It’s an unusually hot afternoon in early summer and I'm on my way to meet with a group of strangers to talk about death. There’s a heatwave in London, and the buildings seem to sag under an angry, bubbling sun. I look to the road’s asphalt, baked and black, and think that it’s the type of heat that boils the blood.
The group convenes in Hackney Wick’s old bathhouse, in front of the saunas, behind the café. I mount the steps towards the big, red double-decker doors and see that the room inside is wide, open, and dark. Big ceiling fans churn the heat, break it down, make it easier to swallow.
I watch my reflection move through the gloss of darkened window panes; see my silhouette distort as the glass rounds to meet the wood. It’s mostly empty inside. A few people sit with empty coffee cups, pecking at keyboards. It smells of a mixture of eucalyptus and old coffee beans and I can hear faint giggles bounce through the plaster separating rooms.
Behind the cafe’s counter, chairs and couches have been pulled together into a circle around a wooden coffee table. I take a seat on the edge of the couch’s cushion, unsure how to position my body to seem sure of itself. I watch the heavy wooden doors as they swing on their axis, drawing long planks of light and taking them away. Through the corners of my eyes, I study each new person as they shuffle in. I wonder who is here for coffee and who is here for death.
I look towards the big, white clock hanging above the coffee machine and see its arms turn towards 6:00. The session is due to begin. Marsh, the group’s co-ordinator, moves from greeting people at the door, to taking a seat within the circle.
This is my second time meeting Marsh. The first was in the back of a café in Peckham. They were halfway through a Full-English. It’s the type of place that only takes cash, one that has soaked up years of comings and goings; its windows permanently lined with smudged handprints, condensation and grease. Marsh sits up the back. I asked to meet them after first learning about the concept of the ‘Death Cafe.’ I was instantly curious. I imagined some occult group in black robes lighting white candles and praying to a dark deity. Now though, as they look up at me from in between the pages of a book, they greet me with a smile. They fold an ear in the book and put it aside, motioning at the empty seat in front of them.
They tell me about their background in social work, the problems they faced in the system, the red tape, the desire to do more, how too many people slip through the holes of a held out hand. Their eyes find a corner above the door as we talk. In between dips of toast into sticky, yellow yolk, I notice that they have the word LOVE tattooed across their fingers. One bold, black, capital letter for each. "It's the first tattoo I ever got," they tell me after I ask about it. The corners of their cheeks bunch up and the smile reaches their eyes. For a moment they are somewhere else.
We talk about the name, ‘Death Cafe.’ I tell them it’s strange to see those two things stitched together. That death feels like a heavy, dark taboo, that wouldn’t be welcomed through the doors of Cafe for fear of souring the air. They tell me that this is the point, to make the conversation around grief more normal and less scary. If nothing else, they tell me, it’s to show people that they are not alone in their loss. They use their hands as they speak, and I see LOVE move through the air in front of them. ‘Is this why it’s free to join?’ I ask, and they tell me that traditional therapy comes with a ladder, one that you can't climb unless you have the resources. This is why it works, ‘It’s people helping people,’ they say with a smile, and I watch as they drain the last drops from their coffee cup.
Now, as I sit with Marsh inside the back of Hackney’s bathhouse, they instruct the group to splinter into smaller clusters. More people shuffle in, and soon chairs have to be stolen from neighbouring tables to accommodate the swelling circles. ‘Big turn out,’ I think, and the words feel sour.
I find myself on a plastic chair, tucked tightly against the mouth of a velvet couch. Next to me a man is sitting in the remnants of a suit. His white button shirt is wilted from the day’s heat, and I watch the cotton melt into his pale skin as he leans forward to speak with a blonde girl. Her hair catches the light as she tilts up to smile at me. She tells him she’s hungry and he pulls a nylon blue backpack to his lap, revealing a clingfilmed slice of cake.“It’s coconut and lemon” he tells the group, and his mouth spreads into a smile. I watch her blue nail polish, chipped and chewed, as she unwraps the cake from its plastic cover. “What brings you guys here?” She asks. Her voice is soft, eyes are heavy.
“My mum died six years ago,” the man in white goes first and the crinkles around his eyes go slack as he speaks. He is leaning forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, and I watch as he fiddles with a silver charm on his necklace. “It was really sudden.” He says slowly, as if the picture won't turn to words. He tells the group how when you lose someone, you lose a part of yourself, the part that only they knew. “She was the person who always cheered me on,” he says. He rubs at his facial features as if he could wipe away the feelings that come with the expression.
A film of silence settles on the group. The girl offers the coconut cake to the rest of the small circle, and a man in all black breaks off a piece with his fingers. He is sitting with all of himself crossed; his legs, his arms, his headphones still wrapped around his neck. As he moves, I notice that the sun has drawn lines of rust along his shoulder blades, and I see where burn met with milky pink skin. “My mum died six months ago,” he says. The words dribble out of his mouth, slowly and unformed as if he didn't intend to let them go. His eyes swell and he tilts his head towards the yellowing roof in a desperate attempt to stop gravity from taking his tears. Refusing for another force to be beyond his control.
He looks towards the man in white, a stranger with too much in common, and asks a question no one can answer: “When does it start to get better?” The man scratches the side of his cheek, lets out a long exhale, thinks. “I used to think that there would be a moment after death, after I’ve scaled the great big wall of loss and gotten to the other side, that I’d be healed.” But death throws shadows on our lives, and the dark silhouette of grief is cut in the same shape as love. In the presence of its absence, love doesn't go away; it’s just turned inside out. So, you learn not to move away from grief, but to move forward with it. So, we carry the echoes of those we have lost with us, through time and space.
Beyond this circle, the world moves. People come and go, the revolving doors let the sun in and take it away again. Laughter filters in from adjoining rooms. The barista slings another coffee. Life’s familiar rhythms of repetitions.
I look around the room, at a jagged mix of people, and realise something I’ve always known. Death doesn't come with a target. “It’s gonna happen to all of us eventually” says the man in black, his voice matter of fact, but his eyes are wide and worn. The sun sinks lower into a darkening sky; stretches out the shadows on the floor. Tiredness pulls on my eyelids, and I think that tomorrow there is another sunset I’m yet to see. We hug. The circle loosens from a cluster back to individuals. I watch as people pluck plastic name tags from their chest. We say our goodbyes and become strangers again.
The Hackney Death Cafe is a community-led space for open discussions around grief and loss. The group meets every month at Hackney Wick Bath House and is open to all.
The Bath House is currently under threat from developers, read more and sign the petition to save it at: https://thebathhouse.co/save-the-bath-house