Introduction.

I’ve always been a lucky man.

To be lucky you have to take chances. It’s not rocket science. To be lucky enough to win a prize is only possible by entering the competition in the first place. 

I’d always had a dream.  A simple dream that, if I ever achieved it, would make me happy for the rest of my days. I wanted to own a café.

Nothing grand, nothing posh, just a place where people came to eat breakfast or grab a coffee. It was the people I craved, the company. The chance to chat and smile and laugh. 

I got older and the dream got further away. It was still there, something to think about, to fantasise about, in those brief spells between closing my eyes at night and finally falling asleep. A pipe dream.

Then I got lucky. Very lucky.

I lost my job. That doesn’t sound very lucky, does it? But it didn’t end there. I lost my home, too. Still not convinced I’m lucky?

The brief period between the loss of my job and the loss of my house saw me exhaust the meagre savings I had managed to stash away for a rainy day, which meant that I had nothing more to lose. An odd side effect of having absolutely nothing is the great freedom it brings. It’s uncomfortable living on the streets, to say the least. A Hellish existence is a far more fitting description, and so I headed for the hills.

I slept rough for weeks. I’d found a tree near a stream whose roots had been exposed by flooding and then exposed further by hand. A child’s den, deserted and obviously unused for a long time. It even had a window, cleverly fabricated from old jam jars, and I found candles and sleeping bags within.

It was summertime and, whilst out walking in the woods one day, I came across an old suitcase, half buried beneath a bush and  with a note fastened to the top. The note was addressed to me, and beneath my name was a brief message;

This is for you. 
Thanks for listening.
Spend it wisely.

Finally, it was signed with a “K”.

I almost fainted when I saw what was inside. Money. Cash. Actual banknotes. Hundreds of them, all denominations but predominantly fifty-pound notes. I was rich, beyond my wildest dreams.

I’m a sensible man. I didn’t go and book myself into a hotel or buy a car. I hid the money, taking just enough to ensure I could clean myself up, dress a little smarter and go house hunting.

I rented a flat above the little butcher’s shop in a nearby village, then set about finding myself a job. I found one in the town up the road from my village, working in an office making tele-marketing calls. All day long, whilst reciting the script I was given by my sales manager, I would stare out of the window at the derelict property on the other side of the road. Holes in the roof and broken window panes, the property had once been a business of some sort.

One evening, as I was leaving work, I decided to take a closer look. To my surprise, the front door was open.

Inside was like a scene from a ghost film. Heavy, dusty cobwebs covered the tables, chairs and counter. A tree in a pot, long since dead and smelling foul, stood to the right.

There was no electricity and very little light spilled through the grimy windows to illuminate the interior, but I managed to fumble my way behind the counter and through to the kitchen. Fully stocked with pots and pans, plates and cutlery, appliances and even a mirror on the wall but, as with the eating area behind me, all was caked in dust and dirt. A rat scampered away as I disturbed a cardboard box that lay upturned on the floor.

It was a café, and I wanted it. I can’t explain why. It was falling down, filthy and had obviously failed to succeed as a business in the past. I’d be a fool to buy it.

But buy it I did. And for a song.

I made a few inquiries. It turned out that the previous owner had disappeared. Local legend had it that, decades ago, he’d been the unfortunate victim of an attack by an escaped circus lion. He had been spotted running away from it and was never seen again. Missing, presumed eaten. The lion also remained at large and was said to prowl the very woods in which I’d lived for a while. I do love these silly, local legends.

The owner had no relatives. In fact, he had no history. The authorities had tried to track down a rightful heir but the missing man seemed never to have existed.

No birth certificate, no national insurance number, no doctors records. Nothing. Not a thing remained to show he had ever been here.

Eventually the café went up for auction, but no one bought it and so it became “owned” by the auction house, an asset on their books that was ignored. Until I asked them to sell it me.

I bought my café for one pound. Lock, stock and barrel. 

The building work required was far more expensive, but I easily covered it with the money from the suitcase. The kitchen appliances needed upgrading and I threw away the utensils. A bright, shiny, new kitchen and a cosy little flat above.

I changed very little in the dining area and counter. The place had been closed so long that the décor had gone out of fashion and come back in again, as fashions have a habit of doing. A lick of paint, a little bit of leatherette here and there and I was good to go.

The day before opening I realised I’d not had a sign made. I didn’t even have a name for my beautiful café yet. I went outside to try and gain inspiration.

The sign above the shop front was black from years of traffic fumes and the sap from the trees outside. Only a few characters were visible. I decided to clean the sign up, hoping it said something simple like “Town Café”. It didn’t.

“Fat Frank’s Bacon Butty Shop and Frothy Coffee Emporium” the big, blue lettering read.

I liked it.

There was no jingly-jangly bell on a spring to announce the arrival of the two young men as they slowly opened the door and slipped through into the little café with the funny name.

From behind the curtain of colourful beads that separated the dining area from the kitchen came the sound of a happy man, singing along to the radio as he bustled about, preparing the vegetables for the lunch time rush. One young man held the door open as his accomplice crept quietly across the floor toward the counter.

