I’m fine, thanks

 

It’s a rank north-westerly and the sea’s whipped into choppy peaks. A striated sky, layers of slate-grey clouds rendering the sunlight between them all the brighter. Ian is closing up for the afternoon. There have been a handful of customers all afternoon, not enough to make it worthwhile opening but enough to keep him busy.

The last few are just finishing up. There’s a bust-up looking sort of a bloke slumped in the corner, a pair of women chatting at the table furthest from the door and a young woman on her own, who’s been staring fixedly at the street for an hour.

Ian’s been keeping an eye on her (without making it obvious) because, well, it’s what you do these days, isn’t it? You hear stories. And then there was that girl who disappeared a couple of years back, the one who lived in the caravan park. And everyone agreed that it was only a matter of time before something happened up there because that’s the sort of thing people say.

He also thinks she’s worth watching because, though he can’t be sure, he thinks that the man in the corner is, too. Even though he’s been doing a crossword, every once in a while his gaze flicks up, and around the room, and over her.

She reminds him of Rachel at that age. Weight of the world on her shoulders. Her Mum’s brains. You want to be thick like me, he always said. You don’t worry so much. She still phones regularly, which is good of her. He looks forward to it.

He empties the glass-washer and gives it a good spray and a scrub, busy work to keep him going until they leave and he can lock the door, pour himself a beer and cash up. Then it’ll be a brisk walk along the front, hopefully not get too wet, home in time for the Antiques Roadshow. He laughs at himself.  Rachel tells him he needs to get back out there, but it just seems so much effort. Besides, who’d look twice at him now? He sucks in his gut, and laughs at himself.

The two women have left, and he realises suddenly how much their chatter had been providing the background music. The silence is uncomfortable, the change clinks on the saucer as he picks it up.

Cath lives in France now. He’s retired already. Very nice. The last thing she said was that he should look after himself. He’d have preferred it if she said sorry. But5 Rachel says it wasn’t her fault.

Ian’s worried now. He wants the girl out of there, he wants her away and safe. He wants whoever she’s waiting for to turn up. But he knows they won’t. he’s already decided not to charge her for the coke she’s been drinking for an hour.  She can just go.

But it’s the other man shifting, he pushes his chair back with an audible scrape, folds his newspaper up and puts it into a canvas bag that’s slung round one shoulder. He walks up to the counter and smiles at Ian. He looks tired, could be anything between forty and sixty, a bit of grey in the stubble.

“What do I owe you?” Southern accent, about five ten. You need to remember these details, don’t you? Just in case. Ian rings the details on his little white orderslip into the till.

“5.75, thanks.” The man nods and fishes a card out of his pocket. Wordlessly, Ian pushes the machine over and he taps it on the screen. The card machine disgorges its receipt with a rattling sound. The man smiles at him, and leaves.

On his way out he passes the table where the girl sits, and leans over, says something Ian doesn’t catch, hands her a piece of paper. Oh Christ, is he giving him her number? Ian is just about to protest, just on the verge of asking him what he thinks he’s doing, the words are lining up in his head but the man’s gone already, out, off up the street, head angled against the wind.

The girl is reading the piece of paper, she’s reading it and she’s smiling, her face is transformed. She gets up suddenly, decisively, and walks towards Ian.

“Can I pay please?” He wonders what just happened, she’s completely different. He waves her away.

“I’ve already cashed up” he lies “it’s on the house.” She looks at him, and nods, as if she’d expected something of the sort. Another sudden, brilliant smile and she’s gone. He watches her walk off, in the opposite direction to the man. He picks the piece of paper up off the table, it says, simply, in neat, flowing handwriting.

“It’ll be OK”

And he thinks it will. He knows it will. He doesn’t know why, but it’s like stepping into a warm shower on a cold day. He feels the worry sluice off him. He’d barely known it was there. He cashes up, he’s taken a bit more than he thought.

He might go out tonight.