I was considering today why it is that writing is so tiring. I decided it’s because of the effort it takes to produce emotion: writing with depth and texture has to have feeling. It’s an obvious point to make writing asks us to produce emotion and its draining. But writing without emotional layering isn’t worth much; it has to be taxing because you are carrying a weight. Other people’s emotions as well as your own.

Today, I’ve been trying to produce emotion between my characters: two characters who keep missing one another. This is where the emotional tension lies: in the misfiring. In the case of Mr. Jarvis, it is his deliberate avoidance of Edith Cull and her need to connect. I was told recently that my need to connect emotionally is too much; I felt sorry for the person saying that because I wasn’t sure what else that left him. What else is there? Why would you go to a café with someone unless you wanted to connect —- unless all you planned to do was stare out the window. That would be a form of connection if both parties agreed to it; if both wanted the same experience. We’ve all seen those encounters going on around us: two people thrown together failing to connect. It’s painful to watch unless the intimacy has already happened; unless what you’re watching is merely an extension of intimacy already begun elsewhere, rather than a yawning gap, an icy precipice.

Edith had suggested café on the front because it was closest. She knew the manager there, he would treat them well, not that you needed the manager to be treated well these days, but still, you never know. It helps, knowing people?

        ‘A quick cup then, Edith.’

Edith, still Edith, she was pleased.

        They spent most of the time looking out the window because Edith was feeling strangely shy; she’d run out of words, or at least they didn’t seem to come: the denouement she’d hoped for, the big revelation. Mr. Jarvis jabbering away about himself and she contentedly following behind like the tugboat in the harbour in the wake of the trawler. Close and companionable like old friends. Thankfully, the view was there to fill the gap so they could avert their gaze. Edith’s hands had got stuck twisting the teaspoon back and forth inside the sugar bowl until Mr. Jarvis had asked her whether she was digging to Australia. It wasn’t a kind question.

And then, thankfully, a man came along with a camera and tripod and set up opposite them on the harbour wall and began to take scenic shots. And then, after a few awkward moments --- it felt like an age to Edith — as though the harbour had ceased to interest him, the man turned the camera towards them and began taking photographs of the café. Edith felt herself stiffen. She wasn’t ready for this.

        ‘I don’t think I much like him taking shots of us. What do you think, Mr. Jarvis? Bit of a liberty, isn’t it?’ I mean I haven’t made myself ready for any photograph. Last time I had my photograph done properly it was for a wedding. I was Maid of Honour. You make an effort for a wedding, don’t you, and then no one bothers again. They forget you. You’re forever sealed off in their family archive, their history, hoping very much you didn’t disgrace yourself. But really, he ought to ask our permission don’t you think? I really think he ought.’

Mr. Jarvis kept on staring out the window towards the man clicking away as though nothing about it surprised him.

        ‘I don’t know why people bother with photographs when they should be concentrating on being well behaved here and now, today All a lot of pretence.’

        ‘For posterity, Mr. Jarvis. People like having photographs so they can gawp at them after their loved ones pop off, or after it’s all over. Life.’

        ‘Life is always over, it never stops being over. The moment doesn’t stop passing just because you take a photograph. Not if you’re watching the time. Right, now, I must be going. Enough idle gossip.’

        ‘Oh, but we were just settling in nicely here.’

Edith looked crestfallen; it wasn’t quite the moment she wanted. She’d hoped for some sharing of confidences, something a little more intimate, for Mr. Jarvis to at least ask her how she was doing today, or perhaps to inquire after her family, or to see what she might be doing next Saturday – it was a long week to go until then, she didn’t mind even if he asked what she did in the weekdays; she didn’t mind what he asked as long as he asked her something personal. Edith had been waiting for this moment for a while: for someone to inquire, to make a dent in her, to take her down from the front window.

        ‘Mr. Jarvis, I wonder what you plan to do for your holidays this year?’ She would lead by example.

        ‘I haven’t decided yet, but I expect I shall take a few days off and go to the Lakes.’ The statement was left hanging in the air as if it was all entirely self-explanatory. The Lakes was where Mr. Jarvis went on holiday to sit and be still and watch the trout nibble at his rod. Watch the circles of water lap in and out as he cast out his line. Look up at the far horizon and let out soft sighs – all alone, all alone – just as he liked it, lifting his cap and scratching his head every now and then, and looking around at his fellow fishermen. Only a handful scattered around the lake shores. He was pleased, for Mr. Jarvis came on holiday to be alone. He didn’t need to tease all that out, it was obvious: it was where a man went to be quiet. Edith should not follow him there, not even in her line of questioning. She should know better.

        The waitress came over and began shuffling around with their cups and saucers. She looked harassed; it was near closing time.

        ‘We’re about to shut up shop.’

        ‘So early, on a Saturday?’

        It’s after half past four.’ She flashed a surly look at Edith.

        ‘Where’s the manager today? Where’s Miss Pegrum?’

The girl flinched slightly: there was no need for that, for pulling rank. No need at all. It was after half past four, plain and square. Didn’t they have anywhere better to go?

        Mr. Jarvis stood up and scraped back his chair.  

        ‘Well, that’s us told. It was nice to see you again. I hope the week passes smoothly for you.’ Edith jerked up her head. What on earth did he mean? Why wouldn’t it?

        ‘Well, I hope the same for you, Mr. Jarvis.’

She sounded starchy; she hoped he noticed. She wasn’t giving him her cat’s got the cream – no  - not unless he gave her a little more. Unless he divulged. That’s why people went out for tea, wasn’t it, to divulge?

        ‘Well goodbye Edith. I hope the little buggers don’t give you any trouble!’

She startled. What on earth did he mean? What little buggers, how could he possibly know?