Sister Barista by Chris Cottom

The booking is for the honeymoon suite but she arrives alone, signs the register as Annaliese Müller.

People, I’ve learnt, will explain when they’re ready.

           In the morning, she orders coffee, takes one sip, asks for tea. She’s Pre-Raphaelite pale with light ginger hair. And an accent.

‘German?’ I ask.

‘Austrian.’

She’s so slight I worry the wind will blow her into the sea as she tramps Iona’s treeless landscape.

I try to make conversation, but her air of melancholy verges on monosyllabic, until the day our new coffee machine spits and hisses at me like a bad-tempered tomcat.

‘Need some help?’ she says, grabbing an apron.

‘I’m trying to do a latte.’

She shows me how to tease the cup to the wand, guides my hand with hers to swirl the bubbles. All morning, she pours milky bunnies and bears, rosettas and swans. I have to go out for another four litres.

By the end of the week, I’m a master of micro-foam and ready to attempt a tulip.

There’s one design she never pours. The easiest.

Her fortnight ends and she books another.

‘You can stay in the suite,’ I say. ‘It’s the end of the season. No more honeymooners.’ I blush. ‘Sorry.’

Her expression remains impassive beneath her freckles.

‘Thank you, but I’m ready for a single.’

~

‘There’s a service at the Abbey tonight,’ she says. ‘Nine o’clock. Would you like to come with me?’

We sit in a circle in the candlelit nave, maybe fifteen of us. The service is called Prayers for Peace and Reconciliation, and after a while Annaliese begins to weep. I hesitate about putting my arm around her but, when I do, she blows her nose, shuffles her chair closer, and leans against me. I’ve barely been in here since coming to the island, but tonight I could sit here forever, our bodies warm against each other, here in this holy place.

On our walk back under the stars, I slip my hand into hers, clumsy and uncertain. For an instant she doesn’t respond, but then gives my fingers a quick squeeze.

‘Thank you for coming with me,’ she says. ‘It’s such a special place, the Abbey. Maybe I should enter an order.’

‘You can be Sister Barista,’ I say, and she laughs.

We stroll down to the harbour and stand in silence, staring across the darkness at Mull with its scattering of dim yellow houselights. Annaliese snuggles into me, lifts her face and suddenly we’re kissing.

~

It’s bright and sunny when I wake. I reach across but she’s gone. I find her downstairs, making breakfast for the two other guests.

Afterwards, she teaches me to pour a panda. Buzzy with everything and desperate to know, I take a deep breath.

‘Why don’t you do hearts?’

Her smile drops and she looks down.

‘I …’ she says.

I step across but she holds up her palm.

‘Don’t …’

‘Please, Annaliese. Tell me what happened.’

She turns and strides towards the door.

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Are you walking today? I could come with you.’

She stops and turns, offers me a ghost of a smile. ‘If you like.’ She points to my chef’s whites. ‘Not in those, though.’

I finish off in the kitchen and rush up to change. On the way back, I glance through the open door of her room, where bedclothes and towels are scattered everywhere. Then, from the window on the landing, I see a petite figure hurrying to the ferry, bumping her case over the cobbles. She stops for a moment and I find myself praying she’ll look back. But she doesn’t.

Waiting in reception is a fresh latte, topped with the design I’d never seen her pour.