Before the Rush

A Short Story by John Barrett Lee

Photo by 🇸🇮 Janko Ferlič on Unsplash

Rosa loves the hour before seven, when the town breathes softly as if waking from sleep, pavements rain-washed and gleaming from the street sweeper’s rounds. The day feels clean and unused. There’s no one around to ask if she’s happy or how she’s coping.

In the kitchen of Café Marrone, she’s prepping for lunchtime service. It’s small but serviceable, with just enough room for her sous-chef Marta to squeeze in alongside her. Upstairs is the little flat she lives in; her whole life stacked in this end-of-terrace shopfront. Sometimes the scent of braising ragu rises through the floorboards, but she never minds. It’s like living inside her own memories.

Soon, Giorgio the veg man will arrive, his van loaded with knobbly lemons and fennel still dusted with red Tuscan earth. Later, Luca the deli man will turn up with cured meats and cheeses, from milky mozzarella to crumbly pecorino. But for now, she’s alone in the world she’s created. Morning sunshine filters through the rosemary and bay on the windowsill, glinting off the stainless steel worktops.

A stock pot simmers, perfuming the air with parsley and peppercorns. It’s made from her grandfather’s recipes, carefully written in an old notebook smudged with his fingerprints. From the small sash window comes the freshness of earlier rain, the April air still holding a chill.

On the spice shelf, a radio plays Classic FM. Beneath on the counter rest three corn-yellow balls of pasta dough. She always makes it fresh. It’s a matter of principle—of obsession, really. Soon, she’ll stretch it into tagliatelle and stuffed pasta—the squash ravioli in sage butter always sells out. Time slips by as she moves through tasks she’s repeated a hundred times. Alone, but steady. Focused. For now, it feels like control.

Rosa often marvels at how many Italians live in Wales, even in this sleepy corner. Many, like her family, came from Abruzzo—a rugged region of mountains and shepherds’ trails. Her grandfather Francesco, a wartime POW, stayed after the war—there was nothing to return to but ruins and poverty. He built a life and learned to love rain.

Perhaps it was the Preseli Hills that called to him, purple with heather, bristling with gorse. He would tramp the moorland with a shotgun, bringing back rabbits for the pot, or disappear for hours hunting mushrooms as he once had in the Maiella mountains. Rosa remembered him returning with mud on his boots, his wax-jacket pockets stuffed with wild herbs he claimed only grew in the hills. Had this stony and windswept landscape given him back a piece of his homeland? It’s too late to ask now—he died when she was seventeen, an age when identity barely crossed her mind. Now, at thirty-four, she pours her energy into recapturing her roots in this sanctuary she’s created. She tells herself she’s continuing both the family tradition and that of all the Italian immigrants who opened cafés across South Wales.

With a floury hand, Rosa turns up the radio. She’s caught the opening of Un Bel Di Vedremo by Puccini—her mother’s favourite. She believes Italian music makes her cooking better, foolish as that sounds. As she breaks eggs into a well of mashed potato for the gnocchi, she begins to sing along. She’s no Renée Fleming, but no one can hear her.

Her singing is cut short by a knock at the kitchen door. Assuming it’s Giorgio or Luca, she wipes her hands and turns down the volume. Glancing at the clock, she sees it’s just before eight. She turns—and the handsome face at the glass makes her suddenly self-conscious. No make-up, old Kasabian T-shirt, Crocs, chef’s trousers, and a floury apron sitting awkwardly on her hips. She wouldn’t worry with Giorgio or Luca—they’d tell her she was bellissima in a sack.

Brushing the sweat-damp hair from her forehead, she opens the door. The man is wearing football shorts, trainers, and an old T-shirt—scruffy enough to make her feel better about the state she’s in. Oddly, he’s out of breath and carrying a boxed cake and a supermarket bouquet.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Are you the chef?’

Rosa isn’t sure if it’s rhetorical, or if he thinks she always dresses this way.

‘I am indeed,’ she says brightly—then cringes. ‘Uh, can I help you?’

He’s a foot taller than Rosa and very lean—which makes her feel unfairly like a ball of mozzarella. His dark curls are clipped short.

