All the Lonely People

by Mike Gayle

  Part of the reason Hubert had put so much effort into his appearance was that he felt as though he had a lot riding on the evening ahead. The clock was still ticking on Rose’s arrival. In just two and a half months his daughter would be home. And despite attendance at an open day at the bowls club, engaging his white-haired postman in conversation, and chatting with a fellow pensioner in the local Sainsbury’s, he was yet to make a single age-appropriate friend. This wedding, then, with its gathering of multiple generations, was perhaps his last hope. If he was lucky he might be able to snag a Latvian grandfather or even an aged uncle. But really he was open to any old man, so long as he could befriend him in time for Rose’s visit.

  Bromley Working Men’s Club was only a short taxi ride from Hubert’s house but the journey provided more than enough time for Ashleigh to relay everything she had managed to learn about Latvian weddings during an afternoon trawling the Internet. She informed him about something called a “capping ceremony” and how apparently it was customary for the groomsmen to kidnap the bride and only return her once the ransom of a round of drinks had been paid. Hubert was skeptical of her findings, however, and even when she showed him an article on her phone, his only comment was “If anybody had tried to steal my Joyce on our wedding day, me would’ve boxed them ears!”

  Arriving at the club, Hubert, despite Ashleigh’s protests, insisted on paying the taxi fare. Once inside the building, they were immediately greeted by the sound of music. On the stage in the function room there were accordion and fiddle players dressed in strange costumes playing some sort of up-tempo folk song and a young woman singing into a microphone in Latvian while encouraging the audience to clap along. The dance floor was packed with a mix of giddy children jumping up and down, middle-aged women waving their hands in the air, and young men, a little worse for wear, with their arms wrapped around each other as they sang along with the music at the tops of their voices. It was, thought Hubert, unlike any wedding reception, Jamaican or English, he’d ever been to.

  “I don’t know about you,” said Ashleigh, “but I feel a bit like we’ve just landed on another planet!”

  Hubert opened his mouth to reply but then felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned around to see Emils. Divested of his blue-and-white uniform and wearing a smart leather jacket, crisp white shirt, and tight jeans, he looked like an off-duty Premier League football player.

  He embraced Hubert as if they were long-lost friends.

  “Mr. Hubert! I’m so glad you came! And you bring your lovely friend too!” He smiled in Ashleigh’s direction before bowing theatrically and kissing her hand. “Welcome to Latvian wedding. Mr. Hubert’s friend, you look very lovely indeed!”

  Hubert had never seen Ashleigh blush, nor had he witnessed her being lost for words and yet, thanks to Emils, she did both right in front of him.

  “That’s… that’s… very kind of you to say,” she said, once she’d finally managed to recover herself.

  “I only say what is true,” said Emils, and then he gave yet another bow for the benefit of Layla. “And this young lady must be the princess of the ball! You are very beautiful, your royal highness!”

  Layla’s eyes opened wide with delight and it was immediately clear that Emils had charmed her as much as, if not more than, her mother.

  “Now you are here,” said Emils, “I will get you to meet real live Latvians!”

  Without pausing, Emils began a whirlwind of introductions.

  “This is my close friend, Mr. Hubert; his beautiful neighbor, Ashleigh; and her daughter, Layla, who is an actual princess,” he said each time he managed to collar some passing stranger. “They are good people. And this is first time at Latvian wedding.”

  While everyone greeted them warmly, Hubert couldn’t help noting with dismay that they were all youngsters like Emils and Ashleigh. Thankfully, however, he was soon introduced to the bride’s great-uncle. He had short white hair and spoke heavily accented English and was, Hubert quickly discovered, a cricket fan too. But no sooner had Hubert struck up a conversation with him about the state of the current West Indian squad than the man’s wife interrupted them. “Janis,” she said excitedly, “come meet my second cousin Ingrida. I haven’t seen her since we both left the old country fifty years ago!” Before Hubert knew what was happening, Janis was whisked away, leaving Hubert alone.

  Conscious of the fact that as the only Black face in the room he was beginning to attract attention, Hubert scanned the crowd for Ashleigh and spotted her chatting happily at a table with Emils. When it came to matters of the heart, Hubert would never have claimed to be an expert—that had been more Joyce’s thing—but even so, he was pretty sure that Ashleigh was keen on Emils and suspected the feeling was mutual. Reluctant to play the third wheel, he briefly considered calling a taxi to take him home but reasoned that he might as well have a quick drink first and perhaps sample a plate of the tasty-looking food stacked up on tables along the edge of the room.

  There were three women working at the bar: a young girl with blue hair and several piercings, a middle-aged woman wearing a permanently doleful expression, and an older lady with softly waved white hair. As Hubert waited to be served he couldn’t help thinking that he recognized the eldest of the trio, but given how many people he’d chatted to over the past few weeks, he reasoned that this wasn’t much of a surprise.

  He was about to order a Guinness from the young girl with the piercings when the older lady suddenly intervened.

  “I’ll take this one, pet,” she said to her colleague. She smiled at Hubert. “Hello, stranger, I bet you don’t remember me.”

