She watches him as he stands by the bar ordering the drinks. He tries to attract the barman’s attention, but he does not realise that the barman has already seen him and will come over after he has finished serving the lady in the wheelchair. Her new friend is too keen to prove himself masterful. She stands and goes to look at the jukebox, which is full of music with which she is unfamiliar. A drink in the pub. Jukebox. She remembers this ritual from the early days with Brian in Manchester. She looks around the dark, oak-panelled pub, and notices that all the mirrors are filthy and covered in a thick film of dust. The carpet is worn through in places and badly stained, and for some reason the door to the “Gents” is propped open so that, although she cannot see the actual urinals, she can see a succession of men slowly turning around and zipping themselves up, then wiping their hands on their trousers before ambling back into the gloom of the pub. The place is populated with after-work couples, the men with slightly loosened ties, and the women pulling nervously on cigarettes and speaking with an animation that no doubt eludes them when they are in the office. And then there are the regulars; old men with dun-coloured jackets nursing their solitary pints of beer, and middle-aged women with pinched faces and sugar-sabotaged teeth, who slump in their seats and wait in the dull hope that something approximating to love might once again show itself. As she leaves the jukebox and moves back to their table she decides that there is no reason at all why she should tell him that this is her first time in this pub, which looks as though a jumble sale has exploded in the place. Confession, at this stage, is not going to help the evening to pass.
He places both drinks neatly onto cardboard coasters and, as he does so, she looks up at him with her “hello” face. He moves his still-emaciated briefcase from the bench and onto a chair, and plops down next to her. Then he takes a large mouthful of a pint of what looks suspiciously like lager and lime, and she picks up her half-pint of Guinness and toasts him. “Cheers.” She looks at him and wonders if he truly is this nervous, or if this is part of a game that he plays. He looks around himself.
“Nice place, isn’t it?” She is out of touch with this kind of conversation.
“And so you teach geography?” she says.
“If I can’t see the world, I may as well talk about it.”
“Oh,” she says. “Why can’t you see it?” He laughs now, and for the first time she sees his perfectly spaced white teeth. He is a handsome man, despite the crow’s feet that decorate the corners of his eyes.
“Commitments. I’ve got a wife and child. And they don’t pay us like they ought to. Worse if you’re just a supply teacher. But you know all this already.” She finds herself nodding slightly.
“I’ve never done supply, but I can imagine.”
“Well, I don’t recommend it, but it does serve a purpose.” She turns around to face him more directly, aware of the fact that as she does so her skirt rides up so that her right knee is exposed. She still has good legs. In fact, they are her best feature. Brian was always jealous of the way that men looked at her legs, and he used to compliment her if she wore a trouser-suit. After he left for Spain she put her two trouser-suits, one blue and one grey, into a black-plastic bin liner and put them out with the rubbish.
After two more pints of beer, and one half-pint of Guinness, it is his idea that they should go for a meal. He suggests La Spiaggia, imagining that she will be familiar with the place. She tells him that she generally does not go out to eat, but that she will be happy to dine with him. Her glass is still half-f, but his pint glass is almost empty and he seems unsure of what to do. She solves the problem for him by suggesting that he go fetch himself a half-pint. She watches as he makes his way to the bar, this time with more confidence, and he appears pleased that the barman pulls his beer without his having to ask. He turns round and smiles at her.
La Spiaggia is a family-owned establishment that looks suspiciously like a chain restaurant, but she imagines that the owners prefer it this way. In this town too much individuality will not be rewarded. He chooses a table by the window and they begin to study their four-page menus, but she reads without absorbing any of the meaning from the words.
“The veal is good,” he says. “If you eat meat, that is.”
“I’d just like some pasta. That should see me fine.”
He laughs. “You’ll waste away.”
They order, and he chooses a red that he describes as “special,” but to her it seems quite ordinary. Through the window they watch a group of young boys in designer clothes shouting and swearing at each other, and competing for the attention of two girls who walk on ahead, seemingly oblivious to the pandemonium behind them. The spectacle seems to unsettle him and he takes another sip of wine and laughs nervously.