The young man at the counter looked around to check the coast was clear before gently lifting the little, red and blue plastic collection tin from beside the box of paper poppies and slipping it inside his jacket. It was satisfyingly heavy. Easy money. The young man smiled as he made his way back toward his friend.

“Now then, lads, were I to be of a suspicious disposition I might think that you two were up to no good.” The old man, hitherto unnoticed by the young men, spoke. He sat with his back to the room, staring out through the window and nibbling on a biscuit. Beside him, propped against the table on his left, was an elegant looking walking cane and a tatty, ancient, leather satchel. The young men froze.

“Furthermore, if I were of such a disposition, and if my suspicions proved to be correct, I would feel compelled to urge you both to do the right thing…” The old man stood slowly, taking up his cane and leaning heavily on it as he turned, “and put that box back.” The old man grinned a broad, friendly grin. The young men both snorted a laugh, sneering at the frail, old fool.

“Or what, granddad? What are you going to do about it?”

It was my second week of trading and I was excited. I loved my little café, and already the takings hinted at a bright future, which was a relief as the money in the suitcase was beginning to dwindle.

I’d been busy that morning and so the preparation for the lunchtime trade was spilling over into the afternoon. I was singing along to the radio when I heard a clatter from the shop.

Smiling, I stepped through the colourful curtain and into my lovely, little café.

A young man was helping another young man to stand up as the collection tin from the counter rolled away from their feet, coming to rest at mine. I stooped to pick it up and placed it back on the counter.

“You okay, mate?” I asked.

The young man from the floor, now stood by his friend and rubbing his chin as he moaned, stooped to collect a tooth.

“We just came in to use the toilet” The young man with the full set of teeth replied as he and his friend began to move toward the door.

“I believe it’s customary to make a purchase when using the facilities.” I’d not noticed the old man until now. “Isn't that right, lads?”

“Mars bar.” The young man with the tooth in his hand muttered.

“Mars bar what?” The old man sounded less friendly this time.

“Mars bar, please?”

The young man made his purchase and, along with his sidekick, left. I looked at the old chap, sat brushing pink crumbs from his lapel.

“What just happened?”

“I’ll tell you what didn’t happen. I didn’t have a cup of tea to dunk my biscuits in.”

“Sorry.” I stepped behind the counter and filled a mug with boiling water and a teabag. “Oh, and you’re not allowed to eat your own food in here. I sell biscuits.”

“Noted. I apologise. May I have some pink wafers with my cup of tea please?”

“I don’t have any of those, sorry.”

“Goodness me, what a world we live in. Never mind, I’ve brought some of my own.” He fished a packet from his satchel and began munching away, grinning a grin that I couldn't help but return.

The old man was never going to make me rich. He could make a cup of tea last an hour. He sat at the little table by the window watching the world go by for the remainder of the afternoon.

“Haven’t you a home to go to?” I smiled as I asked. It was time to start stacking the chairs on the tables and mopping the floor.

“Of course. Sorry, I was miles away.” He made no move to leave,

I stacked the chairs and closed the blinds, turned the little sign in the pane of glass in the door so that it read “CLOSED” to the outside world and held the door open.

“I really need to be locking up now.”

Outside, two youngsters, a little blond girl and a boy, rode by on bicycles, happily chatting to one and other as they passed. The old man smiled broadly as he watched them disappear into the distance.

“Of course, of course. Please, forgive me.” He stood to leave. “You know, I used to live around here a long time ago. When I was a kid, actually.”

“I’ll bet the place has changed a lot.” I smiled.

“Actually, no, not one bit.” The old man chuckled to himself. 

“Where are you staying, do you still have family around here?”

“No, no family.” The old man’s grin wavered for a moment. “I’m staying in a little place in the woods.”

I looked the old man up and down.

His coat was old and quite tatty. Clean, but it had obviously seen better days. His face was tanned and heavily lined, a mop of pure white hair topped his head. The deep wrinkles gave him the appearance of a very old man, but his ease of movement was more like a teenagers. His teeth sparkled from behind an open smile and a portion of a faded tattoo was visible, peeping out from beneath the neck of his plain, black tee-shirt. The satchel he slipped around his neck was well worn with visible repairs all over the leatherwork. In the top button hole of the coat a small, bright blue, wildflower was tucked. 

But it was the cane he carried I noticed most.

Jet black, with a silver ferrule on the bottom and an ornate, silver handle on the top, it was striking and obviously expensive. 

“In the woods?” I looked at him quizzically, “There are no houses in the woods.”

The old man stared at his feet. He was obviously down on his luck, like I had been before my good fortune.

“Are you looking for work?” I asked. I’d been considering taking on an assistant since struggling to get the preparations done that morning. The old man smiled.

And so it was that I took on my very first employee.

Almost the perfect employee, the old man was never late, never ill, always dependable and totally honest. 

Honest, except for the tall tales he told.

Every evening, whilst mopping the floor or washing the pans, he would recount another incredible story that he swore blind was true. Crazy anecdotes or insane adventures, all plainly fantasy but he told them as if he’d lived them. Every blummin' night...

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