Author's Note: This chapter contains content which some readers may find upsetting. Reader discretion is advised. 

Sundae's Ice Cream & Coffee Bar, South Kensington, one morning in January, 1986

"Helen, can you come out here please?"

Helen was in the middle of mopping the floor tiles in the back store room when her manager Nigel, who also happened to be her uncle and the parlour owner, called for her from the front cabinet.

She wrung her wet mop into the bucket as she cried back, "Be right there!"

Uncle Nigel's interruption couldn't have come at a better time, for her arms and back were getting sore from leaning down and mopping the back room first thing in the morning.

Helen stepped back into the main parlour, pulling latex gloves onto her hands, "You called?"

"The Cadbury driver's just called and he says that he can't get parked near here" he zipped up his windbreaker, a little exasperated.

She asked, "You mean the delivery for the stock of flakes, right?"

Her uncle nodded, "Do you think that you could man the shop for about ten or fifteen minutes while I hop out?"

"Sure" Helen nodded confidently. After all, ten minutes wasn't that long.

"Atta girl," Nigel grabbed his metal sack truck, "I'll pay you extra for it, alright?"

Helen nodded and smiled back as her uncle affectionately ruffled her short, red permed hair before wheeling his sack truck outside. The bell on the door tinkled as he let it slam behind him and continued on his errand.

Now it was just Helen, the 1950s and 60s music blaring from the Seeburg jukebox that enhanced the parlour's retro American-diner aesthetic with the red leather seating and chequered flooring, and her uncle's aquatic tank of tropical fish for company. 

"Fancy leaving an ice cream shop open at this time of year... everything in London is cold outside," she leaned against the table nearest the cashier, "Uncle Nigel has to pay the bills I suppose"

She had worked at his parlour for several months since the summer holidays, long enough to know that even if the shop had currnetnly run out of cadbury flakes it was often almost dead in the middle of winter. The only customers that ever came by were customers of convenience, such as families with children visiting the nearby hospital or office workers in need of a hot beverage; in fact, these days Helen found herself making more tea and coffee on the barista machine than preparing ice cream cones. Perhaps that was why she felt so confident to be left solo for a short time today.

"Oh god, not this song again..." she thought aloud under her breath as Del Shannon's Runaway started to play on the jukebox:

https://youtu.be/i70Yjioj0E8

She had heard the song countless times, but the 'wa wa wa' bit in the chorus was still an irritating assault to her ears. 

Alas to make it more awkward Helen had customers, and her uncle wasn't even gone for one minute. 

With a jingle of the bell the glass door swung open. Two excitable and giggly small children ran in, a brown-haired boy and a girl with black wavy locks down to her shoulders. 

"Settle down and behave!" A solemn-faced, moustached man wearing a red and black chequered fleece jacket who was a little big around middle quickly followed them both inside.

To Helen's relief they obeyed his command and quietened down; children were always the most complicated customers.

"Pheebs, I want a triple cone!" The little boy was jumping up and down ecstatically as he approached the glass cabinet with two rows of colourful ice cream, tugging the man's arm.

Helen dutifully went behind it and grabbed the ice-cream scoop in her gloved hand, her other reaching for the three-headed wafer stacked on top of the cabinet as she braced herself for the worst.

"Alright, alright, but you have to pick your flavours quickly" the man instructed the boy quietly.

She remembered to add, "By the way sir, we are out of flakes at the moment, sorry."

"Oh... you hear that, Roshni? No chocolate flakes" The man turned to the girl who seemed to be in a world of her own standing at the aquatic tank.

"Look Pheebs, they've got fish in here!" she pointed.

"I know! Aren't they beautiful?" he agreed softly as held his hand out and signalled her to come back.

The girl obliged, skipping to him, "Can we get a fish tank too?"

"Ask your father" the man sighed, as if he got asked such questions a lot and was tired of it at this point.

