Occasionally, a notification from my Scrabble app would distract me and bring a smile to my face. EMBRACE, Archie spelled, even though he could have got a higher score with CAMBER, putting the R on a triple letter square. The word sent a little shiver down my spine as I remembered his arms around me, the feather-light brush of his lips against my skin. I sorted through my own letters in my head. LUST, TUSH, HURL, HURTS, CURST. But I played CRUSH, thinking as I tapped my screen to confirm the word, This is a terrible idea. Isn’t it?
But Archie replied with a smiling emoji, and on his next turn he played EROS. Blushing like I’d been caught doing something shameful, I tucked my phone away in my bag.
Meanwhile, Zoë was rushed off her feet with a hectic schedule of Christmas parties. Joe was working punishingly long hours preparing Wesley’s appeal as well as dealing with his normal caseload, and Shirley kept saying she had no idea why we thought any of this was a good idea; her lumbago was killing her and anyone could see that running a pub was a mug’s game.
The only one of us who seemed to be living his best life was Drew, who was consumed with planning the poetry evening. Every day he’d chirpily update me on the numbers who’d booked.
‘That’s forty-five who’ve confirmed and bought tickets, Alice! Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of free money! And they’ll buy food and drink on the night, too. It’s turning into a nice little earner. If we make it a monthly thing it’ll grow, too – you watch.’
I didn’t want to piss on his chips by pointing out that two hundred and twenty-five quid, while obviously a whole lot better than nothing, would go precisely nowhere to solving the Nag’s Head’s ongoing financial woes. Nor that in a month or so’s time we wouldn’t actually have a pub in which to hold poetry nights, however successful the first one turned out to be.
I managed to sneak into town to meet Heather for lunch, but it was even more rushed than usual, because she was working sixteen-hour days on the initial public offering of shares in a tech start-up.
‘It sounds dodgy as all fuck, if I’m honest,’ she said, devouring her tuna sandwich as if it was the first square meal she’d had in days, which it might well have been. ‘You know what these companies are like – all smoke and mirrors, crazy money valuations, and then it all goes tits up.’
‘Do you reckon this one will?’
‘Who knows. But for now it’s all set to go ahead, and while that’s the status I’m basically chained to my desk. I can’t think straight; when I close my eyes at night all I see is clauses and sub-clauses. I even deleted Tinder because if I went on a date with anyone I’d end up falling asleep in my beer.’
‘But you’ll be able to come on Saturday, right? To the poetry night?’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. This should be mostly wrapped up by then, anyway. Three more days of craziness and then I can sleep for fourteen hours straight and then I’ll be back to normal. Don’t worry, Alice, I’ll be there.’
We hugged each other goodbye and she hurried off back to her office. I couldn’t help noticing the weary slump of her shoulders and the red rims round her eyes, and I worried about her. But she’d cope – she always did. I had to believe that, so I went back to worrying about all the other things that were jostling for position on my brain.
The way much-anticipated events do – whether it’s Christmas when you’re a little kid or an exam you haven’t prepared for properly when you’re a student – the poetry night seemed like ages away, until suddenly it wasn’t.
The day began like a normal Saturday, except Drew was fussing about in a way that was entirely different to his usual casualness. He counted chairs, he replaced the posters in the windows that said, ‘Poetry night this Saturday’ with ones that said, ‘Poetry night tonight’. He fielded questions on social media and found a website that would draw the poets’ names out of a digital hat to decide the running order. He looked over and over again at Princess Diana hanging over the fireplace, but clearly thought better of asking if it could be removed.
‘They’ll think it’s ironic. Of course they will,’ I heard him mutter to himself.
I imagined her replying, with a glint in her eye, ‘I’ll show you who’s ironic, young man.’
He asked Zoë so many times whether there’d be enough vegan bean burgers – the overlap between poets and plant-based eaters being a massive thing, apparently – until she came storming out of the kitchen and said, only half-jokingly, that if I didn’t get that bloody brother of mine out of her hair she’d hand in her notice and leave, thanks.
