Rita's Cafe - short story

As you know, I belong to numerous writers' groups as a means of mixing and mingling with a variety of other authors, poets and creative types. Last night was the adjudication of our in-house annual short story competition ... and I was awarded a second place. I'm well chuffed! The competition judge was John Burton, an expert on George Eliot, who read and gave feedback on each of the ten entries. I haven't published the whole piece but below is the beginning:

Rita's Cafe

I clear my throat and begin to read aloud to the group. “Rita’s café was warm and cosy. For many it was a kind of haven. A traditional place bedecked in green and white gingham, where the headline of the day was forgotten as you entered and the only news that mattered was a fresh entry on the ‘Specials board’, that and claiming your seat. Claiming your table was important at Rita’s - I hadn’t realised until it closed and was no longer part of my familiar routine.

A never-ending cycle of daily activity witnessed from my spot behind the Formica counter, where my pinny matched the table cloths and my hands were rarely still. 

Two years on, I now miss Stan and Petru who always bagsied the first table by the door and spent hours watching the televised racing through the window of the betting shop opposite. Neither one ever ordered more than a cuppa, but it was on the hour every hour, as regular as the church clock chiming. Their surprise outburst when one or the other won and dashed out to collect their winnings always raised a smile. They always split the bounty or purchased a toasted tea cake in celebration, if their loot stretched as such.

Tuesday’s knitting group filled the air with laughter whilst their needles provided a rhythmical clicking as yarns and patterns covered their laps. Blankets, booties and half-finished sleeves were pieced together week by week, but a completed garment was rarely seen.

The mother and toddler group on Wednesday mornings always gathered around the rear tables, away from the doorway; I wrongly assumed it was to avoid the draft howling in off the market square. They’d use their bulky pushchairs and double buggies to make a fortress around their tables by blocking the aisles, a strategy which kept other customers at bay from cooing germs over their new-borns.

Or the Thursday mothers' group, a splinter group from the original, where baby harnesses and scarf wraps were more the order of the day than a bulky Silver Cross with shiny wheels and a cute rain cover.  

Fridays welcomed Daisy O’Donnell with her tartan shopping trolley, who never finished her plate of buttered toast yet the sugar sachet dispenser was always empty regardless of how full it had been before she sat down at table three.

Saturday mornings brought the family visits, the happy milkshakes and current bun brigade who dropped by after swimming lessons. Providing an endless stream of wide eyes amidst the subtle fragrance of chlorine and freshly washed hair. Followed by the not-so-happy situations, the drop offs and collections which brought a lump to my throat as children excitedly spotted the parent they no longer lived with. Sometimes a harsh exchange, an unfinished argument or a crumpled expression was aired over their off-springs tiny heads before a round of kisses and a promise to ‘be good’ were hastily made. 
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And Sundays, when the ‘closed’ sign remained in full view as the world dashed by and Rita’s café slept awaiting another busy week. Until that final Sunday, after which we never reopened. I miss the haven nestled in the Market Square, Rita’s Café was warm and cosy providing more than hot tea and lively chat in a world of hurried busyness, before Covid changed our week and our own tragic headline eclipsed the specials board.” 
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There’s silence around the library’s meeting table, I sensed there would be ...

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