He stoops under the doorframe. ‘I’ve booked a table for tonight,’ he explains, straightening up. ‘For four. It’s my mum’s birthday, and I thought I’d drop these off after my run.’ He nods at the cake and flowers. ‘I realise I look ridiculous. They’ve been slowing me down since Tesco.’

Rosa smiles at the absurd but romantic image, feeling mildly disappointed the gifts aren’t for her.

‘No problem,’ she says. ‘Let me just make a note. Those flowers need water, or they’ll be dead by dinnertime. I’ll take care of that.’

She takes the reservation book down from a shelf and finds today’s date.

‘The name?’ she asks, pulling a pen from her apron pocket.

He sets the cake and bouquet on the pass and offers his hand. ‘I’m forgetting my manners—Giuseppe.’

As they shake, a warmth quickens in her chest—the familiar comfort of shared Italian heritage, mixed with something else.

‘I mean your surname. The name the table’s under.’

‘Oh, it’s under Jones. Eight o’clock.’

‘Jones?’ Rosa repeats, the Welsh name incongruous. ‘Giuseppe Jones?’

He shrugs and grimaces. ‘It happens with an Italian mum and a Welsh dad.’

Rosa laughs. ‘I know how you feel. I used to be Rosalina Rees. Can you imagine? I changed to mum’s surname when my father ran off.’

Giuseppe shifts, his smile faltering.

God, Rosa thinks. Oversharing again—better change the subject. She puts a hand on the cake box. ‘Do you need candles? I’m sure there are some half-melted ones in a drawer.’

‘No, no.’ He waves a hand. ‘I’ve been organised, for once.’ Still flustered, he draws a breath. ‘Is this Café Marrone connected to the old one on Bridge Street?’

Rosa looks up from scribbling in the book. ‘It is—but I’m surprised you remember it. My grandad owned it. It closed nearly twenty years ago.’

‘Maybe I’m older than I look.’

Rosa had pegged him at twenty-five, but as she looks more closely, she sees the beginnings of crow’s feet around his eyes, and a dusting of grey at the temples.

He smiles. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Rosa? I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure it was you at first.’

There’s something familiar about his features, but she can’t place him. ‘I’m sorry.’ She rubs her hands together. ‘I know your face, but…’ She trails off, colour rising in her cheeks. She fiddles with her apron; suddenly aware she’s alone in the kitchen with a strange man.

He smiles and nods. ‘Don’t worry. It was a long time ago. You remember a kid they called Gypsy Jones who worked Saturdays in the old cafe?’

Rosa thinks for a moment. She blinks hard. Yes. Of course. The eyes. She should have clocked them earlier—soft, always watching her. She pictures a mumbling, tubby kid with braces helping in the café. He called her grandad Nonno Frank. Fond of the boy, he had taken him under his wing, as he often did with waifs and strays.

‘You’re Gypsy Jones.’

Giuseppe laughs. ‘No one calls me that anymore. I go by Beppe now. And fortunately, I’ve shed the acne and puppy fat.’

Rosa is shocked. Poor Giuseppe—most of the kids in Haverfordwest couldn’t speak proper English, let alone Italian, and it had seemed a good laugh to mispronounce his name. Gypsy Jones. She’d been one of the culprits. He used to gaze at her like she held the moon, but she paid him no notice at all. Once, he’d handed her a Valentine’s card—one of those padded, over-the-top ones with satin fabric, a ribbon rose, and gold script that read I’ve Only Got Eyes For You. It must have cost a chunk of his wages.

She’d opened it on her break, out of sight, and something about it—his careful handwriting, the sheer earnestness—had moved her. But she never said anything. She’d smiled vaguely when he brought out drinks, pretending nothing had happened. If that wasn’t cruelty, it was its quieter cousin: carelessness.

Embarrassment blooms, heat spilling from her cheeks down her neck. She suddenly feels compelled to apologise for her bad behaviour.

‘Sorry we called you Gypsy,’ she says, staring at the tiled floor. ‘It was unkind, and I was a silly teen—hormones running riot, trying to fit in, you know. And I’m sorry I didn’t thank you for the card. It was beautiful. The biggest one I’ve ever got.’

