On Life and cat

PROLOGUE

Whitby 5. Aug, 1949 -The Last Smiths Pub

We don't get that many strangers in town. Most people have trouble keeping their house standing in this war, and don't have time to travel. They do appear of course, but there is always someone in the pub turning their head around to look. I wasn't usually one of them. I was standing over the old taps, wiping over the bar counter when Sophie, my soft headed colleague, calls my attention. "Ann, why don't you help this man out?"

The pub owner always complains I never pay attention to what comes through the door. Mostly, he is right. He lives upstairs with his wife, next to the small inn we host. My chin peeks up.

A tall man in big boots just dragged his mud in. Wonderful.

He was wearing some sort of uniform with multiple torn medals on it. A dark green tweed-jacket with two missing buttons in the fold. His pants and cap was that of a farmer; soiled with dirt and wholly grime.

"What may I do for you, sir?" I continue cleaning the counter while asking. Small flakes of dried-out beer made it's way under my cloth. Shining like a rink. Though not made for ice skating. One could throw plates to the shelf here and it would stick for months.

He still hasn't answered me. I wipe over the taps and look up again. My eyes fall onto the strange scar on his forehead. He seemed like he had done his in the war. Tall as a mountain, a dark face carefully groomed in once handsome features. The man doesn't appear to have moved even slightly. Annoyed I continue what I'm doing while glancing up at him from time to time. With a curious, yet careful consideration I tried determining his age. His body seemed strong and well endowed. His eyes indicated something else. They were light grey and soft like mist, or the colour fish got when it died. I couldn't really tell. Then again, the war did change you. Young became old- and old men...still old, but somehow- older. 

He was swaying above the floor and the floorboards cracked under his body. I stop wiping the taps. "Are you not feeling well, sir?" I ask. His face did look a little bit pale.

He had an unusual twitch in his upper lips as he said "R-room." 

"Alright then" I swiped the key up from under the counter. "There's hot water in the faucet through the corridor should you need any, and breakfast is served at 08:00am." My tone is steady and low as usual, always ready for someone to comment on my downward appearance or faint American accent.

He does neither.

I lay the keys in front of me. With coarse, pink and red hands he grab them. Then Sophie comes fussing back and pulls out a book from the shelf to my right. "What name should I put?"

He looks confused between the two of us. Turns his head around as if he just now become aware of his surroundings. The small pub is held up steadily with huge beams occupied by all sorts of weird things. Wheels, fishing nets and stuffed dead animals. The stranger pokes at a green helmet carved with names in white.

"Sir? We need a name."

"Don't hassle the man, Sophie!"

It was old Jason Kerrigan from table two. He'd defied his old knees once again and with slow movement walked up to the bar. "Pull me a pint instead. Can't you see the 'chap needs a rest?" He pats the stranger on the back. "A real man of war don't give out names."

The stranger was looking at me again. He doesn't seem to notice Kerrigan smiling at him. In fact he doesn't seem to notice people around him at all. I shook my head back to reality, and walk over to the other tables. Good luck, Sophie. I shoot her a glance before I leave. Her smile was starting to look more like a post it stamp. Not overly happy, I think before my mind drifts off elsewhere. 

---

The pub is parted in two sections. The bar is in the front with only a few tables, the dining area in the back. If you had company this is where youd lay your ground.

When i enter there's three men sitting behind me, whispering and joking to each other. Sipping their beer, trying to place two fingers around each other's noses and howling with laughter when they do. "OH, and if it isn't lovely Ann!" one of them shouts as I come over to clean. In my head, I try not to plan their murder as they look at me and whistle. I try to slowly drift aside, ignoring their mocking faces. I had just laid the damp washcloth on the surface again as one of them sees the need to slap my behind. Surprised, my legs shoot forward and slam my knee into the table edge. I pull back and try to gather all the half-empty glasses of beer I just tipped over.  They linger on the edge, and before my hand slam down on one of them it rolls to the floor with a crash. The water is dripping down the side like a leaky roof. I sigh and walk over to find another cloth. 

"Why don't you come hang back at our place when you're done?" They all laugh, and when I return I silently gather up the remaining glasses. I'm lucky only one of them broke. My payment doesn't stand for much.

Back at the counter, the stranger is gone. "You don't get many of those now a days" Sophie comments. I open the cloth in my hand and throw the broken glass pieces into the bin. It appeared she had managed to come to an agreement with the visitor and had guided him to his room. "Quite weird isn't he? No name or papers. Only what money he found in his pocket. But so handsome..." I nod. "Maybe he is a fisherman."

"In those clothes? It looked like a uniform"

I shrug. "We don't know. It's not our job to."

"Maybe he's a war hero that no one will recognize," Sophie said, dreamy. 

"Or maybe he's German," I say to put her off.

She hits me with her cloth. "Shush! Of course, he isn't. Imagine, how sad that would be; Coming back home from the war having fought for man and country till brink of death and then...! Oh, Ann!" she suddenly whines. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's alright," I tell her. "Even though Henry didn't come back home he came back to me. Or at least I came to him-" She puts a hand on my back. "Oh, Jesus, don't get so sentimental. I'm alright. Truly."

She smiles affecting.

"It doesn't matter," I tell her when she continues staring at me "the war was over long ago"

***

My hands slide across the horrid green tiles in the bathroom. My shift had ended.

Next to the sink, my feet stop. I still hold the cleaning cloth in my hand. Underneath me, my legs give out.

I lean halfway over the side of the sink and slide down to the floor. I'm drunk on emotion, and not the good kind. I'm always fighting it back, as hard as I can. But when I reach the stupid green tiles in the bathroom all I can do is keep my mouth shut and try not to alert Sophie any further. Tears usually come in hiccups and I don't want people to see me once it gets to that. I cover my mouth with my hands, let the water fill up my eyes and sob until I can't hold it anymore. I hold my breath until I hiccup. I continue this for a while until my crushed heart turns angry. I forcefully throw my cloth across the room, hitting the wall.

***

I stay in the bathroom until my head starts to pound. Headaches usually come this way. Then I go back in, giving her my best convincing flat smile. I'm not really smiling. But the task of keeping my mouth up in a straight line is a big enough job.

When I get home that evening I fall straight into bed, I turn my head around on the pillow, thinking of where I'd be if Henry was still alive. Probably not in England anymore. I grab a bottle from under the bed. It's half empty. I throw the bottleneck to my lips and soak inn the dry, expensive wine. We'd go back to America, where the destruction wasn't too big. Or travel north to see Scotland. Maybe France had it's legs back up soon. I knew they had already started to rebuild. Then I remember I couldn't go even If I wanted. Time in my case was a running man. It wouldn't last forever. Not that it would ever be the same without Henry.

My runny nose slowly sobers up and I fall into dreamless sleep.

I didn't care if death took me away tonight.

***