Quiet Sunday
Silence
Tom and I sit and drink our pints in silence. That’s ok with us. Y’see he’s a true-blue Tory, I’m a socialist. He’s one of those C-of-E people who never go to church, I’m a born-again Dawkinsite atheist. He likes rugby, I’m a football sort of bloke. So once we’ve done with the weather and Eastenders, it’s silence that suits us best.
His wife Shirley hates me - the feeling’s mutual. My wife Carol hates him - ditto. Our wives hate each other - Shirley is a Tory councillor, Carol is a Labour one - that’s how me and Tom met, stuck waiting outside a council meeting on parking charges.
So the pub is the only time we meet for a good old stare into space, listening to the fruit machine and getting drunk in a slow and orderly fashion. We’re friends and friends don’t need constant chatter.
So today when he says ‘Cancer’, it takes a while before it registers and I say ‘What?’.
‘I’ve got cancer’.
‘What of?’
‘Lungs.’
‘Oh.’
I have a think - impeded a bit by the almost three pints I’ve drunk.
‘But you don’t smoke.’
‘Nah - wish I did.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Wish I’d smoked, took drugs, slept with every girl I ever met, done a parachute jump, played guitar, bet all my money on the turn of a card, learnt to juggle.’
‘Not too late’, I say and we lapse back into silence as he fights his own three-pint handicap.
‘I’ve only got six months.’
‘Make a list’, I say, ‘prioritise.’
He nods and takes out a little pen that he liberated from the bookies and a pad of betting slips. I guess that this is going to be the bucket list. He licks the pen and holds it over the paper. Nothing else happens for the remainder of the pint.
‘One for the road?’ I say - it’s what I always say. Four pints, no more, no less. Every Sunday afternoon for nearly ten years. Tom nods and I go to the bar and wait for the barmaid to notice me.
‘Same again, Kenny?’
I nod and ask her ‘What would be on your bucket list, Amy?’.
‘Las Vegas, Thailand - oh, and Korea and Florida - though I’ve been there once before.’
‘All travelling?’
‘Unless Casey Affleck can spare me a few hours.’
‘Casey Affleck?’
‘He won the Oscar last year - where’ve you been living? That’s four ninety-eight.’
’Ta - keep the change.’
’Two pee? - thanks a lot.’
I ferry the pints back to the table. Tom is still holding the pen and the blank pad of betting slips.
’Travelling’, I suggest, ‘what about Las Vegas or Florida or somewhere?’
‘Don’t like planes’, he says.
‘A cruise?’ I say and he looks at me - something he doesn’t normally do - and his expression is one that suggests he has trodden in something that should be in a little black plastic bag. So I pick up my pint and listen to the beeping of the fruit machine.