At last it was five o’clock, the pub was relatively quiet and the event wasn’t due to kick off for another hour and a half, so I said, ‘I thought I might pop home and shower and change, if that’s okay?’
‘What?’ Drew said. ‘But I was going to pop home and shower and change.’
‘Both of you go, right now,’ Shirley said. ‘Honestly, you’ve been wearing me down to my last nerve all day with your mithering. I could do with a bit of peace and quiet before all this nonsense gets started. Go!’
So Drew crossed the road to the old Star and Garter, and I went the other way, passing Archie’s shop on my way to our road. He was behind the counter; I gave him a quick wave and gestured to my watch, and he replied with a thumbs-up. Great – that was one more person who could be relied upon to turn up.
At home, I quickly washed and dried my hair, did my make-up and changed into a black velvet maxi dress that I’d bought for a Halloween party a couple of years back and not worn since. Joe was slumped on the sofa, simultaneously reading case law on his laptop and watching the football.
I waited for him to look up when I came in and say ‘Phwoar!’ like he usually did when I’d got ready to go out, but he didn’t.
‘Does this look okay?’ I asked. ‘I thought it was kind of bohemian but I think it might be too much.’
He looked up. ‘You look like an arty witch.’
‘Is that good?’
He shrugged.
‘You are coming, aren’t you? Tonight?’
‘Not sure. I’ve got work to do, and Azerbaijan are playing Cyprus later.’
‘But…’ But there was no point arguing with him, or begging him to come. I just blew him a kiss and hurried out.
The pub was already filling up when I got back. Shirley and Kelly were working so quickly behind the bar that their hands were almost a blur. Freddie was hurrying from table to serving hatch and back again with laden trays. Drew was working the room, introducing himself to people, handing out flyers, establishing who wanted to have a go at the mic and checking that their names were in the digital draw. Judging by the smells coming from the kitchen and plates of food being delivered to tables, Zoë was being kept busy too.
At six thirty exactly, Drew switched on the mic and spoke into the roar of voices.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ The noise abated slightly. ‘Good evening. I’m Drew Carlisle and I’m delighted to welcome you all to the Nag’s Head’s inaugural open-mic poetry evening. First of all, a few house rules…’
He explained about the four-minute time limit, the need to be respectful to the poets, the prize for the winner, and all the rest.
Then he said, ‘As you know, we’re doing a draw for the order. When your name is called, please come straight up and I’ll start the timer for you. Now, kicking off an occasion like this is not for the faint-hearted, so we’re fortunate to have a volunteer to be first at the mic. Please give a very warm welcome to our lovely landlady, Shirley Pearce.’
There was a burst of applause. As it ended, Shirley stepped up and took the mic. Taking her special guest appearance seriously, she’d deserted her post at the bar earlier to get a voluminous blow-dry, have her eyelash extensions topped up and change into a sequinned scarlet dress. It was like Oprah had taken the stage. I saw Heather push open the door and hesitate there for a second. I waved, and she looked relieved and came over to join me at the bar.
‘Blimey, what a c
rowd,’ she whispered.
‘Good, isn’t it?’
I looked around at the people packed around tables, standing against the walls, even perched on the stairs, contravening all the health and safety regulations. There was rather a lot of blue hair, beards and hats in evidence – not exactly the Nag’s Head’s regular clientele. I was pretty sure the last time someone turned up at the pub in a flat cap, they hadn’t been wearing it ironically.
Shirley cleared her throat and the room fell silent.
‘This is called “People’s Princess”,’ she said, and cleared her throat again:
‘England’s rose, our Queen of Hearts
Remembering you makes my eyes smart.
Taken from us so young and true
Closed forever, your eyes so blue.’