The boy pressed his hands and face against the glass, and insistently began to place an order, "I'll have a scoop of mint chocolate chip, with vanilla and rainbow sprinkles... and bubblegum-no! Strawberry!"

"Johnny! Make up your mind... and don't lean on the glass, you'll mark it!" The man nagged slightly as he pulled the boy back by the collar of his smart-looking powder blue winter coat, then looked up at Helen, "Sorry, it's just that we have to be back somewhere in twenty minutes"

Helen forced a smile, "It's okay"

Then, the girl tugged the sleeve of the mystery man's chequered jacket and asked him, "Can we bring a cone back for mummy to make her feel better?"

The man looked back up at Helen and awkwardly apologised, "Uh, sorry to keep you waiting, but can you give us a moment?"

"Why don't you sit down at the table over there and I can take your order in a couple of minutes, if you'd like?" Helen offered under her breath, trying not to grow impatient.

"Yes please actually, that'd be great" the man nodded with gratitude. 

He then turned around and lead the two children to the parlour's only table and chairs next to the windowsill, about 20 feet away from the cabinet. Nonetheless Helen was still within earshot of the conversation, and she was already finding them to be an interesting bunch.

"After all," she thought, "That man doesn't look like he could be her father"

She bent down to the shelf beneath the cash register to get the plastic cup of what were practically stumps left of crayolas and an almost-empty kistchy colouring pad that a small family left behind; Uncle Nigel liked to keep them for any children who visited, and for Helen it was the perfect excuse to get closer to the table for even just a bit. 

As she approached their table with the crayons and colour-in pages the man was lowly explaining to the little girl, but his voice was not low enough, "You know that I would bring back ice cream if the hospital allowed it" 

He jumped in his seat a little when she set the things in her hands down in the middle of the table.

"Oh, how thoughtful! What do you say, you two?" he swiftly changed the subject, and they both robotically said, "Thank you"

Helen nodded and spun on her feet, as if to bow out and let them resume their conversation. She decided to organise some of the cups that were loosely stacked beside the barista machine to pass time until they made up their minds. Besides, Uncle Nigel liked the work stations to be as  tidy as possible.

"But mummy gives us ice cream when we are sick" the boy innocently interjected, loud enough for her to hear.

"I know she does," the man acknowledged him gently, "but your mum needs rest, not ice cream. She's in a lot of pain."

Helen found herself pitying the children a little, even though she didn't know what happened to to their mother. 

"Probably a car accident or something," she thought, watching their distorted reflection across the room on the barista machine and continuing to eavesdrop, pretending to look busy,"Poor man too, he seems nice"

You Can't Hurry Love by The Supremes played on the jukebox next. Helen smiled to herself as she drummed her fingers on the counter to the beat, for it was one of her favourite Motown songs. Besides, it'd help her mind to try and draw a blank and get on with her job. 

After all, the bell at the door jingled again and in walked another customer. 

"Daddy!!" two small voices simultaneously squealed.

Helen spun around in surprise, and she had to do a double take.

"Oh my god..." All of a sudden she felt starstruck.

The boy and girl leapt off their seats and lingered around the slender man standing at the doorway with slightly greasy black hair, wearing a brown leather jacket and denim jeans. If it weren't for the aviator sunglasses over is eyes and the handlebar moustache then he would've looked and dressed like a lot of blokes in London did nowadays, but Helen instantly recognised him as none other than the frontman of Queen and Mr Bad Guy himself from the cover of this solo album.

The other man hissed at them both to sit back down as the supposed Mr Mercury coldly pat his children on their heads in acknowledgement.

Helen knew that anything could happen when her uncle popped out for a bit, but she could never have imagined this. 

Feeling like a fly on the wall she watched in the corner of her eye as the seeming rockstar silently pulled out the last chair for himself by the window and stared outside blankly. She didn't blame him for not taking his aviators off indoors right away, for he probably wanted some degree of anonymity.