“There seem to be a lot of gangs in the town. Well, hooligans really, but it’s their body language more than what they say, I suppose. You start to wonder if they’re not carrying knives, or worse.”
“Well,” she begins, “according to the talk in the staffroom, they’re all on hard cider and even harder drugs. We’re expected to believe that they’re looking to cause trouble, or steal something, simply because they’re bored.” She laughs now. “And so there we have it. I suppose we can’t expect the modern kid to find satisfaction by doing ‘bunny hops’ on his or her bike.” She turns towards the window and wonders if she’s boring her new friend.
When the food arrives, he orders another bottle of wine. She has only just finished her first glass, but he asks for neither her opinion nor her approval. He starts to eat and he speaks with his mouth full, but at least he makes some attempt to chew before he begins his sentences.
“It’s worrying though, isn’t it? I mean these days everyone’s a victim and nobody’s responsible. Do you think it’s because there’s a lack of discipline and order in schools? Are we to blame?”
Again she laughs. “You sound like my father. He died a few years ago.”
He stops eating. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. He lived his life, I suppose. It’s just that he began to worry about young people. He worried that they no longer had any fear, that it wasn’t just how they talked that bothered him, it was what they would do. I suppose he’d have said it was to do with discipline in the home, more than with discipline in the schools. And immigration.”
“Immigration?”
“Well, you know, to some people everything’s to do with immigration.”
“But these kids were not black.” He gestures out of the window. “They were not out to mug anyone.”
“I know.” She lowers her eyes and concentrates on the remains of her plate. “I know. I agree with you.” She picks up her still-f wine glass by the stem and rolls it in her fingers. “Your wife and child, they won’t be coming here then?”
“Maybe at the end of the year. After the affair with the squash player burns itself out.” He laughs loudly now, throwing back his head. The waiter looks across, but quickly looks away. “Bit of a cliché really, isn’t it? But that’s the truth. I’m just giving them space.”
“That’s good of you,” she says, taking a sip from her glass.
“I go back to Nottingham at the weekends. To see my daughter, Claire. But I thought it best to get out of town for a while, and this local authority had jobs, so here I am.” He pours a fresh glass of red wine, and he drinks quickly. She watches as he swallows the mouthful that marks the line between coherence and mess. “I’m staying in lodgings with a landlady. Like I’m a sodding student again.” He laughs and with one hand he loosens his tie. “Who’d have thought it.”
“Thought what?”
“That I’d come to this.” She looks into his eyes and sees the vulnerability beneath the bluster. “Thank you, though.”
“For what?”
“For asking me for a drink. I’ve been dreading the evenings. Leaving my temporary job and going back to my temporary lodgings. Sitting in the living room watching stupid television programmes with Mrs. Johnson, and then having to endure the embarrassment of her offering me a cup of Horlicks and a plate of biscuits. It’s either put up with her, or go out to the local pub and find somebody to play darts with and bore to death with my life story. So thanks.”
She takes a sip of wine and smiles broadly at him.
“My pleasure.” And then she continues. “Perhaps we ought to be going now.” He looks at her as though shocked. Then he puts down his glass and reaches across the table and takes her hands in both of his.
“I mean it. I’m really grateful. Thank you.” She lowers her eyes and then gently wriggles her hands out from under his grip. He clears his throat. “Are you still married to your husband?”
“No, we’re divorced.”
“Happily?”
She does not say, no, he washed his hands of me. “Everything runs its course.”
“Lonely?”
She does not say, I used to be the fancy woman for the Asian man in the corner shop, but he dropped me. “I’m comfortable with my own company.” She laughs. “Most of the time.”
As they wait by the bus stop he drapes a protective arm around her shoulders, but she senses that in all probability he is simply trying to maintain his balance. A homeless man, who pulls a filthy sleeping bag after him, crosses the street and looks as though he is walking towards them. She feels her protector grow tense and then, as the tramp ignores them and walks on his way, he releases an audible sigh.