  Hubert racked his brains.

  “You work in the post office?”

  She shook her head and gave him a playful smile.

  “The dentist?”

  “Wrong again. But here’s a clue for you. How’s that lovely great-granddaughter of yours?”

  All at once, Hubert recalled both the woman and his lie.

  “You’re the lady from the park who spoke to me when me was out with Layla! Me thought me recognize you!”

  The woman smiled, clearly pleased that he remembered her, albeit with a little prompting.

  “The name’s Jan. What can I get for you, love?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Jan, me called Hubert, Hubert Bird. A Guinness would be nice.” He handed her a twenty-pound note from his wallet. “And make sure to have one for yourself.”

  As she brought his drink they got chatting and Hubert didn’t leave the bar for the rest of the night. While Jan served customers he sipped on his pint, and when there was a lull at the bar they chatted about their lives. Hubert learned that she was seventy-five and lived alone in a flat on the other side of town. She didn’t have much in the way of a hobby but she did like gardening, even if for her that meant just filling up the various pots and containers on her balcony with colorful plants and flowers.

  She’d been officially retired for the past fifteen years but had worked most of that time doing a few shifts a week at the club—less for the money, more for the company and a reason to get out of the house.

  “The days ain’t half long sometimes when you’re on your own,” she said. “There’s only so much cleaning and tidying you can do and you get sick of talking to yourself after a while. So working here has been a bit of a lifesaver, really.”

  In return, Hubert answered her questions and much to his surprise found himself telling her about growing up in Jamaica, moving to England, and of course about Joyce.

  “Me have a daughter, Rose,” he concluded, “she a professor of politics and lives in Australia. Oh… and me have a cat called Puss, who costs me a fortune in vet’s bills. And that is pretty much it.”

  “And what about that gorgeous great-granddaughter of yours?”

  Mortified, Hubert closed his eyes for a moment and decided he had to nip this in the bud straightaway.

  “About that… The day we chatted… well, the child me was looking after… she’
s… she’s not my great-grandchild exactly, she’s actually my neighbor’s little girl.”

  Jan laughed.

  “Well, I can’t say I didn’t have my suspicions, what with her blond hair and all!”

  “Me don’t know what me was thinking to say that sort of nonsense. Me didn’t mean to lie, it’s just that at the time it seemed easier than the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That the child’s mother was desperate and needed someone to look after her and me couldn’t say no. Me hope that doesn’t change your opinion of me.”

  Jan smiled.

  “You helped a neighbor in need. In my book that’s a good thing.” Jan disappeared for a moment to serve a customer but when she returned, her expression was thoughtful.

  “How do you fancy going out sometime? I’ve been meaning to go to that posh garden center—what’s it called again?—Ketner’s, that’s it. We could make a day of it, get some nice plants and then maybe have a spot of lunch?”

  Hubert was intrigued. Finally his efforts at being more open were paying off. Of course, he had imagined if his mission tonight was successful that his new friend would have been a man. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. After all, here was an actual pensioner offering a hand of friendship. Or had he got it wrong? Hubert wasn’t interested in romance. And he suddenly panicked that a single man chatting in the manner he had might have given the woman the wrong idea.

  “You mean… you mean… as friends, of course?”

  Jan cackled with laughter.

  “No, as lovers! Of course, as friends! It’s like I said to you earlier, I’m not interested in any of that funny business anymore. More hassle than it’s worth. I’m just suggesting a trip to a nice garden center out in the sticks, and maybe pie and chips in the café afterward. It’d break up the week nicely, would a jaunt like that.”

  “It does sound good,” said Hubert carefully. “And it would be nice to get a few more interesting plants for the garden.”

  “You needn’t look so worried!” teased Jan. “I’m done with romance, Hubert. All I need these days are my soaps, a good murder mystery to curl up with on a rainy day, and some quality company every now and again. So what do you say?”

  18

  THEN

  December 1961

  Between work and fatherhood, Hubert couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the Princess Club, let alone out on a Saturday night, but tonight was Gus’s birthday and he was here to celebrate big-time. Dressed as sharp as a razor and feeling positive about life, Hubert descended the familiar steps into the depths of the club and as he opened the doors was immediately hit by a thick fug of warm air smelling of sweat and tobacco smoke. They were playing his song of the moment, “Donna” by the Blues Busters, which he took as a good omen. Tonight was going to be one to remember.

  Ordering himself a Guinness at the bar, Hubert scanned the room looking for Gus and Lois. They’d been together over three years now, which was for Gus something of a record. Hubert guessed that with his friend now earning good money working on the underground and Lois having started her first teaching job, they would be tying the knot any day soon.

  Spotting a free table, Hubert sat down but was soon on his feet again, having finally caught sight of Gus.

  “Gus, man! Happy birthday to you!”

  Gus shook Hubert’s hand and gave him a half embrace.

  “Good to see you, Smiler, man. Where’s Joyce?”

  “She sends her apologies. Rose kept her up last night with a bad cold and she’s still not right, so Joyce didn’t want to leave her with the neighbors.” He scanned the room for Lois. “Where’s your lady? At the bar?”

