The barista handed me a Flat White, the receipt marked ‘Julie’ instead of ‘Julia’. I headed to a cosy spot at the back where sunlight streamed over the Scandinavian wood décor. 

‘They called it Pasty Pete’s Polaroids,’ a woman said.

Coffee spilt down the side of my mug as I walked past her.

My smile wobbled as she looked up at me, her eyes catching the wedding ring hanging from my necklace. 

She ran her fingers through her sandy bob and lowered her voice to her friends, ‘He’d been doing it for years before they got him.’

‘Why pasty?’ another laughed, swishing her ink jet ponytail behind her shoulder.

‘Because he was so pale.’

‘Yeah, didn’t he look like Michael Jackson?’ the third added, slurping her iced coffee while on her phone.

‘Spitting image.’ The sandy bob raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, except he had less hair.’

‘I thought it was pasty as in Cornish pasty,’ the ink jet ponytail laughed.

I pulled the wooden chair against the boarded floor and sat down, absentmindedly moping my flooded saucer with the napkins. The air conditioner poured over us, although it was November. I wasn’t sure if that was making my hair stand up on end or this conversation.

‘So, what did he do?’ the ink jet ponytail asked, eyes wide.

‘He was so weird. Scary weird. He skulked around public places until he found who he was looking for. Then he would take a Polaroid of them, write something creepy on the back, and…’ She stopped talking as an older man sat down at a table near me.

I grabbed the brown sugar sachets on the table to look busy, tore them and tipped the granules over my delicately formed flat white art. The foam pulled the sugar down, the granules growing darker and darker until they dropped.

When the man whipped open his newspaper, she continued, ‘He would follow the person back to their home and post the Polaroid through their letterbox.’ Her 20-something skin wrinkled in disgust.

I stirred my coffee, watching in a trance as the milk and coffee intertwined to create a creamy biscuit hue. I wasn’t sure how much more I could stand to listen to.

‘Then what?’

The phone addict stopped slurping and took over, ‘That was it! Just one pervy Polaroid, and he moved on to the next victim.’

‘What a total creep,’ the ink jet ponytail said. 

‘Tell me about it.’ The sandy bob licked the foam from her teaspoon. ‘He took a Polaroid of a woman and wrote something like…oh, what was it? It was in the article…’ 

The phone addict nodded, reading from her screen. ‘“Your hair shines like tarmac flooded by sunlight”.’

They sniggered and winced at the same time, muttering words. Pervert. Insane. Disgusting. Mental. 

My heart thumped in anger. They didn’t know what they were talking about.

‘He deserves everything he gets.’

I leapt up, my wooden chair scraping the floor.

They stared at me, frowning. Other customers peered over.

I swallowed, wishing I had more self-control. But I had to do something. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ I said quietly.

The phone addict guffawed, incredulous.

‘Excuse me,’ the sandy bob remarked. ‘We’re having a private conversation.’

‘No,’ my voice fell out small, so I cleared my throat. ‘You’re talking about something you know nothing about.’

‘Oh, and you do?’ 

‘Yes. I do.’

The coffee machines hissed. Mugs clanged against saucers.

‘What that man did wasn’t right. But he meant no harm.’

‘He was sick,’ the sandy bob exclaimed. ‘He took photos of kids too, and said stuff like, “Your cheeks are like rosebuds starting to bloom”. He terrified parents. Who does that?’

‘He had mental health problems. Just like my mother who received the Polaroid you were all gossiping about.’

They sat back, falling silent.

‘If it wasn’t for that man, for Pete, my mother would have drunk herself into an early grave.’ I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as I felt the floor give way under me. ‘She was at the end of herself, and one afternoon, she found a photo of herself with something nice written on the back. It was what she needed to make a phone call to me to ask for help.’

‘Oh,’ the ink jet ponytail said.

I clutched my mother’s wedding ring on my necklace.

‘Pete took photos of people he found interesting. Adults, kids, he didn’t see a difference. He wrote sweet, almost childish things on the back to compliment them.’

‘It was still wrong,’ the sandy bob reiterated. 

‘He didn’t know that. He thought he was doing something nice. Innocent. And you know what, as wrong as it was, I will be forever grateful to him.’

‘The article doesn’t say anything about this,’ the phone addict was scanning her screen as though the internet held more truth than me.

‘The news doesn’t always tell the whole story. It painted Pete as a villain when he just needed some guidance.’

‘Wasn’t she scared, though?’ the ink jet ponytail asked. ‘Your mum.’

‘She was past that.’ I stared at my water-stained suede boots, ashamed because I should’ve known. A daughter should’ve known.

They glanced at each other, with nothing left to say, waiting for me to leave. So I left, hoping that at least I might have left behind a slightly sweeter taste of the true story of Pasty Pete’s Polaroids.

‘Excuse me.’ A finger prodded my back as I zipped my coat up outside the café. It was the ink jet ponytail. ‘I’m sorry.’ She gave a small smile. ‘I hope your mum gets better.’

And that made my lack of self-control worth it. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, feeling that bit lighter.