I had this all sorted in my head.  Then as I wrote it suddenly this stand-up routine jumped in.  No idea where that came from.  And when I got to the end the last line just wrote itself and I had to end it there.

Also half way I changed it to the first person because a) it was confusing with 2 sets of 'she' and b) I realised that the story was being told from one viewpoint

I saw Mum sitting at the café table as soon as I entered through the door. Even though Mum was sitting with her back to me she was instantly recognisable. It was her bearing. She would make even a statue would look as though it was slouching. She was perfectly dressed, as usual. Only the best designers could make clothes look that understated. Which of course made her stand out amongst the ordinary shoppers.

"Hi Mum", I said, leaning over her and kissing her on her cheek, careful to ensure that Mum’s lips kissed the air. I didn’t want lipstick on my cheek. I always felt that at any point Mum would tell me to spit on a handkerchief and rub it off.

"You know when your mum got you to spit on your handkerchief and then wiped your face with it? Because it would be so unhygienic to have her spit smeared all over your face. But she only ever did that in public. You have no idea how many boyfriends I’ve lost because of that." Would that work? Would people that didn’t have a mother like hers find that funny?

I took the opposite chair. Mum smiled at me, then her eyes flicked over the sweatshirt, the short hair and the lack of makeup. The smile remained on her lips but there was no warmth in it. "Look at your hair, your clothes. How are you going to get a boy to look at you like that? Do you deliberately try to embarrass me?" her eyes seemed to say. But then she brightened up. "Let me get you a tea, dear. You look as though you need one."
 

And she caught the eye of the waitress immediately. I had always wondered how she did that. Whenever Mother wanted service she could just demand it. However she did it, it wasn’t a trait that was inherited.

"I’d rather have a coffee."

"Really?" Mum asked, as though she suspected that I was drinking coffee just to be contrary. She smiled at the waitress. "Can we have a coffee here for my daughter? Thank you."

"What sort?"

"With milk, please, dear."

The waitress looked confused.

"Non-fat latte, please" I translated.

"And two slices of that carrot cake you have behind the counter, thank you."

"No, I’m fine mum. I don’t want anything to eat."

"Nonsense, I’m paying", she said, as though I were some pauper too proud for charity.

Mum waited until the waitress had moved away before asking, "What’s a latte?"

"It’s a milky coffee, Mum."

She raised her eyebrows as though I was getting just a little too fancy for my boots. "Well, that’s what I asked for. Is she a little simple, do you think?"

"So, to what do I owe this honour? You coming all the way into town."

"Well, I thought it’s been such a long time since we just sat down and chatted, and if I had to wait till you came down to see me, it would be my funeral before you came to visit. And how much would we talk about then?

"So how are you? I worry about you, working till heaven knows when in that bar. You’re looking tired and peaky."

I noticed how tired Mum looked. It was the first time I had ever recalled Mum looking old, or looking anything other than… Mum. She had always had an unchanging air about her, like an old photo of a smiling housewife in a 1950’s woman’s magazine. But now there was a weariness in the corner of her eyes, the muscle of her jaw.

"It’s not a bar, Mum, it’s a club. And I’m fine. I’m happy. Honest."

"Mmm", she replied, expressing a wealth of doubts in a single wordless syllable. "You could get a decent job. This place looks like it could do with more staff. Where’s that cake?" Even a waitress job would make her less ashamed "Are you courting yet?"

"No, no-one special."

"No-one special? What does that mean, ‘no-one special’? Does it mean that you are courting someone common? You’re courting generally, but no one special man? What?"

"Yes, Mum. I’m sleeping with a different man every night. Happy?"

"Oh, I get it. This is you joking. Did you ever think that maybe it’s your jokes that frighten men away?"

"And I worry so much about you working in that bar. Men only think one thing about a woman working in a bar."

"Mum, I’m not a stripper. I’m a DJ. The first woman DJ they’ve had. And they’re letting me MC the acts. It’s a good job. I enjoy it." She’s going to go on like this all morning if I don’t steer her way. "So what’s new with you? What’s going on?"

"Your brother has got a promotion at work."