  Gus shook his head, his expression ominous.

  “Let me get a drink… and I’ll tell you everything.”

  His friend disappeared off to the bar, returning minutes later with not only a Guinness for himself but also two shots of whiskey, one of which he slid across the table to Hubert.

  “To your good health!”

  Gus raised his glass and, encouraging Hubert to do the same, downed the contents in one go. Then, slamming his empty glass on the table, Gus said, “Now we can talk.”

  He told Hubert that he and Lois were no longer together and described how things had come to a head the night before.

  “Now she’s got this job, she’s thinking about next steps… and for her that means getting married.”

  “And what’s so wrong with that?”

  Gus kissed his teeth.

  “Smiler, you know me, I’m not the settling kind. I don’t like to be boxed in and it felt like everything Lois was doing was about building a great big box to keep me in.”

  Hubert sighed but said nothing. How long and how hard had his friend pursued this woman he’d called a goddess, only to cast her aside for some imagined idea of freedom? Gus had been happy with Lois, that was plain for anybody to see, and now here he was throwing it all away for nothing.

  “What,” said Gus after a while, “you not going to say anything? You not going to try and talk me out of it?”

  Hubert shook his head.

  “Gus, man, me friends with you long enough to know you’re going to do what you’re going to do regardless of what anybody has to say.”

  He picked up the Guinness he’d been sipping while listening to his friend retell the entire sorry episode and drained it in two gulps.

  “Now, it’s your birthday and me don’t want to upset you but you is a fool, fool man for letting that woman slip through your fingers.”

  He set down his empty glass.

  “You want another?”

  Gus chuckled. “Smiler, man, you vex like a bull on milking day! Get me a Guinness and another whiskey chaser; I think I’m going to need it.”

  For the rest of the evening the two men talked about Jamaican politics and the prospect of independence from the UK, Joyce’s thriving childminding business, the sacrifices involved in saving for a new home, and what they would do if they won fifty thousand pounds. The only subject they were both careful to avoid was Lois and the spectacular mess Hubert thought Gus was making of his life.

  Around midnight Hubert made his excuses and prepared to head home, just as Gus began making eyes at a beautiful girl across the room.

  “You sure you won’t stay, Smiler? She might have a friend.”

  “No, thank you. Me leave you to it.”

  Gus laughed.

  “Of course, unlike me you is a family man.”

  It had sounded more like a dig than a compliment but Hubert let it go. Aside from anything else, they’d both had a little too much to drink and couldn’t be held responsible for the words that left their lips. Gus’s comment, however, stayed with Hubert as he made his way through the late-night streets of Brixton back home to Joyce. Was being a family man really such a bad thing? Gus had spoken about it as if it was a trap, but Hubert didn’t feel trapped at all. He wondered if he was wrong in his thinking. Should he be longing for freedom like his friend? But as he put his key into the door of his lodgings and made his way past Rose’s pram and up the stairs to their room, he decided that Gus was talking a load of old—what was it that Joyce always said?—claptrap. He laughed to himself. That was right. Gus was talking claptrap!

  Making a mental note to tell Joyce about this moment in the morning, he opened the door quietly and was surprised to see their bed empty. Joyce was sitting in a chair by the fire, the glowing embers casting shadows across her face. Even in the dim light he could see that her cheeks were wet with tears. Panicking, he looked over to the cot in the corner of the room. Hubert had lost count of the times he read in the papers about young children dying from all manner of diseases.

  “Joyce, darling, what’s wrong? Is it Rose? Is she worse?”

  “She’s fine. She ate well and went to bed no problem.”

  The deadweight on his chest lifted.

  “Then what?”

  “It’s Mum… She’s… she’s passed away.
”

  Sobering up in an instant, Hubert knelt down in front of his wife and, taking her hands into his own, listened carefully as she told him what had happened. How, after Rose had fallen asleep exhausted, Joyce had climbed into bed only to be woken moments later by a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Cohen with a message that there was someone on the phone for her. Dressed only in her nightgown, Joyce had taken the call in Mrs. Cohen’s flat. It was her sister on the line calling with bad news: their mother had suffered a fatal heart attack.

  He held her tenderly.

  “Oh, Joyce! Me so sorry, darling, so sorry indeed. But at least it was quick and she didn’t suffer.”

  Joyce sobbed hard for a moment.

  “That’s exactly what Peggy said. And I’d take comfort from it but for the fact that it all happened a week ago. Can you believe it? Mum’s been dead a whole week and the only reason I know is because Peggy finally developed a backbone and told me, even though my brothers had warned her not to. Peggy said she thought it wasn’t right, that no matter what had happened she was my mum too.” More tears welled up in Joyce’s eyes. “The funeral notice went in the paper today. I think that’s why she told me. She was worried I’d see it. She said: ‘I still don’t agree with what you did but I couldn’t let you find out like that.’”

  “We’ll send flowers,” said Hubert. “Whatever the cost, we’ll send flowers, the biggest and the brightest and the best.”