The Importance of Tips, New Short Story

           I'm sharing with you a short story I wrote for the recent Guardian competition. I didn't get anywhere, but as a few friends enjoyed it, here it is:

He spent his last £30 on a plate of oysters and a glass of champagne.  Plus the tip. Important not to forget, Emily always gave an extra note. It would have been her birthday today and this was exactly what she’d ordered last year, sitting at the same table, by the window. The young waitress with the mournful, spaniel eyes hadn’t wanted to serve him at first, until he pointed out the sign to her.

`How are you going to pay?’ she’d asked, smile like a curtain drawn back. `They’re very snooty in here. You’d be better...’

            He shook his head, indicated the little leather purse hanging around his neck. Her smile reminded him of Emily. He’d left the funeral crowd gathered around the graveside on the muddy grass. He’d wanted to jump down on top of the coffin and stay there, feel the dark clay pelt down on top of them both. It was Emily’s sister who’d restrained him.

            `I know, Sam, I know. How are we going to manage without her, eh?’

He wasn’t, couldn’t.  What is the point of me now? he thought and left, loping off among the skewed gravestones, out through the wrought iron gates and along the blaring road, over the roundabout and the lights, finding the river and his bearings.

            The waitress brought the bill and emptied out the purse for him. He pushed the final note towards her and she smiled again, rested her hand with its bitten fingernails on his back for a moment.           

            `Thank you. So much.’

            `No, thank you,’ he would have said, if he’d been able.

            He left the restaurant, ignoring all the people who stared at him and shook their heads,  waving their arms like the long reeds in the lake, where he used to go with Emily.

            It was night now; the light had been fading by the time he’d finally reached the restaurant. It hadn’t been possible to stay close to the river all the way and he’d had to climb towards rushing roads with roaring buses, the dank, mulchy smell still in his nostrils, a wet leaf sticking to his leg.

            Now he made his way up onto the bridge; at least no one paid him any attention here.  He found he was tired, head fuzzy from the champagne the waitress had poured so carefully over the shallow bowl of salty, shucked oysters. He wondered whether she could tell that oysters would never have been his own choice, that he was celebrating the short life of sweet Emily, who’d relied on him alone.

Every morning she’d started a poem on her laptop, sitting by the window, fingers curled around her coffee cup. Some days she finished the poem and they’d go to the park or along the High Street to the RSPCA charity shop or out to lunch with her mum and her sister. At night she’d recite the day’s poem, correcting it, while he dozed by the fire. The only time he envied cats; the way they could purr, with dignity. That was important too, like proper tips; Emily had written a poem about it.

        Which is why he’d made the decision. He’d seen the way they looked at him at the funeral, smelt their pity.  He’d wait here on the bridge till there were no more people crossing over and then he’d jump into the water. Emily had told him how fierce the current was, how easily you could get sucked under. She let him swim in the lake, but never in the river. She could be fierce sometimes: he thought of her voice, rich and sweet, like chocolate drops, changing; that hurt, like scalding water.

            He sat down by the railings, could smell the river, calling, welcoming him into her embrace.

            `Oh, it’s you!’

            It was the waitress. She paused beside him, leant her elbows on the rail and stared out over the water at the tall buildings and the sparkly lights.

            He tilted his head.

            She reached out a hand, laid it gently on the back of his neck.

            `Got fired! The customers complained. Said it was unhygienic. Told them to read the sign, access is allowed. For guide dogs.’

            She scratched him deep behind the ears and his tail flicked with joy.

            `Will you come home with me? After I got fired, the chef told me about Emily. My mum’s got AMD- macular degeneration. Won’t leave the house. You’re exactly who she needs.’

He stood up, shook his stiff limbs. Now he could wag his tail properly. He licked her hand. He had a purpose, dignity. And would always remember the importance of tips.