New morning

I wake to the brightness of a new morning. The darkness of the previous night is gone, replaced by joyous birdsong. Returning to the Burnt Biscuit, I am ready to start the day with the finest breakfast Jerry has to offer. Finding the table in the window occupied, I take a seat in the rear, next to the counter.

From the conversations I catch around me, the other diners are mostly locals, fuelling up for the day ahead. The talk is accompanied by cutlery scraping on thick china plates, a whirring fan and Jerry’s low bass chuckle as he exchanges wise-cracks with a couple of working men while he refills their mugs with steaming black coffee. A country music station plays soft through two battered speakers positioned on a high shelf over an old bleached-out photograph of a Union Pacific freight train crossing a silver girder bridge. Funny how the reds always fade first, leaving mostly blue.

‘What’ll it be?’ asks Jerry, his large frame blocking out the florescent light that burns above me. I order two eggs, sunny side up, hash browns, two links and bacon, done burnt and crispy in the American way. Wheat toast will come on the side with jelly. That’s jam to me. ‘And to drink?’ adds Jerry, already in motion towards the counter. I ask for orange juice and coffee. Jerry brings these over directly then returns to set the griddle sizzling.

I look around the room, conscious that my accent has caused a ripple of curiosity, but not enough to raise a conversation directed at me. This I don’t mind. I’m more of a listener than a talker at this time of day, or at any time come to think of it. The younger of the two working men, a kid of around eighteen years dressed in jeans and t-shirt baring the word GIANT, is talking to a woman, fifteen years or so his senior. His words are delivered with the easy familiarity of knowing her well. He’s asking after the whereabouts of someone called Ed, who, it soon becomes clear, is his partner: both of them players in a local band. He needs to get in touch with Ed as they’re due to perform this weekend in some bar called Poison Ivy’s in Alpine.

The older guy stands up to go, reaches a sunburnt hand into his shirt pocket and brings out a couple of crumpled bills, a ten and a five, tossing them down amongst the wreckage of smeared plates and empty mugs. He tips the brim of his cowboy hat in the direction of the woman and in three steps is through the door into the sunlight outside. The kid looks up and pushes back his chair.

‘OK, we’re on around ten, but come early, we’ll catch up some more then’. Thanks Jerry, take care y’here’.

Jerry waves a free hand while the other tends my order, not stopping to look around as the screen door clatters shut. I flash a glance at the table opposite and intercept a look from two clear green eyes coming back my way. I nod a silent greeting.

‘Morning’, she replies, through a broad smile, the kind that lights up the whole face using every muscle, not just those around the mouth, ‘ looks like the start of a beautiful spring day’.

Before I can get out a reply Jerry presents my breakfast with a clatter of plates,

‘More coffee?’

‘Oh yes please’, I say sounding more English than ever.

‘I guess you’re not from Texas’, says the woman, taking a sip of iced water.

‘No, I’m from England’, I answer, somewhat unnecessarily to my mind, but American ears are not always as fine-tuned as those of us Brits when it comes to pinpointing foreign accents. I’ve frequently been identified as Australian, sometimes Canadian, once, a little bizarrely, as Icelandic. Jerry reappears with the glass coffee pot and refills my mug, the interruption giving me time to take in a wide, strong face, medium length light brown hair brushed back off the forehead, a white shirt open at the neck to reveal a discreet gold pendant, black slacks, flat shoes: the dress of a business woman ready for a day’s work.

‘What brings you to Marathon all the way from England?’ It’s a little off the usual tourist track’, she says, eyebrows raised as if to invite an answer.

‘Well, to be totally accurate, the real answer to that is Wim Wenders’, I say smiling, ‘ It was the opening scenes of his movie Paris Texas, shot around Big Bend, that first brought the area to my attention. And as I’m a complete sucker for dusty desert locations, here I am’.

‘Did you go up to Paris?’

‘No. I thought about it, but when I did some research I found out that they never actually filmed in Paris and to be honest, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot going on there. Maybe it would have been nice to get a shot of the town sign, you know, population 3,542 or whatever, but it would have meant quite a detour just for one photograph’.

‘So, what is it about the desert?’ she says, folding her paper napkin and smoothing it flat.

‘Oh, I guess it’s the contrast from my usual surroundings. The quiet. The isolation. And the space. It’s hard to find in the crowded little island I come from. I mean, yesterday I drove for thirty minutes and didn’t catch site of one vehicle in my rear view mirror. I just couldn’t do that at home, probably not even in the wilds of Scotland, not anymore’.

‘Well, if it’s isolation and space you want, you’ve come to the right place. Oh and by the way, I’m Hilde Cunningham,’ she says, offering her hand. ‘I run a gallery here in town. If you’re into photography drop by. I’m exhibiting work by a local photographer right now, you may find it interesting. Hang on, I’ve got a card here somewhere.

She lets go of my hand and flips open a leather wallet that lies on her table, pulling out a business card. I reach across and take it. Big Sky Galleries. Paintings, Prints,
Photographs. 110 Highway 90 West. Marathon. Texas.

‘Thanks, I’ll definitely call in. Oh and I’m Farquhar’, I say, placing my hand flat against my chest as if the gesture will help to convince myself, ‘Just call me Farquhar’.