Globular Cluster - Mike Stollery

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Brief: Think of a character called Rebecca.

Rebecca is in her early thirties. She has just moved to a town in the South East and is walking down the High Street, trying to familiarise herself with the area as well as seek out a shop to buy some provisions.

She sees a fairly empty coffee shop and decides to stop off there...

I had missed out on a couple of briefs earlier in the term, so I took this opportunity to include them here too.

They were 'The Road Not Taken' and 'Archaic Words'.

A Reset For Rebecca

‘Can I get a Caramel Macchiato with a mocha drizzle and light cinnamon powder, please?’ Rebecca asked of the handsome young man behind the bar. He had shiny black swept-back hair, high cheek bones and a good strong jaw which was refreshingly unbearded. She was anticipating a pleasant chat with him as much as the coffee itself.

‘No,’ he responded.

‘Sorry,’ Rebecca said bashfully. ‘Probably a little presumptuous of me. What do you have?’

The barman made no offer of a menu and simply said, ‘There’s tea, or coffee.’

‘What selection of coffees do you have?’ asked Rebecca, a slightly disappointed.

‘With milk or without.’

‘Do you have oat milk?’

‘No.’

‘And are those my only options?’

‘Of course not,’ said the barman. Perhaps he was just having a little fun, thought Rebecca, and he will now break out into a bout of jolly banter and a long list of coffees. ‘You can have it with or without sugar.’

Rebecca’s shoulders fell. Should she just leave and find another place? That would be rude. ‘Flat white, one sugar,’ she said.

‘White coffee coming up,’ said the man. ‘Sugar’s on the table.’

Rebecca felt an uncomfortable silence as her drink was being prepared, seemingly in a most blasé manner. No dialling of knobs or pulling of levers. There wasn’t even the cacophony of the Flying Scotsman in a tug-o-war with the Sir Nigel Gresley, and certainly nothing in the way of conversation.

‘I like the retro style of this place,’ she drove, glancing around at the sparse décor. She noticed also the dearth of customers. ‘Bit quiet today?’

‘It’s been like that since the Reset.’

‘The Reset? Do you mean a refurbishment?’

‘No. The Great Reset. You’re not from round here, are you?’

‘No. I’ve just got a new job and had to move out here quickly. Have you worked here long?’

At this, the barman’s disinterested demeanour suddenly changed. His body stiffened and his face displayed a renewed focus.

‘Are you from the Ministry?’ he asked with an apparent look of concern.

Rebecca had no idea why she did what she did next.

It was one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions for which there seems to be no explanation, and was completely out of character for her. But then, spur-of-the-moment decisions are not as spontaneous as people believe. It may feel like you’re being impulsive but deep down inside, your subconscious has been planning a reckless act for quite some time, usually the result of the build up of a number of issues which are destined to come to a head at some point.

Life is often likened to a road leading to your destination. But roads never end. They just keep on going and if you really want to get somewhere you’ve got to choose an exit. Rebecca’s journey had so far been a straight line and although she couldn’t see where it would end it was clear what direction it was going in. Her job in the City had become increasingly more stressful. Pressure to meet targets, put in longer hours, strive for bonuses and promotion. The need to keep up appearances with pretentious friends and colleagues, and then the bombshell of discovering her fiance’s infidelity.

And now, having reached the milestone of thirty, could she manage much more of this? Forgive him? Find someone new, but still get married, have kids, and maintain the fake smile? Or start afresh — a new job, out in Kent, discover some better friends. This was where here life was leading her, but now it seemed like merely a bend in the road, perhaps even a U-turn. She was heading away from something — she needed to turn towards something. It was time to take the road not taken.

If she’d had time to think about it, she would have seen that the action she was about to take was not without explanation after all — she could have worked out exactly why she did what she did next.

She looked the barman squarely in the eye and said, ‘Yes.’

The barman paused momentarily, then said ‘One moment’, and promptly went round the back.

