We called her The Duchess (only behind her back). She was a small lady who took up a lot of space, and made a theatrical procession from the simple act of visiting our patisserie. We were known as a bit of class in a desert of chippies.
She always dressed in green. Moira, our manager, reckoned she looked like a demented leprechaun. I mostly remember pancaked pink face powder and the great gash of red where her lips used to be.
It was her voice that set our teeth chattering. Moira said she sounded like a BBC announcer in the nineteen-fifties (and Moira’s old enough to know). I’d say she’s a dead-ringer for The Queen.
The Dutchess always came the same time; you could set your watch by her. Rain or shine; every day, and I’d worked at the shop six years.
We were a bit intimidated by her. We never spoke to her, not like with other customers: just ‘Good Morning’ and ‘Thank You.’ She always ordered two cream hearts, and paid in cash so we couldn’t even sneak a look to see what her name was. Two cream hearts, every time never changing.
Then, suddenly she stopped coming. We joked that she’d gone to Balmoral to be with the Royal Family. After a couple of months, she returned. She was thinner and haggard and her face was cleaned up. We couldn’t ask was she was alright; we didn’t know her.
Lip trembling, she ordered just one cream heart.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 