Giuseppe leans against the sink. ‘I’m not here for an apology,’ he says softly, then hesitates—as if weighing something. ‘To be honest, I was a walking cringe back then. Blushing, braces, always in the bloody way—as Nonno used to say when he was in a grump.’

‘You’re letting me off lightly. You were a sweet kid. I was a cow.’

He glances at her sideways, a teasing smile on his lips. ‘Quite a pretty cow.’

Rosa chuckles to hide her awkwardness—both at the sting of how she used to be, and a dart of joy at the backhanded compliment. To change the subject, she asks, ‘When did you move back?’

‘A few weeks ago. And when I heard the laundrette had turned into Café Marrone, I had to see for myself if it was one and the same. I’ve got happy memories of the old place—Nonno was good to me, and I was gutted when it went under. I heard he died soon after.’

‘It broke his heart,’ Rosa says. ‘He was eighty-two, but the café gave him a reason to get up in the morning.’

‘Fifty years of work.’ Giuseppe shakes his head. ‘A lot of places went to the wall in 2008—people couldn’t make ends meet, let alone pay for frothy coffees.’

He looks around the kitchen. ‘But it’s great to see you’ve resurrected it. Smells delicious.’

Rosa smiles, though she knows her Café Marrone is different. More of a restaurant, really. But the feeling is the same—warmth, care, food that lingers in the eating and the memory. That is what she wants to keep.

Giuseppe nods toward the shelf above the prep counter, lined with Italian cookbooks—Hazan, Artusi, Carluccio, Jamie Oliver—a row of spines leaning together. ‘It’s funny,’ he says. ‘I remember you swearing you’d rather eat a Pot Noodle than another plate of spaghetti.’

Rosa laughs, shaking her head. ‘I’d never accuse my teenage self of having taste.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘Lockdown happened. And I went down the rabbit hole—Italian grannies on YouTube, late-night eBay bids on cookbooks and vintage gadgets.’

‘Better than staying up till three watching videos of old Nintendo games.’

She arches an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t changed, then—your thumbs were glued to that Gameboy thing.’

‘I’m still a geek. I didn’t plough my life savings into a video game shop, though.’

‘I guess my geeky hobby turned into an obsession. Nonno’s notebooks were still there, boxed up in Mum’s attic with the remnants of the café. Then, when Mum died… I don’t know. It was the only thing that made sense.’

Giuseppe’s eyes narrowed. ‘Jeez, I’m sorry, Rosa. I didn’t know.’

He hesitates, his voice softening. ‘She was a kind woman. I remember her giving me a lift home more than once, when I missed the bus.’ Rosa flinches, just barely, as if the mention touched a bruise. ‘It wasn’t just losing her,’ she says quietly, her voice catching, ‘but how we lost her. Alone, behind glass, no one holding her hand. You always think you’ll have time to say all the things you wanted to say, and then… suddenly it’s gone.’

Giuseppe nods and rubs his stubble. He clears his throat. ‘You’re right—loss strips everything back. It was during lockdown that I realised I was always in a rush—striving, working sixty hours a week. I felt the pull of Pembrokeshire and a different life.’

‘And I couldn’t go back to working in the bank after that,’ Rosa says. ‘Cooking was the only thing that got me out of bed.’

‘Mum left me a little money—enough to take a year off for catering college and pay the deposit on this place—but more than that, she left me with this feeling that I had to carry something on.’

Giuseppe pauses. ‘All I can say is, good luck. I’m looking forward to sampling your cooking. Is your ice cream as good as Nonno’s?’

‘Same recipe,’ Rosa says proudly.

‘Never.’

‘It is. He wrote all his recipes in notebooks, and I dug them out after Mum died.’

‘How about your coffee?’ Giuseppe asks. ‘Nonno’s was the best.’ His eyes sparkle like a boy’s. ‘I’ll never forget that ancient coffee machine,’ he says. ‘The way it used to grumble and hiss. Do you remember how it used to steam up the mirrors and make all the glasses rattle? Only Nonno knew how to use it.’

‘I know.’ Rosa hugs herself tightly. ‘And he always gave sweets and chocolate to the kids. It drove my granny up the wall. “You’ll put us out of business, Frank,” she used to say. In the end, it was the bloody recession that did that.’