Presently, an older man in a dark suit came out. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I am the Facilitator.’ He offered Rebecca his hand which she shook. ‘I trust you had a good journey? You are a little earlier than we were expecting.’

‘The High Speed Train was very comfortable and reliable.’

‘Well, we’ll soon be able to do something about that. I trust Kevin met with your approval?’

‘Kevin?’

‘The barman.’

‘He refused to serve me a Macchiato and only offered tea or coffee.’

‘Splendid! He’s coming along nicely, don’t you think? Probably due a promotion soon.’

‘Most impressive.’

‘Come. Let me show you round.’

He led her behind the bar and opened a trapdoor revealing steps into an illuminated basement. She followed him down and found a room akin to the Churchill War Rooms in Whitehall. Sharp suited men sat at antique desks which were laden with piles of papers and rows of telephones. Separately, women tapped away at typewriters. One wall was occupied with a detailed map of the British Isles while another sported a map of Kent. This had a thick black dashed outline drawn around its coastline and the borders with neighbouring counties. Dotted around this perimeter were symbols that Rebecca didn’t recognise and appeared not to be at significant locations.

She hid her surprise and simply said, ‘I see you’ve been busy.’

‘Yes. You may have noticed in the high street we have dispensed with all the vape shops and mobile phone outlets and replaced them with a haberdasher, a cordwainer and an iron mongery.’

‘I shall be visiting them after our meeting,’ said Rebecca, beginning to feel that this should be sooner rather than later.

‘Although the Reset has been wholly successful, we still have a great deal of work to do. Let me introduce you to Quentin.’

‘Goodmorrow,’ beamed the Brylcreemed young man rising from his seat and offering Rebecca a slight bow. ‘How congenial to meet you.’

‘Quentin has been working on restoring some of our glorious vocabulary that has sadly fallen by the wayside. We intend to cleanse the dreadful guttural parlance that today’s generation has been littering us with and bring back a language that we can once again be proud of.’

‘Forsooth, I fain quell the loathly brabble of the nithings that do vitiate our goodly tongue,’ beamed the young linguist, proudly brandishing a large portfolio of his work for Rebecca to admire. ‘Herein have I indited a tome that seeks to edify the most beef-witted of dorries.’

She gave it an approving nod.

‘And over here we have Terrence who has been working hard on the transport system,’ said the Facilitator.

Terrence greeted Rebecca similarly and said, ‘Next time you visit us you won’t be discommoded by that soulless High Speed Train. We shall have it replaced with goodly steam locomotives so that you can savour your journey over a prolonged period of time and on firm wooden seats.’

‘But of course, all our work here is performed in absolute secrecy,’ the Facilitator resumed. ‘We have no connections with any outside technology and perform strict security checks on all our staff. The last thing we want is an imposter inveigling their way into our business.’

‘Such a varlet would be given short shrift to the gibbet,’ said Quentin.

‘I am very pleased with all your endeavours,’ said Rebecca. ‘But I have limited time and I must inspect the new shops . . .’

‘Old shops,’ said the Facilitator.

‘Of course, old shops in the high street.’ And she turned back towards the steps.

‘I am sure you will find everything to your satisfaction and am happy to accompany you if you wish.’

They reached the top of the stairs and Rebecca said, ‘Thank you, but I shan’t detain you from all your valiant work any further.’

The coffee shop was still empty but as she was about to leave, a business-woman with tied back black hair entered. She approached Kevin who was slouched on his bar top, and said to him directly, ‘Have you worked here long?’

As before, Kevin galvanised into attention.

‘Are you from the Ministry?’ he asked.

‘Of course I am. Where’s the Facilitator?’

‘I’ll just get him,’ said Kevin.

He then pulled a lever, a klaxon rang and the entrance door slammed shut.

Glossary

Archaic

brabble — noisy, quarrelsome chatter

beef-witted — stupidest

cordwainer — shoe maker

dorries — ignorant or uncultured people

fain — willing or willingly