The Sense of an Ending

And in due course I remembered words I’d overheard. ‘No, Ken, no pub today. Friday night’s pub night.’ So the following Friday I drove over and sat with a newspaper in the William IV. It was one of those pubs gentrified by economic pressure. There was a food menu with chargrilled this and that, a telly quietly emitting the BBC News Channel, and blackboards everywhere: one advertising the weekly quiz night, another the monthly book club, a third the upcoming TV sports fixtures, while a fourth bore an epigrammatic thought for the day, no doubt transcribed from some corporate book of wit and wisdom. I slowly drank halves while doing the crossword, but nobody came.

The second Friday, I thought: I may as well have my supper here, so ordered chargrilled hake with handcut chips and a large glass of Chilean Sauvignon Blanc. It wasn’t bad at all. Then, on the third Friday, just as I was forking my penne with gorgonzola and walnut sauce, in walked the lopsided man and the chap with the moustache. They took their seats familiarly at a table, whereupon the barman, clearly used to their requirements, brought each of them a half of bitter, which they proceeded to sip meditatively. They didn’t look around, let alone seek to make eye contact; and in return, no one took any notice of them. After about twenty minutes a motherly black woman came in, went up to the bar, paid, and gently escorted the two men away. I merely observed and waited. Time was on my side, yes it was. Songs do occasionally tell the truth.

I now became a regular at the pub as well as the shop. I didn’t join the book club or participate in quiz night, but regularly sat at a small table by the window and worked my way through the menu. What was I hoping for? Probably to get into conversation at some point with the young care worker I’d seen escorting the quintet that first afternoon; or even, perhaps, with the badge man, who seemed the most affable and approachable. I was patient without any sense of being so; I no longer counted the hours; and then, one early evening, I saw all five of them approaching, shepherded by the same woman. Somehow, I wasn’t even surprised. The two regulars came into the pub; the other three went into the shop with the minder.

I got up, leaving my biro and newspaper on the table as signs that I would return. At the shop’s entrance I picked up a yellow plastic basket and wandered slowly round. At the end of an aisle the three of them were clustered in front of a choice of washing-up liquids, gravely debating which to buy. The space was narrow, and I said a loud ‘Excuse me’ as I approached. The gangly fellow with glasses immediately pressed himself, face inwards, against shelves of kitchen stuff, and all three fell silent. As I passed, the badge man looked me in the face. ‘Evening,’ I said with a smile. He carried on looking, then bowed from the neck. I left it at that and returned to the pub.

A few minutes later the three of them joined the two drinkers. The care woman went to the bar and ordered. I was struck by the fact that while they’d been boisterous and childlike in the street, they were shy and whispering in the shop and pub. Soft drinks were carried across to the newcomers. I thought I heard the word ‘birthday’ but might have been mistaken. I decided that it was time to order food. My path to the bar would take me close by them. I had no actual plan. The three who had come in from the shop were still standing, and they turned slightly as I approached. I addressed a second cheery ‘Evening!’ to the badge man, who responded as before. The gangly bloke was now in front of me and as I was about to make my way past I stopped and looked at him properly. He was about forty, just over six feet, with a pallid skin and thick-lensed glasses. I could sense he was keen to turn his back again. But instead, he did something unexpected. He took off his glasses and looked me full in the face. His eyes were brown and gentle.

Almost without thinking, I said to him quietly, ‘I’m a friend of Mary’s.’

I watched as he first began to smile, then panic. He turned away, gave a muted whine, shuffled close to the Indian woman, and took her hand. I carried on to the bar, put half a buttock on a stool and started examining the menu. A moment or two later, I became aware of the black carer beside me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘It’s not good to startle him. Especially now.’

‘I met him once before, with Mary when she came over one afternoon. I’m a friend of hers.’

She looked at me, as if trying to assess my motives and my truthfulness. ‘Then you’ll understand,’ she said quietly, ‘won’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

And the thing was, I did. I didn’t need to talk to the badge man or the male carer. Now I knew.