In spite of her ever-growing curiosity Helen turned away from them and back to her work station, not wanting her prolonged staring to make the two men uncomfortable. 

"Why aren't you at the hospital with Monica?" the other man's murmurs echoed across the parlour, "I thought you said that you were going to stay with her!"

Helen watched on the distorted reflection as Mr Mercury (she still wasn't sure at this point) silently leaned forward and didn't answer, taking off his aviators whilst his two children were scribbling and colouring with not much of a care in the world.

But she was itching to get a look at his face to get some form of confirmation, so she turned around.

"It's really him!" She felt her insides writhing the moment his features matched what she'd seen in pictures, "Freddie Mercury is in my uncle's ice cream shop! "

Helen continued to slyly watch him as she thought about how she was going to tell everybody at school. Oh, how she wanted to tell everybody, all of her friends and family. 

But then she had a moment of doubt. They would all start asking questions about what Freddie Mercury was doing in her uncle's ice cream shop and what he was like to see with one's own two eyes. To answer his face was tired, unshaven and emotionless. And the dark brown eyes that once held the twinkle of life and exuberance in them when he performed on stage were now dead and flat as he blankly stared across the table at his two children. 

"But Pheebs?" the girl noised.

"Hmm?" the other man acknowledged her.

She protested yet again, "Maybe ice cream will cheer mum up about the baby"

"Baby?" That word caught Helen's attention.

But then the boy argued, "The doctor said that the baby was the size of a mouse! It wasn't even born"

"The baby still died Johnny, just like ET did!" The girl snarled back.

"Shush, keep your voices down!" the man in the chequered jacket hissed.

The boy stuck his tongue back out at his sister, "ET isn't real, dummy!"

The man shushed them both again, a little more firmly this time and whispered furiously to keep quiet.

But it was too late. Helen already felt as though she'd heard too much.

It was much worse than she had presumed, and it was moments like this that she wished she wasn't so inquisitive. Being the bystander of a celebrity's private life was bad enough, but witnessing Freddie and his family grieving a devastating and tragic loss was another level of intrusive. 

"Freddie Mercury's wife had a miscarriage! How am I supposed to get on with my job if I can't forget that? The sooner my mind erases that the better" she convinced herself, picking up her order notepad and pen sitting by the till.

Helen somewhat sympathised with Freddie, for her Uncle Nigel and his wife had the same pain after years of trying for a child and being unable to carry one. It was just so unfair on the ones she cared about.

But the rockstar seemed to be hiding his emotions quite well as he numbly reached into his jacket pocket to take out a small red and white box and put a cigarette in between his teeth.

"Oh, sir? Pardon me..." Helen spoke clearly across the shop and involuntarily stepped out from behind the counter. Smoking was permitted in this joint, and her uncle still wouldn't hesitate to fire her if she ever let a customer smoke indoors.

Freddie paused and shot her a frosty glance as he snapped, "No pictures or autographs! Don't you see that I am with my children?!"

"Yep, it's definitely him alright" She felt her face redden and her stomach lining flush as the other three stopped talking.

"Sorry, excuse me," the man in the chequered jacket stood up and politely explained, "I'm Mr Mercury's personal assistant. Can you please wait to request proof until later?"

Helen realised that the pen and paper in her hand made it look like she wanted Freddie to sign something. 

Mortified, she quickly put them in her apron pocket and pointed to the No-Smoking sign drilled to the wall above the jukebox as she stuttered, "Actually, I-I just came over to say that I can't let you do that in here."

Freddie looked away and compliantly put his cigarette back into its box, and the other man across from him held his hand out to take it from him as his children went back to bickering with each other, this time over a page in the colouring pad.

Then Mr Mercury curtly apologised, his voice sounding as though his throat was raw, "Excuse me, I'm not thinking straight... Do you at least do any hot beverages here?"

"Of course! 'Tea and coffee is painted on the frickin' shop window and sign!" She wanted to scream back.