Heather and I caught each other’s eyes and I could see she was trying not to laugh. I didn’t know much about poetry, to be fair, but even I could tell that Shirley would do better to stick to her day job. Mawkish and sentimental, her tribute to Princess Diana carried on for another four verses, sometimes rhyming, sometimes not. I couldn’t even look at Heather.
But the respectful attention Drew had requested was provided, and when Shirley eventually finished, there was a warm round of applause and even a few whoops of appreciation.
‘Not such a tough crowd as I’d have expected,’ Heather said.
‘She’s the landlady, and she went first. They’re being kind, I reckon.’
‘Thank you, Shirl, for that moving and heartfelt work,’ Drew said, without the faintest hint of sarcasm.
Next to me, I heard a little gasp from Heather. ‘Who the actual fuck is that?’
‘The landlady, Shirley, like I said.’
‘Not her! That man. He’s off the scale.’
‘That’s my big brother, Drew.’
‘Your what? Seriously, Alice, you’ve had the most drop-dead gorgeous man on the planet sharing your DNA for twenty-seven years and you never told me?’
‘I’ve had twenty-seven years to get used to him,’ I said.
‘You’ve got to introduce me. Promise you will?’
‘Promise.’ Drew and Heather, I thought. I’ve never been much of a matchmaker, but they didn’t strike me as obvious couple material. But what did I know? Opposites attract, apparently.
‘And now for the first name out of the draw,’ Drew was saying, tapping his phone. Heather watched him, wide-eyed and admiring. ‘Leila Jones. Leila, please come up and take the mic.’
A girl with dyed silver hair, wearing ripped jeans and an embroidered linen blouse, came up and took the mic. Drew smiled at her, and next to me I felt Heather tense, like a precious prize might be about to be snatched from her.
‘Should I write a poem quickly?’ she hissed. ‘Try and impress him?’
‘Who are you and what have you done with my friend? That’s crazy talk.’
‘I guess.’
Leila Jones took the mic and launched into a piece of what she said was performance poetry. Bits of it were recited, bits were sung and at one point she lay on the floor and writhed around a bit. As far as I could tell, it was all to do with the live export of animals for meat, but it all went a bit over my head and it rhymed even less than Shirley’s effort had done. Still, she also received a warm round of applause.
Then a heavily tattooed bloke came up and recited a poem called ‘Hurting Time’, which seemed to be all about how he was still bitter five years after being dumped by a girlfriend (‘I’ve moved on to a better sitch, but you are still a mardy bitch/Now that I’m getting all the sex, I bet you’re sorry I’m your ex’). A girl with a shaved head was next and did something about a bird in a cage, which I figured was a metaphor for her brilliant artistic soul withering while she worked in admin for an insurance company.
Then Drew said, ‘Last to go before we take a ten-minute break, and it’s…’ He tapped his phone. ‘Oh my God, it’s me.’
There was a ripple of laughter around the room and a smattering of applause.
‘What if he’s shit?’ Heather whispered.
‘Then you can uncrush on him just as quickly as you started crushing.’
But Drew wasn’t shit. His poem was about populism, about the alt-right and Brexit and the forces that drew people to political causes, and it was furious, sad and also hilarious. His comic timing was on point; he waited just long enough for each burst of laughter to die down before carrying on, throwing in bits of impersonation and even mime.
When he finished, the room erupted with applause, and I could see that Heather, next to me, was lost. As soon as he put the mic down she hurried over with two drinks, joining the throng of people around him, and soon they were talking and laughing together.
I flung myself into work, serving drinks and clearing tables during the break, then watched the next set of poetry alone. As far as I could tell, some were good, some were awful, and most were somewhere in between. But the atmosphere stayed cordial and supportive, and even the most dire poems were greeted with applause.
Drew was in his element, keeping up a strong stream of patter, making the audience laugh, smiling his radiant smile, the blue laser beam of his gaze raking the room, and Heather couldn’t take her eyes off him. I could see Maurice and his friends at their usual table, but there was no dominoes game; they were entirely focused on the action at the mic. In another corner, Archie was chatting to a few people I didn’t know – regular customers from his shop, maybe – but Nat wasn’t in their group.
