The Auld Shillelagh
It was Curry Club Night in the Auld Shillelagh.
‘That’s exciting,’ she said, ‘a private members’ club.’
‘I’m amazed we got in,’ he said, and it was true. The pub was already busy, so the only seats they could find were at the back, a wooden booth, candle-lit and cosy, far from the small stage. Michael’s bedroom was directly above their heads, a long, bare, converted corridor but nice enough, and taking their seats, he had the feeling that they were in the right place. ‘It’s like we’ve got into Studio 54,’ said Marnie, who had worked through her rota of three dresses and was wearing his favourite, from the second night, the one with the roses. His favourite. Good God.
Confusingly, it was also Country and Western Night, a local band, guitar and keyboards, fiddle and, propped against the piano, a washboard for later. Peroxided hair piled high, waistcoated and mascaraed, the singer was growling ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ to a semi-circle of locals, who tapped their thighs on the one and three. Rogan Josh and Patsy Cline in an Irish pub in Cumbria; Michael felt at home but he was less sure about Marnie. He had never lived in London, had no desire to do so and knew, too, that it wasn’t all bento boxes in high-glass towers, but he very much wanted her to be happy here. Glancing back from the bar, he saw her straining to read Wuthering Heights by candlelight and noted, too, how nice she looked, a little make-up, hair washed, roses on her dress. What would an observer presume? That it was a date, that they were married? A couple on a night out, kids with the babysitter. Was that plausible?
And where would he be without her? He imagined a parallel evening, finding somewhere quiet, drinking alone with his book and phone and thoughts. That wasn’t so bad either and he still felt the pull of solitude, but he’d grown sceptical of his ability to make conversation with himself, unsurprised, unamused, unchallenged, caught in familiar rhythms, like bouncing a tennis ball off a wall. Conversation had its challenges and risks, but for now it was preferable to being alone. Plenty of opportunity for that.
She was looking right at him. She smiled.
And now she was looking to the side, standing, then laughing, pointing towards the bar. It was the couple from the chip shop, Brian and Barbara, turning to wave. He smiled back, mimed a glass, mouthed, ‘Can I get you?’ but they shook their heads and indicated others, a family group, who were joining them, pulling up chairs, shaking Marnie’s hand, and she glanced at him over Brian’s shoulder, a wide-eyed, hostage look.
And so he lost her again, instead spending the night with Brian and Barbara’s two sons, Stewart and Donald, and new daughter-in-law Amelia, hearing all about their honeymoon and how they’d met, where they were staying in town, the weather, the food, where to find the best curry in Edinburgh and Leeds and York, mortgages, the bloody Tories, Scottish nationalism and roast potatoes and squirrel-proof bird-feeders, and every now and then he’d glance at Marnie, chin on hand, candle-lit, a good guest at a stranger’s wedding and sometimes they’d catch each other’s eye and she’d send a look that seemed to say, he thought, Stay there, wait, just wait.
Hours passed, the music getting louder and more raucous, and it was only when it was his turn to go to the bar that he realised how drunk he was, far drunker than he’d been for many years, perhaps ever. So what? He was having fun again and it wasn’t nearly as bad as he remembered. He squeezed through the crowd, strangers smiling and clapping him on the shoulder as if he were going to collect an award rather than the next round. At the bar, he found himself experimenting with focus, letting it drift in and out as he stared at the spirits – they were on whiskies now, God help them – and the band was playing an old Hank Williams song, ‘Hey Good Looking’, a song he knew without ever consciously listening to it, the kind of simple, silly song his father liked and he had a sentimental memory of Dad singing along to it on the radio, a Sunday afternoon in the late eighties. A hand, warm and slightly damp, was taking his own. ‘Hello, good-looking,’ said Marnie. ‘I thought I’d come and help you.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought it would be just us.’
‘I don’t mind. Well, I do a bit.’
He was confused for a moment. ‘I’m having trouble getting served.’
‘No rush. Let’s just wait.’
And it was fun to stand, holding her hand down at his side as if it were a secret, eyes forward but sensing her smile. He ordered, and the band announced their last song. And it was fun, more than fun, to tap glasses and feel the whisky’s burn, then turn to the band as they played ‘Crazy’, the old Patsy Cline song. It was what a New Year’s Eve ought to be but never is, sentimental and munificent, full of hope and generalised love. Marnie had taken his hand once again, their forearms touching along their length as the crowd danced in front of them, elderly couples mostly, the men in plaid shirts and bootlace ties, and it seemed easy and natural to slip in among them, Marnie’s arm around his waist, his chin on her head, sending up the dancing but taking it seriously too. Crazy for feeling so lonely …
But the song was no length at all and they still had drinks to deliver, so they lifted the tumblers high, fingers dipped carelessly into the liquid and squeezed back through the crowd, who were cheering now, for the band or for the two of them. ‘Ah, God bless you both,’ said Brian, a great grin on his red face, raising his glass in a toast.
‘The pair of you,’ said Barbara, ‘you lovely people,’ and now Marnie was whispering into his ear with whisky breath.
‘Walk me home, Mikey,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Absolutely no one calls me Mikey.’
‘D’you mind?’
‘Not at all.’
‘So walk me home, Mikey.’
‘I will,’ he said, ‘I will.’