MOTHERS INTUITION

The morning after England lost to Croatia in the World Cup semi-finals I went to a coffee shop in my neighbourhood called Browns of Brockley. I like to go there sometimes while my son takes his morning nap in the pram and try to get some "work" done. It's the kind of place where the clientele wear clear-rimmed glasses and vintage denim and open up Mac laptops.

I chose an outdoor table because it was sunny. It had four seats, but I positioned my stroller in a way that justified my taking an entire table for myself, then I opened up my Mac laptop. My son slept while I tinkered away on the keyboard in the sunshine, taking occasional sips of my iced oat milk latte and admiring how put together my life must look to an outsider.

Suddenly I sensed my table peace was about to be compromised. I looked up. Two men had approached my vicinity, both the sort of men who didn't seem to be well acquainted with the word no. One shouted to the other as he went inside, something about coffee and something about England.

The second man hovered near the empty chairs that surrounded me. He was pushing 60 and dressed in jeans and a wife beater, his arms covered in faded green tattoos - the kind that indicated he didn't have a 'preferred tattoo artist' in the city or that his decisions had no deeper artistic meaning or symbolism other than 'my mate did this one when we were 14 with a safety pin and a biro.' He looked directly into my eyes as he responded to his friend, who had just walked inside, "black coffee, no milk". His voice was low, gravelly, and as South London as they come.

'The coffee of a psychopath,' I thought to myself while meeting his gaze with a smile. My long-standing rule for being approached by strangers has always been to smile and engage, in case my friendliness was the right deterrent for a potential mugger. Not to say this guy was a mugger, but he had what I would describe as 'resting mug shot face'. And not to say this tactic has always worked, I once smiled at a man who mugged me anyways.

In this instance I was unlucky, not because he mugged me but because he took the smile as a warm invitation and pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “I’m just really sad,” he said, still looking straight into my eyes, “but I’m also happy because they were a good team and they made it so far. They gave us reason to hope again.” He was of course speaking about England's loss the night before.

I offered my condolences but also my agreement in that they were a team to be proud of. I threw in a few key buzz words too, like 'Southgate' and 'JLing'. These were appreciated.

“Where you from, love?” he asked.

“California,” I said.

“Cali-for-nigh-aaayyyy,” he said in his best ‘Californian’ accent.

I laughed politely, sympathetic to his attempt.

“There’s tons of you Americans around here. I just saw one over there!” he said, pointing to the train station, as if we were a type of vermin that you make note of so that you can warn everyone else.

I agreed that there had been an influx of us in the area and muse about why an American would move to Brockley, of all London neighbourhoods. It's a question I ask myself a lot.

“This is a great place to be! I’m a cockney, as you well know, from Stratford. I just moved here on Tuesday,” by this time his friend had joined us and the coffees placed in front of them, securing their position as my table companions, “was it Tuesday?”

“No, Wednesday," his friend says.

“No it was Tuesday.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right. He came from the Isle of Sheppey, maddest place I’ve ever seen.”

“Isle of Sheppey is a weird place. You ever been?”

“No - is it in Scotland?” I say, making an effort.

“No it’s off the coast of Kent. Got that mad bridge that gives me nightmares.”

“Ah right, no I’ve never been. Well welcome to the area.” I hope that this would be a natural coda to the conversation and we can all sit in peace, ignoring each other the way Londoners are supposed to.

“Been baking all day.” Damn. He's still going.

“Oh yeah, what have you been baking?” my voice sounds like a kindergarten teacher and I resent it.

“All sorts, it’s a little project I’m working on. I got a tray of those…what are they called?”

“Shortbread,” his friend says.

“Yeah got a whole tray of shortbread, and I’ve been working on some caramel chocolate chip cookies.”

“He’s a good baker, he is,” says the friend.

I'll be honest, this is not the way I pictured the conversation going when these men first sat down.

“Wow, you’re gonna be ready to open up your own shop here then soon, eh?” I say, still hating the sound of my own voice. At this point I become aware of the people around me. The lady at the table next to us, sitting alone and reading a book. The man at the table to our other side wearing a leather jacket and photoshopping a light saber into a photo of a man in a bathrobe. I wonder if this is for work or pleasure.

“I like the way they did this in the coffee,” says the skinnier cockney, pointing to his friends latte art, “it’s like art.”

“Yeah…latte art,” I say, hoping lady with book or leather jacket guy couldn't hear how patronising that sounded. But if the guy is going to live in Brockley, he does need to know, I justify.

