Cambridge

For the Easter break, Katherine and I had no desire to travel far. Cambridge lies about an hour and a half south of Auckland. We had passed it many times on journeys south, but rarely stopped. Our time was usually saved for Hamilton, or for Rotorua and Taupō farther on. Cambridge was only a quiet name on a road sign, gone almost as soon as it appeared beyond the window. This time, we meant to stay for two full days. No rushing—only walking, looking and stopping for coffee. Sunday was bright. We followed State Highway 1 south as the colour outside slowly deepened. Auckland green gave way to the scattered yellow of autumn across the Waikato plains. I said nothing. Katherine watched through the window beside me. An hour and a half later, we parked outside Paddock Cafe. The name did not feel accidental in Cambridge, a town held among horses, grass, schools and farms. Inside, an entire blackboard faced the door. White chalk divided the menu into All Day Menu, Best Ugly Bagels and Paddock Burgers. A pink La Marzocco machine sat on the wooden counter; steam rose and disappeared. The cafe made no effort to manufacture a scene. It was simply busy. People queued to order, checked their phones or sat outside in the sun. Cars moved around the roundabout, yet no one seemed in a particular hurry. On a side wall, a woman’s hair spread across a mural and a blue-green tūī rested within it. Two women sat below, one holding a baby. The child was quiet. The adults were in no hurry. Later, on the sacred mountain, I would see the bird again. Katherine chose a table in the sun. Our food arrived on a white enamel plate with a blue rim, chipped in several places to reveal the dark layer beneath. A vivid pink sauce held green leaves, tomato, egg and toast.

I looked down for a few seconds. White enamel, a blue rim, the worn edge and that almost excessive pink suddenly carried me into another time. By middle age, we all carry old memories. They are not always awakened by grand things. Sometimes it takes only a badly chipped enamel plate. I lifted the coffee. Bitterness came first, followed by warmth. The urgency we had carried from Auckland began to loosen.

A wooden spoon marked with the number 7 stood on the table. Seven is Katherine’s lucky number; today it was also ours. At that moment, it seemed there was nothing we needed to prove by coming to Cambridge. We could sit for a while. Let the steam rise, let sunlight settle on the table, let people and cars pass beyond the window.