A forty-something man attends a friends funeral up North, and has a strange encounter with an old lover, and with the local characters...
Johnson rapped hard on the mahogany bar, skimming his knuckles, and he bit his lip impatiently. He wanted to curse as the pasty young barman slowly shuffled toward him, all skinny arms and bony elbows and hard-bitten fingernails. The kid feigned a half-smile and looked up at the ceiling.
‘What can I get you?’ He asked, as if he didn’t care, his accent thick and Lancastrian.
Johnson wasn’t in the mood. ‘We’ve been here for four hours, and this is our sixth pint – so what do you think?’
The kid scowled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Same again? Three pints?’
The pints were pulled, and Johnson threw his money on to the pitted counter too loudly while eyeing the kid under a set of bristling eyebrows. He knew he could carry off a pretty fearsome look when pushed to do so.
Back at their table, Howard was trying to strike a match on a beer-coaster. ‘I’ve a photograph back home,’ he said sadly. ‘Malcolm’s fortieth. He shaved his head if you remember, and Jenny drew a four zero in large red felt tip pen on the back of his skull. He enjoyed that – turning his back on everyone.’
Howard shook his head, and looked at his too-shined shoes. He was over-dressed for the pub, with his double-breasted mohair suit impeccably pressed and his hair gelled like a film star. ‘Too young …too young,’ he said.
Johnson rapped hard on the mahogany bar, skimming his knuckles, and he bit his lip impatiently. He wanted to curse as the pasty young barman slowly shuffled toward him, all skinny arms and bony elbows and hard-bitten fingernails. The kid feigned a half-smile and looked up at the ceiling.
‘What can I get you?’ He asked, as if he didn’t care, his accent thick and Lancastrian.
Johnson wasn’t in the mood. ‘We’ve been here for four hours, and this is our sixth pint – so what do you think?’
The kid scowled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Same again? Three pints?’
The pints were pulled, and Johnson threw his money on to the pitted counter too loudly while eyeing the kid under a set of bristling eyebrows. He knew he could carry off a pretty fearsome look when pushed to do so.
Back at their table, Howard was trying to strike a match on a beer-coaster. ‘I’ve a photograph back home,’ he said sadly. ‘Malcolm’s fortieth. He shaved his head if you remember, and Jenny drew a four zero in large red felt tip pen on the back of his skull. He enjoyed that – turning his back on everyone.’
Howard shook his head, and looked at his too-shined shoes. He was over-dressed for the pub, with his double-breasted mohair suit impeccably pressed and his hair gelled like a film star. ‘Too young …too young,’ he said.