Breakfast at Georgiou's

The plates of future heart attacks arrived at the same time as he walked in. I heard him say something and assumed the person behind the counter’s words of reply were, well, just that. I was sawing through my soda bread by the time he sat down at the table next to us. I think he looked about 60. Not much older than me. He was wearing a short coat that my mother might once have called a gaberdine. Black. His trousers were charcoal, no belt, elasticated waist, but certainly not to accommodate any middle-to-old age spread. His shoes were highly polished.

And he was riffing on the song that was on the sound-system.

‘Who is it? Recognise his voice. You used to like them. Did we go to see them once?’

I looked up. Of course, I knew who was singing. Almost told him too, but he wasn’t finished. Besides, I’d got a look and a shake of the head from the other side of the table.

‘Glad you’re here. Funny that you can’t remember either.’

Spotify, or whatever Georgiou sprung for to provide music for the staff and customers, changed the song.

‘Some fiddle music. I like Irish jigs. Remember that wedding?’

It was fiddle music, if you’d call Grappelli that.

The man took out a pocket diary from inside his gaberdine coat, then a ballpoint pen. The downward pointing arrow marked it out as a Parker. One of those silver-coloured, rolled metal ones, like my father had had, a long time ago. He flicked through the pages. Stopping too near the middle for today.

‘11^th December, Wednesday. That’s today.’ He started doodling on the empty page and his coffee arrived. He didn’t say ‘thank you!’ Just ‘this’ll warm us up.’

My eggs had congealed. I’d been darting sideways glances at him and most of my breakfast was cooling fast. The music changed to some jazz, Beiderbecke. I wondered briefly just whose musical taste these sounds reflected, apart from mine. He was quiet for a while. Attending to the business of drinking his coffee.

He got up just as I was mopping up the last of the bean juice with a piece of soda bread. Something with a banjo as the rhythm instrument was on. He opened the door, held it whilst his own personal ghost went out, then followed whoever it was into the falling sleet.