Rosa finds that the emotion is getting to her. Giuseppe is stirring up memories she hadn’t realised she’d buried—of the shallow, disinterested kid she used to be, trying to shrug off the roots she now cradles like freshly cut pasta. Poor old Nonno. She’d called him Gramps. It felt easier, safer, less foreign. Yet a gawky kid they called Gypsy, who wasn’t even his grandson, had managed to say Nonno—and mean it.

Giuseppe’s face is soft now with something like longing—but not for her. Not anymore. It was a quieter ache, steadier, aimed at the same lost time they’d both grown out of too fast. He didn’t need her attention. He simply offered his presence, and that felt like enough.

Rosa touches his arm. She doesn’t usually eat with customers; doesn’t invite anyone in. But she didn’t want him to leave—not yet. ‘Come on, Beppe,’ she says, her voice wobbling. ‘Grab two chairs from the restaurant. We’re having ice cream for breakfast.’ Looking upwards, she adds, ‘Nonno would approve.’

While Giuseppe heads out for the chairs, Rosa puts the supermarket flowers in a bucket under the counter. On the pass, the boxed cake sits quietly, beading with condensation on its plastic window. She switches on the sleek new Gaggia espresso machine and wonders what Nonno would make of its polished chrome and push-button ease, compared to the growling beast only he could tame. Next, she bends to fetch the ice cream from the chest freezer. She lifts the lid and scoops the hazelnut stracciatella into two old sundae glasses—the ones her mother rescued from the fire sale when the original café closed.

From the front of house comes the clatter of a chair tipping over, followed by a muted ‘Damn.’ Rosa smiles to herself. Still that clumsy boy. Somehow still the same.

As she straightens, her eyes drift to the corkboard above the prep counter, cluttered with old Polaroid photos.

One she hasn’t noticed before, bleached almost to nothing by the sun, shows her grandfather and a chubby boy with braces, both laughing behind the Café Marrone counter. Frank’s hands are on the boy’s shoulders. The camera caught them just as they burst into laughter—mouths open, eyes creased, joy spilling out, so ordinary, and yet blazing with the knowledge that time was already slipping away, as it always does, unnoticed until it’s gone.

Beside it is another photo—her, maybe sixteen, in her apron and school tie, flashing a peace sign at the lens. She looks radiant, carefree, alive. Rosa studies her own face, caught in a moment so humdrum she hadn’t thought to treasure. Was she being too hard on herself? Teenagers weren’t supposed to treasure moments. They were meant to move through them.

Looking now, her breath catches in her chest. Giuseppe had belonged, even then—more than she did. He’d called her grandfather Nonno and meant it. And there they were: captured in a scene so ordinary, she hadn’t realised it was precious. Maybe they hadn’t known it, either.

She rests a finger on her grandfather’s face. There he was—Francesco in Abruzzo, Frank in Wales, Nonno in old age, Gramps to her. And there too was Giuseppe, who had been Gypsy as a boy, then Beppe as a man. Rosalina, who pared herself back to Rose for a time, then in the end embraced Rosa. And her surname, reclaimed: Marrone. In English, Brown. So ordinary it might be overlooked, yet it had been theirs: earthy, steady, the colour of bread crust, of espresso crema and chestnut shells, the mud on Nonno’s boots. The name of a family, and of a place where people felt at home. She murmurs it: Marrone. Rosa Marrone.

Names aren’t just names, she thinks—they are doors you walk through on the way to yourself, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, back towards home. She rests her dough-crusted fingers on the scuffed freezer lid, the old machine humming. Her hand lingers, as if touching something sacred.

On the counter, the ice cream is beginning to melt. She doesn’t mind. There is still time, the day outside as yet untouched. From the open window comes a gust of April breeze, as brisk and fresh as if blown down from the moorland. The new machine answers with a small hiss—a last quiet breath before the rush.

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Author: John Barrett Lee is a Welsh writer, teacher, and dad based in Vietnam. He is a graduate of the Creative Writing programme at the University of Glamorgan. His fiction has appeared on both sides of the Atlantic with Fairlight Books, Panorama Journal, Glyph Magazine, Sheepshead Review, and others.

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