed and confused, I stumbled into Rose’s and settled down on one of the circular stools that lined the bar; I ordered a small cup of tea and fumbled the change with cold fingers. It was given to me with a warm “Merry Christmas” and, taking cautious sips, I looked around the cafe; my eyes, however, did not get very far before they fell upon the elderly gentlemen next to me who I had previously not noticed.

He was hunched over with a white shirt and black braces; his nose was buried deep in a book I could not distinguish as his face was so close to the words that the rims of his thick black glasses gently stroked the pages each time he turned to the next. His hair was balding significantly and the rest was thin and white, resulting in his whole upper personage resembling a snow-capped hillock. If he caught my observation of him, I was not sure, but it was with a surprised reaction that I responded to his first croaked words.

“It is a book by Maugham; a collection of notes and short stories”

I looked around, startled, but it was to me that he was talking.

“That is…interesting” I spluttered, my mouth half full of tea.

“Yes,” he said, turning his head to look up into my eyes: his own eyes were a watery blue and I knew at once, that, despite his glasses, this old man was extremely blind. 

"He was a wise man. Listen: ‘The more intelligent a man is, the more capable he is of suffering”. It is true, so very true”

I

 nod my head slowly, unsure of what to say.

“I am Elgar Wright, by the way” the old man extended his hand in my general direction and I grasped it with feigned enthusiasm.

“Donald. Donald West.” I replied, shaking his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you Donald”

I knew that once introductions are made small talk must be implemented with immediate effect, thus I took generous sips of tea to quickly escape the obligatory conversational claws of Elgar.

“You too, Elgar…so, what brings you here?” I asked, my small talk wells running dry with the cold and exhaustion.

“Ah, it was my wife’s favourite café. I come every day and read a book to her, although I fear it will not be long before I can no longer read.” He gives a small chuckle, tapping his glasses.

My heart melted.

“I am sorry”

The old man chortles.

“My dear boy, it has been many, many years, you need not apologise " she was old and grumpy by the time I saw the back of her, anyway” he smiles, closing his book. “And what about you, how have you ended up in Rose’s café?”

I recounted my short and uninteresting tale but Elgar listened with such genuine interest that I found myself extending the story and involving anecdotes from the train journey and the purchasing of my new flat. Throughout, there was a gentle, content smile across his face; a smile you stumble across so very rarely in a world rammed with big egos and small hearts that it is worth treasuring whenever you discover it.

We talked, until our tea was cold, about life, the weather and current affairs; when it was time to take my leave, I shook Elgar’s hand and he spoke a few words I will never forget. They were simple, humble and unassuming words, but they left a warm glow in my chest for many hours afterwards.

“Thank you for talking to me, Donald”

The following week was the week of Christmas and I could not forget the little old man in Rose’s Den. I was alone in the city for Christmas Day and the thoughts of Elgar reached a point of such pestering irritation in my mind that I made the decision to visit the café again. On the way, through a passage of twisting city alleys, I passed an old book shop, so conveniently open on Christmas day: my mind clicked and after a small browsing session, I picked out a number of random old books and packaged them haphazardly in brown paper. The old lady behind the counter wished me a merry Christmas as the bell rang above the door.

The city was quiet; not quite dead, but in a state of slumber. I half expected the café to be closed, or at least empty, but as I turned the corner the warm orange glow still shone through the frosted windows. The door was shut and as I leant forward to push it open, a plaque above the letterbox caught my eye, twinkling as it was under the lights of the city. Engraved in minuscule floral handwriting were the words ‘Rose’s Den " established in 1958 by Rose Wright”.

 

My heart stopped.

Pushing the door open with resolute determination, I was stopped dead in my tracks on the door mat by the hunched figure of an old man placing fresh roses on each table, one by one, around the café. I stood in the doorway, basked in the orange glow, the presents in one hand and the other hand raised to slowly welling eyes, for a long time. I did not move but just watched Elgar blindly arrange roses on each table top with a sad smile across his face.

With a deep quiver, I placed the presents on the bar, careful not to disturb him, and left a scrawled note on top which read “Merry Christmas Elgar”.

With one final look over at the old man, I left the café with tears running down my cheeks.

 

Revisiting the city many years later, those who frequent Rose’s den still tell tales of the flower organising old man and his books.

Reviews

[nostal]

I'm not one to read something so intentionally plot-less and sappy, but I found myself somewhat liking the story and especially the writing. It does have it's many faults and I'll adress them soon. Sorry, I'm watching a game.

[eLoy]

i never ever had the time to read stories, im so lazy, but hey, have you put a little magic in here? it made me read everything. and yeah i read a story for the first time. this story is very great. epic like epic. :)

[Marie]

A wonderful Christmas story. The plaque was a good twist. And of course the old man and his roses were heartwarming.

In the first sentence do you mean "basked" or "bathed"?

[KAOlmsted]

You always make me cry, damn you! Beautiful tale, Harry...thank you for this gift.