But she gently cleared her throat, "Erm, yes we do, the menu is on there on the table. Drinks are on the back"

"What about my ice cream?" the son whined.

"Oh, go on up there and pick! Daddy's paying" Freddie scoffed slightly.

His son and daughter cheered and got up off their seats, running back up to the ice cream cabinet. 

"Sorry, but do you do take-out cups as well? We may need to head soon" The assistant wearily asked.

"Sure" Helen nodded, taking her notepad and pen out of her pocket.

He then asked Freddie, "What do you want, boss?" 

Without even looking at the menu the rockstar croaked, "Do you do Twining's Earl Grey here?"

"I'm 'fraid not, we do most dark teas but that" she grit her teeth awkwardly.

"Pity," Freddie set the menu back down, "Then in that case just give me the strongest coffee on the menu, god knows I bloody-well need it..." 

"A double espresso, got it" she jotted it down, nodding and turning to his assistant, "And you?"

"You know what? I think I'll have the same, please"

He was the only adult out of both of them to be polite and smile at Helen since they came in. She smiled back at him uneasily under the stony gaze of Mr Mercury and quipped, "Okay then, I'll go get your orders now"

As soon as she turned around to make her way behind the ice cream cabinet she heard the assistant bravely muttering to his boss, almost as if to scold him, "Freddie, you wouldn't treat Monica like that if she was still working as a waitress, would you?"

"There's that Monica person again... must be her in the hospital," Helen thought, "Poor woman"

Meanwhile his children were already arguing loudly at the ice cream cabinet, "I was here first so I get to pick!"

"No you weren't, you pushed me out of the way!" the boy accused his sister.

The girl fired back, "Liar! That was you!"

They both threw a threw a few dids and didn'ts back at one another until-

"ENOUGH!!"

Everybody went silent. 

Freddie Mercury was standing up with his both palms laid flat on the table after he smacked it loudly, staring angrily at his son and daughter with his mouth locked shut. They didn't react, but rather were frozen in terror as their lips trembled slightly. 

Sugar Sugar by The Archies was currently playing on the jukebox, an unfitting and far too optimistic choice of song when the tension in the room was as thick as it was. Helen felt her face turn beetroot red in embarrassment for what she had just witnessed, even though she did nothing wrong. She'd never seen somebody so angry before, or at least not in a long time.

"Now now, decide what you both want and then we'll leave" his assistant swooped in gently and went up to the ice cream cabinet with the two of them before they could start to cry. 

"Well, thank god someone brings some order around here" Helen thought, lifting the scoop.

She glanced back to Freddie whilst his kids picked what they wanted, this time more peacefully. He had folded his arms and put his head down, as if to admit defeat as he found his temper again. 

For the next five minutes or so Helen prepared two triple cones and two take-out double espressos at the barista machine, unable to stop thinking about how she just had her first and only A-list celebrity encounter and she could tell virtually nobody about it for at least 20 years. Besides, he was nothing like the Freddie that she saw at Live Aid on her television screen only six months ago. 

"If only the circumstances weren't so bad" she thought in disappointment, handing the hot paper cups of coffee to the man in the chequered jacket.

"There, say thank you" he instructed them both as he took them from her.

The children politely said "Thank you" in unison, and ran to the aquatic tank to look at the fish as they happily lapped up their ice creams. 

"You're very welcome," she walked to the cashier, "Will that be a cash payment or bank transaction today, sir?"

"I'll go and get his Amex card" he answered, and walked back to the table where Freddie was already digging into his jacket pocket.

"But of course he has Amex, he's Freddie fucking Mercury" Helen discreetly rolled her eyes as she bent down to the shelf underneath the cash register to get her uncle's newly manufactured credit card reader. 

