Nicky by Graham Mort

She’s there, behind the bar as I walk in. Immaculate white blouse, tucked into a pair of faded jeans. 501’s. Belt buckle tight at the waist. Blonde highlights in a short bob, cut into the neck. Silver ear studs. Big white teeth as she greets me.

-Hiyah! Do you have a table booked?

-I’m hovering, so she’s guessed.

– Yes, I do. But I’m waiting for some friends.

Big smile.

-Of course. Would like you like a drink as you wait?

– I would.

– What would you like?

– A pint of Blonde, please.

She smiles at that. Well, she would, wouldn’t she? You wonder if that’s why she’s done her hair like that. She turns from me, swings at the hand pumps. No ring. You can’t help noticing her. She’s vivid. Vivacious, if you’re still allowed to say that.

Her blouse is open at the neck. Freckles just above her breasts. All very discreet. She must be at least my age. She fits into those jeans perfectly. As if she rides horses. Toned, might be the word. I get the scent of her perfume as she rests the glass. Beautifully pulled with a tight head. She’s good at her job. Though maybe trying a bit too hard. Greeting the customers with that bright smile. But why not? We all need that, don’t we?

I take the top off the pint and she drops a beer mat on the bar in front of me. Dimples. A toothy grin. Cheeky. It’s early, so the place is quiet. I’m meeting Tim and Amy for dinner. We used to meet together as a foursome. Usually once every couple of months. We’ve kept it up after Marilyn passed. Once things had settled down a bit. They called me and I said, yes, why not? Well, for obvious reasons. The funny thing is, it was only when I put the phone down that it hit me. But you have to move on, one way or the other. You have to.

Tim and Amy are late, which is unusual for them. The bar’s quiet, so the blonde woman is treading water.

– Nicki.

 She’s offering her hand.

– Lesley.

We shake and her palm is warm.

– Haven’t I seen you here before?

– Not for a while.

I take another pull of the beer and she lines up two wine glasses and fills them for the waitress. Turning back to me as if we were in the middle of something. She’s wearing a little apron over the Levi’s. A man’s wristwatch on a gold bracelet. She sees me looking at it. Her eyes are suddenly sad. Brown eyes that contrast with her hair. I hadn’t noticed that before. Even though she’s smiling at me there’s something in them that I can’t quite fathom. Then, pain is intricate.

– Where else do you go, she asks, to eat?

I have to think about that.

– Well, things have gone a bit downhill, locally, haven’t they?

Is she local? I’ve never seen her before. She’d nodding at that as if there was never a truer word.

– Sometimes The George, sometimes the Punch Bowl, though that’s a trek. She’s pulling a pint for a new customer in a check three-piece suit. But still listening. She turns back from the till. Multi-tasking. Super-efficient, leaning her hands on the bar to look at me. Speaking with that little chuckle in her voice.

– Well, a group us, all girls, meet up at The Prince of Wales sometimes, just to, you know have a drink and…

She does yackety-yak with her fingers. I’m smiling now.

– But they changed the chef and things went south. Very quickly. To be honest. If I want to eat anywhere, I usually come here. That’s mad, isn’t it? It’s like I can’t get enough of the place!

Then that throaty laugh, at herself.

Tim and Amy arrive full of apologies. Terrible traffic, then they got behind a tractor and trailer full of sheep.

– Hey, ho. How are you?

Hugging.

– Good, good. And no problem. I know what that traffic’s like!

Nicki gives us another special smile and show us to our table. I notice her neck as she flicks back her hair. A line where her suntan meets whiter skin. As if she spends a lot of time outdoors. The menus are waiting for us and we order wine and food. The meals here are Italian style, mainly pasta and pizzas. Simple. Though it’s an awkward evening with Tim and Amy trying not to mention Marilyn and me trying not to think about her.  A couple of 6th form girls are waiting on. I taught one of them French and we have another awkward moment pretending to catch up. I wonder if she knows.

When it’s over, I insist on paying the bill.

– I’m sure it’s our turn.

That just slips out. It’s been a long time and who cares?

– Marilyn would want me to.

That quietens them. They’re nice people, just not very confident around death. Like most people. We hug in the car park and they drive away in their old Volvo. The one they’ve had for ever, since their kids were young and they took it to France camping. I wave as their tail lights dwindle, pulling up my jacket collar as it starts to rain. Corduroy. No overcoat which is stupid. The walk home’s about a mile.

Just before I leave the car park a little Fiat pulls level with me, with the window wound down.

– Can I offer you a lift?

– No, no, it’s fine.

– Are you sure? It’s going to rain.

She holds her hand out, palm upwards.

– Well, it is raining!

I pause on the pavement.

– I’m going this way, to Leeming.

– That’s on my way. Jump in!

I get in a bit awkwardly because the car’s so low. Trying not to make those creaky old man noises. There’s her perfume filling the car. A musky blend with an undertone of lavender. She’s thrown a linen jacket over the blouse.

– This is very kind of you.

– Nonsense. It’s a pleasure. Birds of a feather!

Nicki says that brightly, bravely, clearing mist from the windows with a sponge and handing it to me to do the same. I wipe her breath from the windscreen. Birds of a feather. I think of the line between her suntan and the white skin spreading from it. Like the border between two countries.

Rain smears the windows, the wipers clicking in rhythm. Then more rain, then it’s cleared again. Nicki’s humming under her breath. Vivacious. Unputdownable. Irrepressible. A real soldier. Chestnut trees are threshing in the wind that’s suddenly got up. Stirring the darkness. We pass a man walking home alone, hunched against the weather.

– Poor guy! That could have been you!

Nicki changes gear and accidentally touches my hand. She does it again, changing down for the sharp bend into the village. I can’t see her eyes in the dim light of the car, even when she turns to smile at me. That warm smile. Like her hands. I wonder how long it’s been.

Graham Mort          

Image: A well stocked bar with a wooden front and shelves of bottles from Pixabay.com