They both look down the street in the direction that they imagine the bus will arrive from. Across the road in the pub car park, some louts, who are all tattoos and bared teeth, are now pushing and shoving each other and making the loud braying noises that suggest they are having a good time. She notices that two among them are brazenly advertising the contents of their bladders in triumphal watery arches, and then to her horror she realises that their performances are competitive. She wonders if any of the young vagabonds are pupils of hers, and then she catches herself and realises that she is ignoring her escort.
“You know, you really don’t have to wait for me. The bus won’t be long.” He dares to finger her cheek. She hopes that he won’t speak, for his words have long since begun to slide, one into the other. And then she hears the sound of the bus rumbling up the hill towards them. He quickly retrieves his hand.
“Ah, your chariot approaches.”
“It’s been a lovely evening.” The bus idles before her and then the doors swoosh open accordion-style.
“You saved me from an evening of hell.” He laughs. “Or you saved somebody from an evening of hell.”
She moves quickly before he can say anything further. Once on board she fishes in her purse for the exact change, and then she takes her ticket. It’s a short ride so she sits by the door. As the bus lurches away she turns and sees him still standing by the bus stop. He waves.
The following morning she waits in the staffroom. Everybody arrives in one mad rush. Sally Lomax, the young head of English, flashes her a bright, but clearly manufactured, smile.
“I’ll have to bring George and Samantha tonight. But they’ve got colouring books and crayons, so they should be fine.”
She nods at Sally, who is too busy to register the fact that there has been a response to her statement. As Sally turns away, she can see again just how much the poor woman’s body has thickened and run to fat at the waist and hips, which no doubt accounts for her enthusiasm for exercise. Sally gulps down a final mouthful of coffee, then throws the rest in the sink. The cup goes in after the coffee. She is one of those who cannot be bothered to rinse their cup and then turn it up on the draining board. Memos have been posted, but hardly anybody takes the time to read them. She waits in the staffroom until everybody has left, but there is still no sign of Geoff Waverley. It is too late to go into assembly now. The head abhors lateness from pupils. A teacher being late for assembly is an open invitation to a hastily scribbled note of admonishment from Mr. Jowett. Instead, she goes straight to her classroom and sits at the piano. A single C establishes a tone. A beginning. But she is too anxious to develop the pattern. Through the window she sees stragglers bolting across the school playground in a pantomime of unpunctuality, their shirt-tails flying in the wind. They will clatter through the door and straight into the clutches of a prefect, but they have forgotten this. Again she hits a single C, and she listens closely to the rise and fall of this one note.
When the bell goes she walks briskly to the computer room. She pulls up the school home page, taps in her password and under “new staff” she clicks on his name. The screen flickers for a moment, as though dying, and then it bursts to life and all the details are glowing before her eyes. His degree, his previous employment, his wife’s name, Claire’s full name, her age and their address in Nottingham. The phone number has been omitted, but this will not pose a problem. She pushes the print button and then quickly makes her way past the pupils playing computer games, and those sending lovesick emails. Hers is the first sheet printed at the central terminal and she quickly folds the warm piece of paper into four and tucks it into her bag. One of her fifth-formers, a talented cellist, is staring at her.
“Morning, Miss.”
“Morning, Amanda.” She knows that of all her pupils poor Amanda with the thick ankles will continue to pursue the cello, while others will soon abandon music for more worldly pleasures.
George and Samantha sit at a table by the side of the court. They have been arguing for most of the set, pulling the single colouring book first one way and then the next. Now George throws his crayon at his older sister, who retaliates, marking George across his cheek with an orange gash. Sally comes to the net.
“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to see to them.”
She watches as Sally talks firmly to her children. Tennis with Sally has proved to be something of a mixed blessing, for she still has problems with her hips, but she does enjoy the competition. After Brian left she tried golf, but that served only to reinscribe the loneliness. And mistakes had to be viewed purely in the light of individual incompetence. At least with tennis she can win the occasional point off her opponent’s mistakes. Like life itself. A distraught-looking Sally wanders back to the net.