All the while the jukebox played the next song, At Last by Etta James:

https://youtu.be/1qJU8G7gR_g

Helen was almost glad to see him off, for she found it hard to respect Freddie Mercury as a human being at this point. From what it seemed like he left his wife at the hospital after she lost their baby, and his assistant seemed to be the only one doing the parenting of his kids for him who both just seemed to be a part of his background, like wallpaper.

"And he didn't give me a please or a thank you or even a proper apology for his mistake" Helen ground her teeth in irritation, for none of this was even any of her damn business, "Probably won't leave a tip either." 

Once she had gotten the credit card reader fired up and processed their payment, the rockstar's assistant handed her a curious square of folded-up paper, "My boss would also like to give you this" 

"What is it?" she thought with dread, hoping that it wasn't a note for the manager.

"It's for you, part of it is your tips. Try and open it when you're alone, if you can" he told her firmly.

She looked at him perplexed, "May I ask why?"  

"You'll see why," His assistant simply replied, and quietly added, "By the way, it'd be best if you didn't repeat what just happened here to anyone"

"Wouldn't dream of it anyway" Helen thought sarcastically as she quietly nodded.

"Alright you two, time to go back to the hospital now" The man mustered a slightly more cheerful voice as he bent down to help the two children button up their winter coats. 

"At Last..." Etta continued to soulfully sing, "The skies above are blue..."

Meanwhile the same could not be said for Freddie Mercury, who was still sat at the table with his head hung low.

For the first time Helen saw his eyes twinkle, but they were twinkling with tears. 

"Undoubtedly for his lost baby" she thought.

Now Helen didn't feel as resentful towards him as she did earlier, but rather regretted all the bitter thoughts that she'd had about him. Now his behaviour felt somewhat justified and she saw him for what he was, not just a human being but a man who felt utterly broken despite everything that he had in life.

When his assistant and children approached him Freddie quickly stood up from his chair and pulled his aviators out of his jacket pocket to cover his red eyes, not wanting his son and daughter to see him cry.

Helen watched the four of them leave the parlour and walk past the window with the two children skipping ahead of the adults, wondering what they were going to do when they got back to the hospital and perhaps for the rest of the day.

She waited until the four of them were completely out of sight and until the end of the song on the jukebox, then she turned around quickly and unfolded the square of paper in her hand. 

Inside was a generous £50 bank note tip. Her eyes widened, for no customer ever gave her a tip that large.

"And another thing that I was wrong about" Helen slipped it into the tip jar by the till, for it felt like the morally correct thing to do. 

What was now left was a piece of lined paper ripped out of a notebook with a few lines hastily scribbled onto it with biro: 

"Sorry for being such an awful, grouchy tart.

-Freddie Mercury 

(p.s. be sure to tell your manager that they have an eclectic but very good taste in music)".

That last sentence made Helen smile to herself just a little.

"Now what to do with this, do I frame it?" she thought, looking at the celebrity autograph that she never asked for in the first place, "But then everyone will know and ask where it came from."

There was a loud knock on the window to rescue her from her dilemma.

Uncle Nigel was standing outside with a crate-load of cardboard boxes, yelling, "C'mon, Helen! You gonna help me or not?!"

She frantically stuffed the paper and bank note into her apron before she rushed to the front door and dutifully held it open for him, "Sorry!"

"Thanks" He reversed himself back inside carefully.

Helen silently nodded, and watched Uncle Nigel wheel the sack truck across the parlour and park it behind the glass cabinet with a sigh of relief.

"So tell me..." he cleared his throat, unzipping his windbreaker, "Did anything happen when I was out?"

If you have been affected by any issues raised in this chapter there are plenty of resources available in your region to offer support and advice :

UK

- https://www.nhs.uk/mental-health/feelings-symptoms-behaviours/feelings-and-symptoms/grief-bereavement-loss/

-https://www.lullabytrust.org.uk/bereavement-support/

USA & international

- https://www.verywellmind.com/best-online-grief-support-groups-4842333

-https://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/end-of-life/in-depth/infant-death/art-20046904