corner, it goes out of sight.
Lewis is still gazing at that empty corner when he realises that the woman for whom the car stopped, the woman who crossed the road, is now very near. She comes, in her dogtooth coat, to a stop just in front of him. Lewis is lifting the hat off his head when the woman raises her hand and strikes him sufficiently hard that his spectacles fly off his face. He is still holding his hat in the air; his mouth is still slightly open, ready to speak. He saw, before he lost his spectacles, the scarring on her face, the damage to her skin. She starts shouting, jabbing at his chest with her index finger, and he realises who she is, and he, apologising, replaces his hat and reaches down to the ground for his spectacles. While the woman is standing there telling him off, Lewis returns his spectacles to his face but finds that the lenses are smashed and takes them off again. He puts them in his pocket and walks away as quickly as his poorly knee will allow.
Just outside the pub, he sees what he thinks for a moment might be his button lying on the ground, but then he remembers that it is a pound coin; it has been there for months. The first time he saw it, he stopped to reach down and pick it up and found that it was glued to the pavement. He remembers his confusion, his scrabbling fingertips. He remembers when Ruthâs boy was a baby and would try to get hold of things that could not be grasped, that could not be picked up â a biscuit pictured on the lid of a tin, a dot of light on the living room carpet. Lewis, scratching at the pavement, had to straighten up again and walk on without it.
The pub always looks closed from the outside, but when he pushes open the heavy door there is light and sound and Miranda smiling at him as the door settles behind him. The interior reminds him of somebodyâs living room. The wallpaper shows quaint farming scenes, a man with a scythe surveying his land, the pattern repeating around the four walls. There is a busy carpet, a threadbare sofa, sport on a small television in the corner and a handful of classic board games on a table underneath. There are floral curtains, vases of plastic daffodils on the windowsills, ornaments on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in which logs are arranged as if ready to be lit, although they never are. There are shelves containing ancient hardback books that no one reads: Todhunterâs Differential Calculus , three volumes of Harmsworthâs Home Doctor : BRUâDUC , DULâJEA and POWâSYS , and Carterâs Outlines of History in which history stops in 1918. Lewis wonders if there are later editions in which history instead comes to an end in 1945 or 1961 or 2013. There are two copies of Les Misérables and faded childrenâs classics, a beautiful old edition of a little book of nursery rhymes that he had when he was a boy. Topsy-turvy, upside down, the sea is on the moon. He doesnât know where his copy has gone. Sydney would just take this one.
There is no clock. Sometimes the pub has lock-ins. With the door bolted and the curtains closed, you can lose your sense of time. Each time he enters, he half expects to smell Woodbines, to see, through a smoky haze, an old man sucking on a cigarette, the ash dropping off, the end of the cigarette smouldering. There is no smoking in the pubs, though, these days.
When Lewis has made his way across the room, Miranda says to him, âWhat do you want, love?â
Yes , he wants to say to her, yes, please .
Taking his hat off and putting it down on the bar, he asks for a shandy. While she is pulling his half, she says to him, âI didnât win.â She means the lottery. Lewis has seen the advert, the giant hand in the sky, a formation of stars, the finger pointing, âIt could be youâ. He hasnât seen it for a while though. He has a feeling all of thatâs long gone now; thereâll be a new slogan. Miranda plays every Saturday but
Lewis is still gazing at that empty corner when he realises that the woman for whom the car stopped, the woman who crossed the road, is now very near. She comes, in her dogtooth coat, to a stop just in front of him. Lewis is lifting the hat off his head when the woman raises her hand and strikes him sufficiently hard that his spectacles fly off his face. He is still holding his hat in the air; his mouth is still slightly open, ready to speak. He saw, before he lost his spectacles, the scarring on her face, the damage to her skin. She starts shouting, jabbing at his chest with her index finger, and he realises who she is, and he, apologising, replaces his hat and reaches down to the ground for his spectacles. While the woman is standing there telling him off, Lewis returns his spectacles to his face but finds that the lenses are smashed and takes them off again. He puts them in his pocket and walks away as quickly as his poorly knee will allow.
Just outside the pub, he sees what he thinks for a moment might be his button lying on the ground, but then he remembers that it is a pound coin; it has been there for months. The first time he saw it, he stopped to reach down and pick it up and found that it was glued to the pavement. He remembers his confusion, his scrabbling fingertips. He remembers when Ruthâs boy was a baby and would try to get hold of things that could not be grasped, that could not be picked up â a biscuit pictured on the lid of a tin, a dot of light on the living room carpet. Lewis, scratching at the pavement, had to straighten up again and walk on without it.
The pub always looks closed from the outside, but when he pushes open the heavy door there is light and sound and Miranda smiling at him as the door settles behind him. The interior reminds him of somebodyâs living room. The wallpaper shows quaint farming scenes, a man with a scythe surveying his land, the pattern repeating around the four walls. There is a busy carpet, a threadbare sofa, sport on a small television in the corner and a handful of classic board games on a table underneath. There are floral curtains, vases of plastic daffodils on the windowsills, ornaments on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in which logs are arranged as if ready to be lit, although they never are. There are shelves containing ancient hardback books that no one reads: Todhunterâs Differential Calculus , three volumes of Harmsworthâs Home Doctor : BRUâDUC , DULâJEA and POWâSYS , and Carterâs Outlines of History in which history stops in 1918. Lewis wonders if there are later editions in which history instead comes to an end in 1945 or 1961 or 2013. There are two copies of Les Misérables and faded childrenâs classics, a beautiful old edition of a little book of nursery rhymes that he had when he was a boy. Topsy-turvy, upside down, the sea is on the moon. He doesnât know where his copy has gone. Sydney would just take this one.
There is no clock. Sometimes the pub has lock-ins. With the door bolted and the curtains closed, you can lose your sense of time. Each time he enters, he half expects to smell Woodbines, to see, through a smoky haze, an old man sucking on a cigarette, the ash dropping off, the end of the cigarette smouldering. There is no smoking in the pubs, though, these days.
When Lewis has made his way across the room, Miranda says to him, âWhat do you want, love?â
Yes , he wants to say to her, yes, please .
Taking his hat off and putting it down on the bar, he asks for a shandy. While she is pulling his half, she says to him, âI didnât win.â She means the lottery. Lewis has seen the advert, the giant hand in the sky, a formation of stars, the finger pointing, âIt could be youâ. He hasnât seen it for a while though. He has a feeling all of thatâs long gone now; thereâll be a new slogan. Miranda plays every Saturday but
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