“Yeah, latte art, that's a good one,” he says, chuckling. HIs friend chuckles too. I amuse myself by thinking they will go throughout their day believing I invented that term. “I don’t like milk in my coffee though, I like it black like this.”

'Like a psychopath,' I think again, but stop myself before saying it aloud. Somehow I sense the irony would go amiss with this audience.

“Yeah I just tried one of those Americanas, you ever heard of them?”

“Yeah, I have - it’s sort of like the coffee you’re drinking now,” I say, still trying to take as much of the patronisation out of my voice as possible. But again, if he's going to live here he needs to know that the coffee he's drinking IS what he calls an Americana.

“Yeah it does taste a lot like this! Very similar. Anyways, I’m going to see my son for the first time in two years tomorrow. Gettin pretty nervous. Me and his mum, it didn’t work out and I aint seen him in two years.”

I begin to wonder if Isle of Sheppey is a well known prison location and if this man hasn’t had an Americano because he’s been locked away since before Howard Shultz appropriated the Americano for global consumers. This could also be why he doesn't see his son and has just discovered shortbread. Family and baking aren't allowed in prisons. They say that when you become a mother you get issued with some sort of stronger than average intuition, or what I would normally refer to as 'hormones'. Could I be over reacting and making harsh judgements of this man because the hormones raging around in my body are a little volatile? I think of my aunt Molly who teaches yoga in prisons and sings their praises as people who need to be treated humanely. I think of the segment I produced for a TV show about how we need to treat our prisoners like people so that they are less likely to reoffend. I think about the prisons in Norway who don't even lock the doors, believing that trust is the ultimate cure for their lives.

“We aint botherin’ you are we?”

“No!” I say, too enthusiastically. I check on Freddie, thankfully his eyes are open. “I think he’s just woken up and will get fussy in a minute.” I’m planting a seed in their heads so that it doesn’t look awkward when I just get up and leave. “You can always bake with your son, if you’re nervous about seeing him,” I say to hide the fact that I'm lying about being nervous.

“Yeah,” says skinny cockney, but he’s distracted by Freddie and makes baby talk to him. “He’s a good lookin fella ain’t he! Hello you, you awake now?” We talk to Freddie, the three of us, and he makes mention that his son is 6 foot 2.

He shifts the conversation back to himself and moving to Brockley and not seeing his son, tying it in with the fact that he’s recently lost his mum and it made him go a little bit loopey, hence why he's been on the Isle of Sheppey. Then he tells me about how his sister sold everything she had and bought a caravan. I offer my sympathy, I think, but truthfully I’m lost and have a hard time following the conversation or if sympathy is the correct response.

“I got stung by a bee the other day!” he says, rapidly changing the subject yet again.

His friend laughs, “I aint been stung by a bee since there was one on me can of lager!”

We all laugh, them from enjoyment and me from ongoing nervousness. Skinny cockney says, “it got me right on me lip!”

I want Freddie to start making a fuss so that I have an excuse to exit, but for the first time today he’s smiling and blowing spit bubbles. I poke and prod him affectionately, hoping it reminds him he’s hungry. I get enough of a distressed look to use that as an excuse. “Well, I think he’s going to get fussy and hungry soon so I better go.” The thought of breastfeeding in such close proximity to these guys gives me the fear.

“Yeah little man is gonna get hungry aint ya? You look after your mum now you hear?”

“Bye! Enjoy your day! Sorry again about England,” I say.

I regret reminding him because his face goes sallow again and he and his friend turn back to their coffees. I catch the eye of another mum sitting with her baby at a table nearby, she gives me a sympathetic glance as if to say ‘I can’t believe you talked to them for so long,' but also, 'it could have been any of us.' I wonder if she thinks I’m a bad mother for teaching my kid to talk to strangers, or if I'm a good mother for teaching my kid to talk to strangers no matter how scary they look. I'm actually wondering that myself.

Once home I do a quick google search, just to see if I was right. All I see are caravans and adverts for holiday destinations. I'm annoyed at myself for being so cynical and later that night I tell the whole story to my husband.

"I don't know why I was so scared of the guy! Isn't it sad that I automatically thought those things about him?"

He says, "there is a prison on Isle of Sheppey. It's called HMP Stamford Hill. That guy 100 percent just got out of prison."

"Oh," I say, not sure anymore what lesson I've learned. "But it was nice that I talked to him anyways, right?"