"He told me." It was a sideways move. No extra money. But of course it was a promotion to Mum. And the fact that the management were considering letting me have a solo stand-up spot would not be promotion in Mum’s eyes. Not even if I topped the bill.

"Your father has left me and Aunty Lill has finally gone into hospital with her leg. You should send her a card."

"What?"

The waitress arrived with the coffee and cakes. Mum smiled at the waitress and waited until she had retired out of range.

"She’s in hospital with her leg, poor dear. The time she had to wait, too."

"No. Dad’s left you? What do you mean, he’s left you?"

She shrugged. "He’s left me. Gone. Vanished. How else can I put it?"

"Oh my God, Mum. Why didn’t you say? What happened?"

Mum started to pick at the slice of cake with her fork, moving the pieces around the plate, staring down at it. "He told me Monday morning not to wait up, he was working late. Four o’clock Tuesday morning and he was still not home. I phoned the hospitals, I phoned the police, not that they wanted to know, never mind the council tax we pay to keep them in doughnuts.

"So at nine I phoned his office. They told me he was on holiday. Can you imagine that? I’m his wife and I didn’t know he was on holiday. I was so ashamed. So now they all know at his work. Married 27 years, and I’m the last to know. You’d think I’d have realised he was having an affair."

"Dad? Having an affair? Oh come on, Mum. Are you sure?"

"Why else would he run off? Men get funny at that age."

"But Dad? Who would have him?"

Mum looked up at me, her face suddenly fierce. "When we were courting he was the finest catch in the town, let me tell you. All the other girls’ mothers were trying to get their daughters matched up with him, but he wanted to go out with me. I was so proud that he had set his hat at me, but I wouldn’t let him know that. Six weeks he kept asking me till I let him take me out. And it’s not all been plain sailing since, either. There have been other women looking at him. I’ve seen them. That’s why I don’t let myself go. I never let him catch me without makeup, without being properly dressed up. And I keep the house nice for him, I cook for him, I clean for him…", and her eyes started to fill with tears, "And he thanks me by running off with some little tramp."

And she stabbed a piece of carrot cake and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing furiously, staring out of the window so that she didn’t have to meet my eyes.

"What has he said about it? Who is she?"

She shrugged. Her shrugs were amazing. Her shrugs were an entire language in themselves. "I wouldn’t know. He’s not deigned to phone me."

"You haven’t phoned him? Why on earth not, Mum?"

She frowned at me disapprovingly. "If you could manage to speak a little louder then the whole street will hear you. Why should I phone him? It’s not me that’s deserted him, is it?" And her voice cracked, just on the last syllable.

Parents! All your childhood they tell you to grow up, and when you do you realise that it wasn’t you that was childish all along.

I took out my phone and selected Dad’s number.

"What are you doing?"

I held the phone to my ear. He answered it on the third ring.

"Hi Dad, how are you?"

"Fine, you?

"Fine too. What are you up to?"

"Oh, I’m just out for a walk down by the river. You?"

"I’m sitting in a café with Mum. Want to talk to her?" and without waiting for an answer I passed the phone over to Mum. She folded her arms and shook her head.

"Mum, Dad wants to talk to you", I said in a voice that carried to the far corner of the café. A hush descended over the café. She glared at me with eyes full of anger and snatched the phone off of me. She took her earring off and held the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she asked coldly. "Where are you?… I see. Why?… Really? I had no idea you had lost your self… And you couldn’t share this with me?…"

She listened for maybe a minute, grunting every now and then. Then she placed her head in her free hand. The shoulders slumped and she leant forward, supporting herself on the table with her elbow. I was shocked. All my life she had looked in control, as though she were presenting herself to a deportment class. Now I realised how small, how old, she really was.

"You stupid, stupid man", she said softly. "Come home, and we’ll sort things out together… How long will you be?… OK, bye."

She gave the phone back to me. Then she composed herself. The iron rods slid back up into her back, she gave a delicate sniff, then looked at me as though she had suddenly realised I was there.

"See? I told you there wasn’t another woman. He’s reached that age, that’s all. He wants to ‘find himself’, whatever that means. Honestly, he is so stupid sometimes. 27 years of marriage, and he still doesn’t realise that if he wants to find something all he has to do is ask me, and I’ll know where it is."