The Day After

The Wellington is draped in black today. Around the windows, over the sign on the tall post outside. Look too closely and you can see they’re sheets that have been hurriedly dyed in the big washing machine: the one shoe-horned into one corner of Morrisons’ covered car-parking. I’ll keep an eye out for someone dressed in accidental mourning over the next few days. The Welly opens for coffee in the mornings. It’s not a ‘Spoons pub, though that name must adorn one of them, somewhere. No, The Welly has the bar, snug and lounge on the same floor as the lavs. There IS no ‘Spoons in our town, so maybe that tells you what kind of pub it is.

I’m not in for a coffee, but Bert is in the corner. “Ensconced” in his seat. He is so wrinkled he does look like a melted candle, so maybe that’s the right word. He drinks tap-water, until the alcohol goes on sale. Then he has one half of John Smith’s per hour. God knows what it tastes like by the time he buys another.

The assistant manager is behind the bar. Looking at his mobile. He might be 33, he might be 13. I can’t tell age downwards nowadays. I ask for a coffee. If the manager’s on, he’ll give me a pint, if no-one else is in. I’ve never asked him why he doesn’t extend that courtesy to Bert too. Maybe he does, it’s just that I’m not there to see it.

Usually, I walk over to a table where I can see all the doors. Not today. Bert is wearing a home-made black armband over his tatty jacket sleeve. The jacket might have been part of a suit once, but not for some time. I go over.

I stand over him, holding my coffee. It’ll be too hot. The machine is crap. What do I expect in a pub? I miss the Cafeterías in Málaga, sometimes.

‘Big news, yesterday.’ I say.

‘Very sad. She were great. She allus looked great 'til these last few years.’

‘Nobody enjoyed those. At least she was rich enough to make it easy.’

This earns me a dalesman’s grunt. It could mean he agrees, it could mean he doesn’t. It could mean he’s saving up his supply of words for someone worthy of them.

I press on, ‘I mean, all those doctors running around after one person.’

I nod at his walking stick and point at the inhaler on the table. ‘When did you last see your GP?’

I’m momentarily re-imagining Yeames’s famous painting. You know, the one about the English Civil War.

‘You’re missin’t point, aud lad. T’int abaht t’money. It’s abaht duty bein’ done.’

He doesn’t know I did my duty for 23 years. Right after swearing the Oath of Allegiance. I take a sip of my bitter drink.

‘Maybe it was.’ I say. ‘Maybe it was.’