Two more sets of poetry followed, and at last Drew said, ‘Right, we’re down to our last name, everyone.’
There was a chorus of ‘awwws’ from the audience.
‘Maurice Higgins,’ Drew read from his phone.
There was a pause. I saw Sadiq give Maurice’s shoulder a squeeze, and he stood up, his expression serious but not betraying any nervousness. Slowly, he made his way through the crowds towards the mic. I could see a little line of perspiration snaking down his jaw.
When he took the mic from Drew, the page of lined paper in his hand was trembling slightly, and I realised he was absolutely terrified.
‘This is…’ He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘This is called “Words for Wesley”.’
The silence in the room seemed to grow deeper, as if everyone was just as afraid that Maurice was going to mess it up as he was. This elderly man in his suit and hat, so different from everyone else who’d come up to the mic, the last to go – if he was terrible, it would be a real buzz-killer, I sensed them thinking.
‘We loved in darkness,’ Maurice began. ‘In the arms of the friendly night.’
His poem wasn’t long, but it was beautiful. It was about desire and loss, secrecy and shame. It was a love poem and a coming-out poem. I felt tears pricking my eyes as he read, and I could see lots of other people in the pub were crying too, or trying not to. When he finished, the applause was rapturous.
To my surprise, no one seemed to want to leave. More and more drinks and food were ordered, groups formed and re-formed. Everyone wanted to talk to Maurice, so I didn’t get a chance to do much more than give him a hug and tell him he’d been amazing.
There was no time for me to take a break or mingle until almost ten, when the crowd at last started to thin. Zoë closed the kitchen and headed for home, knackered but triumphant. Heather came over to say goodbye, pulling me into a huge hug and saying she’d call me very soon. I couldn’t help noticing that she and Drew left together, and I was fairly sure that they were going to go across the road to Drew’s flat together.
And at last, I felt able to take a break, go for the wee I desperately needed and find a glass of wine. But Archie found me first.
‘Hey, Alice. What an incredible evening. You must be pretty pleased with yourself.’
‘I am. But not as pleased as I’ll be when I’ve finished this drink. I’m roasting hot as well.’
It was true; I realised that my velvet dress was sticking to my back and my
face felt like it was on fire.
‘Want to come outside for a second?’
Suddenly, the idea of the cold, damp night air seemed like the best thing ever. I grabbed my bag and pushed open the door and we walked out into the street, quickly and purposefully, away from the groups of smokers outside the pub, the people chatting as they left the Italian restaurant, the little huddle in the bus shelter.
Archie turned down a side street and I followed him, my heart starting to beat harder in my chest.
‘Alice, I… I need to talk to you.’
Abruptly, he stopped and turned to face me. The cold had been welcome at first, but now I was starting to shiver.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘This is awkward as fuck, so I’m just going to come out and say it. You know that photo I took of us in the park that day?’
I nodded.
‘Nat found it on my phone.’
‘Your girlfriend? Shit. I’m sorry about that. Is she okay?’
It was just a photo. Just a photo of two friends out for a walk together. But it was also more than that. The cold seemed to seep from the night to a place deep inside me.
‘She freaked out a bit. She remembered you coming to the shop that day, when she was there, and she said you’d seemed weird with her. I told her nothing had happened and she didn’t need to worry.’
‘Okay.’
‘But then I realised, actually, she does need to worry. I need to worry. This – it’s more than just a bit of Scrabble and banter between mates. Isn’t it?’
I wrapped my arms around myself, looking down at my feet. Then I made myself look up at him.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Alice, this feels dangerous. I don’t know what’s going on with you and your bloke, but I love Nat. We’re good together. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardise that, and I think I – we – have been.’
Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy Page 25
