The Importance of Tips
You don’t stop laughing, when you grow old,
you grow old, when you stop laughing. `The most important thing my dad ever
taught me,’ Emily used to say. `George Bernard Shaw. Shame he didn’t follow his
own advice, took himself far too seriously, that one. Pompous prick!’
With each
passing year, Emily took an ever greater delight in peppering her conversation
with rude words, rolling them on her tongue like gobstoppers. She had a habit
of chuckling at her own daring, then reaching out a finger to prod whatever
part of him she came into contact with, gauging his response, perhaps. Who was
going to touch him now?
He caught
sight of his grizzled reflection in the café’s giant mirror. The frame had
carved and painted lilies intertwined with bright poppies, honeysuckle and variegated
ivy. It was like finding himself suddenly inside a lush bower. He’d always
wanted a garden, loved to feel damp earth under his nails, the smell of sun-warmed
stones, to doze on crisp grass, listening to the squeals and giggles of
children at play.
`That’s what
parks are for,’ Emily would say. `I like my effing flowers in vases, where I
can smell them all day.’
He’d spent his last £10 note on a slice of Viennese
sacher torte and a glass of 30 year old palo cortado sherry. Plus the
tip. Important never to forget the tip, one of Emily’s many maxims. Emily’s mum had been a waitress at a Lyon’s
corner house. Emily used to describe the sharp, hot smell of her mum ironing
the black uniform with its white collar on a Sunday evening, followed by the
duller smell of her and her sister’s grey school uniform. She said that as a
child she used to wonder whether it was the colours themselves that smelled
differently or the cloth.
`I always
associated those smells with the end of the weekend and school the next day. Ma
was called a Nippy at the corner house- they were always in a blooming hurry
there. Maybe that’s what I should call you, eh? Can’t walk down the bastard
street without you trying to nip ahead!’
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 bright
and startled eyes of a squirrel hadn’t wanted to serve him at first, until he’d
pointed out the sign on the wall. Was that what life was going to be like from
now on? No one had ever dared challenge Emily, she was his blanket, old and
beloved and safe.
`How are you
going to pay?’ the waitress had asked, smile like a curtain drawn back.
`They’re a bit 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; no, everything reminded him of Emily, she
defined his world. All was Emily or Not-Emily. If only the waitress would
laugh. Emily would have shrieked her delight at his daring, coming in here on
his own.
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 over
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’d 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 a
two pound coin towards her and she smiled again, rested her hand with its green,
bitten fingernails on his back for a
moment.
`Thank you. So much.’
`No, thank you,’ he said inside his head. Emily would have been proud of
him.
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 oval lake- another
place he used to go with Emily.
It was night now, with a big, round moon like a silver tray in the sky; the
light had been fading by the time he’d finally reached the café. 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 sherry the waitress had
brought him in a shallow, stemmed glass. Just like the ones Emily used when she
mixed their Tiger’s Milk cocktails before bed each night: rum, brandy, sugar
syrup and milk, sprinkled with cinnamon.
`Tiger,
tiger, burning bright, In the forests of the night,’ she’d mutter as she
stirred it all together with a wild chopstick. `Sweet dreams, old chum. Chin,
chin.’
He wondered
whether the young waitress could tell that dense chocolate cake and soft sherry
would never have been his own choice, that he was celebrating the long life and
short death of sweet Emily, who’d relied on him alone. No, that was a lie and
it was important to be truthful. Another maxim. It was he who’d relied on her.
And she was never sweet.
Each morning
she’d start a new poem, sitting by the window, fingers curled around her coffee
cup until she had the first verse straight in her head. Some days she finished
the poem, tapping it out on her laptop and then they’d go to the park or along
the High Street to the RSPCA charity shop. Or out to lunch with her sister or -
only very occasionally now- her editor. At night she’d work on the day’s poem
some more, decide whether it was a `keeper’, while he dozed by the electric fire.
The only time he envied cats; the way they could purr, expressing content with
dignity. That was important too, like proper tips and laughter; Emily had
written a poem about dignity.
Which is why he’d made the decision. He’d
seen the way they’d looked at him at the funeral, had 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. In summer they used to swim in the oval lake,
her arm circling his neck, splashing each other, frolicking, but never in the
river. She could be fierce sometimes: he thought of her voice, rich and sweet,
like chocolate drops, changing, when she was cross or frightened. It hurt him,
like the memory of scalding water in the time before Emily.
He sat down by the railings, could smell the river, calling, welcoming him to
her embrace. Emily, again. The cold seeped into his bones.
`Oh, it’s you!’
Not Emily, of course, but 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 warm hand, laid it gently on the back of his neck.
`Got fired!’ she declared into the night. `Some customers complained. Said it
was unhygienic. Told them to read the sign, access is allowed. For guide
dogs. Think maybe I swore a bit.’
She squatted down then and scratched him deep behind the ears. His tail flicked
with joy. No one had done that since Emily died.
`Will you come home with me?’ the waitress asked, speaking softly, close to his
ear. `After I got fired by the manager, the old chef told me all about Emily.
My mum’s got AMD- macular degeneration. Scared to leave the house. You’re
exactly who she needs! Please!’
He stood up
and shook his stiff limbs. Now he could wag his tail properly. He had a purpose-
and dignity, again.
He raised his
paw and placed it on her knee, heard Emily’s chuckle quite distinctly in his
ear:
‘You old
tart! Effing brilliant! Go for it, old chum!’
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