It was one of those beautiful midsummer evenings – eight o’clock and still full of heat and soft light. It wouldn’t get dark till almost eleven. Raymond took off his jacket, revealing another ridiculous T-shirt. This one was yellow and had two white cartoon cockerels on the front. Los Pollos Hermanos, it said. Nonsensical. He looked at his watch.
‘I’m going to pick up a carryout and head round to my mate Andy’s. A few of us usually hang out there on Saturday nights, fire up the PlayStation, have a smoke and a few beers.’
‘Sounds utterly delightful,’ I said.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
I was going home, of course, to watch a television programme or read a book. What else would I be doing?
‘I shall return to my flat,’ I said. ‘I think there might be a documentary about komodo dragons on BBC4 later this evening.’
He looked at his watch again, and then up at the boundless blue sky. There was a moment of silence and then a blackbird began showing off nearby, his song so spectacular that it bordered on vulgar. We both listened, and when I smiled at Raymond, he smiled back.
‘Look, it’s far too nice a night to be sitting inside on your own. Fancy grabbing a quick pint somewhere? I’ll need to head off in an hour or so before the offy shuts, but …’
This required careful consideration. I had not been in a public house for many years, and Raymond could hardly be described as engaging company. I quickly concluded, however, that it would be useful for two reasons. Firstly, it would be good practice, as, if things went well, Johnnie Lomond would probably want to take me to a public house during one of our dates, and so I really ought to familiarize myself in advance with the general environs and required behaviours in such establishments. Secondly, Raymond was an IT expert – allegedly – and I needed some advice. Such advice might be expensive to obtain via official channels, but I could ask him tonight, for free. All things considered, it seemed expeditious to accede to Raymond’s request. He was staring into the middle distance, and I noticed that he had lit a cigarette and smoked almost half of it while I had been pondering.
‘Yes, Raymond. I will go to the pub with you for one drink,’ I said, nodding.
‘Magic,’ he said.
We ended up in a bar five minutes from the hospital, on a busy road. One of the tables outside was unoccupied. The metal surface was covered in circular stains and its legs looked unstable, but Raymond seemed delighted.
‘Seats outside!’ he said, happily throwing himself down and hanging his jacket over the back of his chair. ‘Right then, I’ll go to the bar,’ he said. ‘What are you after, Eleanor?’
I felt a fluttering of concern in my stomach. Firstly, sitting out here, I wouldn’t get to see the inside of the public house and observe what went on there. Secondly, I didn’t know what to order. What did normal people drink in public houses? I decided to take control of the situation.
‘Raymond, I will go to the bar. I insist. What would you like me to order for you?’ He tried to argue but I stood my ground and eventually he agreed, although he seemed annoyed. I simply could not fathom why he was making such a fuss about it.
‘Right, well, I suppose I’ll have a pint of Guinness then. But I wish you’d let me get it, Eleanor.’
I put both hands on the table and leaned forward so that my face was very close to his.
‘Raymond, I will purchase the drinks. It’s important to me, for reasons that I don’t wish to articulate to you.’
He shrugged, then nodded, and I walked off towards the door.
It seemed very dark inside after the sunlight, and noisy too – there was music of an unfamiliar genre pulsing loudly from large speakers. The place wasn’t busy, and I was the only customer at the bar. A young man and a young woman were serving; that is to say, they were deep in conversation with each other, and every so often she would giggle like a simpleton and flick her dyed yellow hair, or he would punch her arm playfully and laugh in an overly loud, false manner. Human mating rituals are unbelievably tedious to observe. At least in the animal kingdom you are occasionally treated to a flash of bright feathers or a display of spectacular violence. Hair flicking and play fights don’t quite cut the mustard.
I was bored and I knocked hard, three times, on the wooden bar, as though it were a front door. They both looked up. I asked for a pint of Guinness, which the boy began to pour from a tap. ‘Anything else?’ he said. I was still stumped. I reasoned that part of his job would be to help customers in such situations.
‘What would you recommend?’ I asked him. He looked up from watching the black liquid trickle into the glass.
‘Eh?’
‘I said, what would you recommend for me? I don’t drink in public houses, as a rule.’
He looked to his left and right, as if expecting someone else to be standing there. There was a long pause.
‘Erm,’ he said. ‘Well … Magners is very popular. With ice? Nice summer drink.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘thank you. In that case, I’ll have a Magners drink, please, on your recommendation.’ He opened a brown bottle and put it on the bar. He put some ice in a tall glass and placed it next to the bottle.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘The Magners.’
‘And what’s the empty glass for?’
‘It’s for the Magners,’ he said.
‘Am I expected to pour the drink from the bottle into the glass?’ I said, puzzled. ‘Isn’t it your job to do that?’ He stared at me and then slowly poured the brown liquid over the ice and put it down quite hard; indeed, he practically slammed the bottle onto the counter.
‘Eight pound seventy,’ he said, in a most unfriendly manner. I handed over a five-pound note and four pound coins, then took my change and carefully put it in my purse.
‘Would you by any chance have a tray?’ I asked. He tossed down a filthy, sticky tray and watched as I placed the drinks on it before turning his back on me. There is such a paucity of good manners on display in the so-called service sector!
Raymond thanked me for the drink and took a big gulp. The Magners was quite pleasant, and I revised my opinion of the young barman. Yes, his customer service skills were poor, but he did at least know how to make appropriate beverage recommendations. Unprompted, Raymond started to tell me about his mother, how he was going to visit her tomorrow, something he did every Sunday. She was a widow and not terribly well. She had a lot of cats, and he helped her care for them. On and on and on he droned. I interrupted him.
‘Raymond,’ I said. ‘Can I ask you something?’
He sipped his pint. ‘Sure.’
‘If I were to purchase a “smart phone”, which type would you advise? I have been looking into the relative merits of iPhones as compared with Android devices, and I’d appreciate an insider’s perspective on the cost–benefit ratio, as it were.’
He looked somewhat surprised at my question, which was odd, given that he worked in IT and therefore must be asked technological questions quite frequently.
‘Right, well …’ he shook his head in a slightly canine way, as though he were clearing thoughts from it ‘… that depends on a lot of factors.’ He expounded on these factors at some length – without reaching any kind of useful conclusion – and then looked at his watch.
‘Shit! I better run – I need to pick