A creak from the hinge of the door marked the arrival of the first customer. Jack straightened up the spirits and gathered pint glasses. He turned from what he was doing to welcome the early appearance, squinting at the harsh June sun that slipped into the gloomy bar. Low energy light bulbs and unwashed windows meant the place was seldom illuminated. This was the kind of establishment that rarely attracted clientele, not only because of its resemblance to a squat –inside and out. The poor beer, the toilets that overpowered the pub with smells of sick and fags, and its name, The Horse Shit; all contributed to the lack of visitors.
The Horses Shoe, before the graffiti edit, once belonged to Jack’s old man. He had inherited it; the father’s dream of his son one day being a proud landlord like himself came true by way of his death. Now easing into his thirties, with a wife and a newborn girl, Jack would have done anything to shift the place from the list of things that concerned him. Having grown up there, he never had any desire to work in a pub, let alone own the same one as his father.
Alfie, the first customer of the day and most loyal in The Horse Shoe’s history, took up a seat at the bar.
‘No, Jameson’s for me thanks Jack.’ Alfie replied earnestly.
‘Starting strong?’ Jack said.
‘Yeah. Its gonna be a long day.’
Alfie had been coming to the pub for two years now, every Sunday without fail. From what Jack had gathered, he was in his late sixties, lived off of a solid pension and occasionally changed from bitter to whiskey. He kept mostly to himself, never brought anyone in with him, and always stayed for one drink. Sometimes he would go on at passionate lengths about the dogs or the football.
‘What you got going on today?’ Jack asked as he poured out thirty-five millilitres of Jameson’s.
‘Going to see the wife.’ Alfie replied with a blank expression on his face.
‘Your wife? Alfie, I didn’t even know you were married mate! Kept that one quiet didn’t you? Ya dark horse!’ Jack chuckled at his own joke, but Alfie, who rarely smiled, remained stoic.
‘Yeah, well… I usually come here to get some peace. Get away from it all you know?’ Catching the implicit message, Jack reframed from asking any further questions.
‘You married?’ Alfie asked to his surprise.
‘I am. I’ve just had me first kid as well.’ Jack smiled.
‘Congratulations.’ His tone was flat and indignant. ‘Ours are in London. In their twenties; couldn’t give two hoots about me and their mother… Boy or girl?’
Closing his fist over his mouth Alfie bellowed out two dry coughs, followed by a short wheeze.
‘Ergh… excuse me.’ He pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped a small fleck of flem from the corner of his mouth. ‘Bloody cough, its probably cancer.’
‘Ah! Its just a cough, probably a summer cold or somethin.’ Jack assured him.
‘Cancer this! Cancer that. Everything gives you cancer these days, can’t avoid it. I’m lucky that at my age that I haven’t had it already, having smoked half my life! You know I saw an article the other day that said chips give you cancer? French fries! If they’re so bad, why we still eating so many potatoes.’
Jack didn’t know what to say in reply to this unusual dose of opinion. Having nothing to do with rearing greyhounds, or QPR, it was past the realm of his usual conversational capacities. It made him quite uncomfortable seeing Alfie; the safe bet, the reliable shadow break character.
‘Here, give this a feel will ya?’ He stuck out his neck and pulled his shirt to one side, exposing his collarbone. ‘There, at the bottom of my neck: can you feel a lump?’
Jack reservedly felt Alfie’s neck. A purveyor of drinks was the only role he was prepared to fulfil today. Diagnosing cancer was not.
‘Nah. Nothing there Alfie.’ He said, retracting his hand quickly, retreating from this disturbing contact.
‘Bloody hell! I mean, sorry. Thanks for helping me and all. I just get sick of worrying: rubbing my skin raw looking for lumps. Sleepless nights filled with fears that I might wake up in hospital, you know? You spend your life worrying about stuff that’s coming down the line, and then when you get there, there’s more follow.’
‘Everyone worries Alf.’ Said Jack.
‘That’s the problem! You don’t see it yet, but it is.’ He looked down at the bar, bowing his head slightly.
‘Fair enough.’ Jack decided to ignore him.
‘You got a wife and a kid. You worry, of course you do. Enjoy it son, cause one day you’ll wake up and it wont be there!’ Alfie said.
Jack had his back to him now, polishing a water-stained pint glass with a rag. This talk of lost opportunities and regret was disturbing; listening to the old man’s lamentations made it harder for him to ignore at his own life. The pub, the family, the crappy flat they were crammed into; ignoring it all was how he stayed content, and Alfie was undermining his fail-safe tactic.
‘Ere! Are you listening to me?’
‘Look Alfie,’ Jack said turning around. ‘I think you’ve had enough mate.’ Alfie looked down at the empty glass with surprised and offended countenance. ‘Why don’t you just head off and get to where you’re going?’
‘What ya mean? I haven’t got anywhere to go!’ Alfie replied, outraged.
‘Okay… Look, I’m gonna go downstairs and change out one of the kegs. When I come back I want you to be getting on your way ok? I’ll see you next Sunday alright?’ Jack turned and went into the cellar.
There was no keg to change, but after waiting five minutes he returned to the bar. Alfie was still sitting up against there; a solemn expression occupied his haggard features.
‘Alfie?’ Jack approached him with care. There was no reply. He looked to be deeply involved in some thought, struggling with a persistent echo bouncing around in his head.
‘I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to cause no problems.’ Alfie was still looking down at his empty glass, clutching it lightly with his hands.
‘Well just don’t come in here and get mardy again Alf. I know you’re the only one here at the moment but I don’t want you getting into it when there’s customers around, you know?’
‘You know why I come here every Sunday?’ Alfie looked up as Jack stared back, waiting for a reply. ‘I’m on my way to see the wife. Every Sunday I go and talk to her. But she never talks back… She’s in the hospital you see. Two years now. Just didn’t wake up one morning, been like that ever since. The doctors call it a “vegetative state” and they can’t work out what happened.’
Jack felt emptied out. There was nothing he wanted to say, but then again, nothing that he could say either.
‘I think I’ll ‘ave a second whiskey today, Jack.’
‘I think I might join you Alf.’ He said, pouring out two glasses.
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