The beer garden at the back of the pub was empty, save one woman sitting alone at a table contemplating a pint glass. It was Saturday night, early, already dark. I placed my carnival glass of Kirin Ichiban on the table next to hers and sat down. The beer garden was floodlit with blue and orange light. The stars were out.
I craned my head forward, sucked up an inch of cold lager without using my hands and looked sideways at the woman on the next table. I noticed a reaction to the mouthful of chilled beer on a cellular level. The woman looked miles away. ‘If you’re interested in a chat,’ I said, ‘this is the most sensible I’m going to be all night, so we should have it now.’ She backed out of her reverie and regarded me. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘What shall we talk about?’
‘How’s your love life?’ I suggested. She rolled her eyes. ‘Completely out of hand,’ she said. ‘Ridiculous. I wouldn’t even know where to start.’ But she had a stab at it, with approximate statistics, and then attempted a broad outline of a recent crisis, the result of which was her sitting outside on this chilly Saturday evening savouring a pint and some longed-for solitude.
Three chaps came out into the garden carrying full pints and joined her at her table without a trace of formality or a greeting. Regulars, presumably. The gang. Then another chap arrived, wearing a sports jacket that was far too big for him, as though for comic effect. He sat at my table. Then he took out the makings, and began constructing a joint with great devotion and elaboration. Nobody took a blind bit of notice of him except me.
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