Remo's Cafe

There used to be a wee cafe and sweet shop in Raeburn Place, Stockbridge. It was run by Remo Mancini, from the 1930s until the 1990s. I was served by this genial man before I went to primary school and until I was in my mid-forties. The cafe was Remo's life. He worked every day from around 9.30 am until 11.00 pm. In the middle of the day he walked home to his flat in Goldenacre to have lunch with his sister. He never married.

After he died I realised he'd served my newly-wed parents (in the 1930s) and my brother who, in the age of Teddy boys, smoked, drank Coke and played the jukebox in Remo's Cafe. In an odd  way, Remo's death made me think of the death, in order, of my father, brother and mother. And so I wrote Remo's Cafe.
        

 'You wanna raspberry, sonny?' And thick
 red goo is dolloped on my threepenny cone.
 Remo stands tall behind his chocolate bars;
 white-coated, and from far away, he smiles.

 For fifty years at least, he served us all:

 Mum, newly-wed, before the war, in heels
 as high as her expectations. I lick
 and slurp, and eye the tray of sugar mice.

 Dad, walking home from the early shift, gets

 twenty Senior Service - and Alastair
 stays out too late, as the jukebox blares
 Volare. My ice-cream melts; it dribbles

 down my fingers. And the Craven 'A' clock

 ticks on and on till I'm the only one left.

 Remo has dusted the boxes and jars;

 in his winter coat, he has locked the door.

 He takes the road that follows the river

 then quickly disappears. His sister

 will be waiting for him. He's striding out,

 his long day done, beneath Italian stars.

Note: Remo's Cafe is included in my 2007 publication, PAPER RUN (Mariscat Press). Available from me, or from Amazon for a fiver. SCOTLAND ON SUNDAY described PAPER RUN as 'A cracker of a little collection'.