Fox on the Hill

It was a rather grim affair, my half-brother’s birthday. A Wetherspoons, Fox on the Hill, South London. We arrived forty minutes late and were still the first there. Someone lay, collapsed on the floor by one of the entrances, possibly an early morning drinker. Emergency services took as long to appear as the rest of the party.

Soon we were all together among the locals. Fake-lipped Puffa jacket women with glistening botoxed faces. Teens in Adidas leggings and oversized caps. Singles nursing Strongbows. A dad slicing his kid’s burger into nervous, thumb-sized pieces. A KP disappearing under a rising mountain of plates. People for whom this was a treat. Unlimited refills and oily chips.

We ordered greasy beige from the enormous menu and reached for cheer. Poor jokes. Mine included.

I spotted a man I still call my best friend hovering by the entrance. I stepped forward, arms open. He went for a handshake. I leaned in for a hug. We collided. Then he tried a kiss on the cheek. I flinched. We both laughed too loud. Nothing happened. Everything did.

His wife mentioned the chaos of editing Prince Andrew coverage. I tried a joke about him having to relinquish his most prized title, "Randy Andy". Groans. Back into our boxes.

Under all of it, guilt hummed.

He reminds me of who I was, my friend. We used to get drunk, spectacularly. Now we are both five years sober. He still writes and performs. I only write. I want him to succeed. I also feel like I left the race early and never quite stopped looking over my shoulder.

He lost both parents last year. Devout father. Silent mother. Love that sneaked around corners. He was relieved and then destroyed. I offered comfort, kept misstepping, and eventually went quiet. Seeing him here fills me with warmth I do not know how to hold.

I look at my mum and feel another guilt. She is shrinking. Deaf. Forgetful. I picture what is coming and hate myself for picturing it. I want to be the son she raised. I also want to run.

France suits me. Distance suits me. Yet everyone here seems to ask the same unspoken question. What could be better than us? I ask it too.

The birthday song began. Off key. Then the Polish version, Sto Lat. The pub fell silent. A stranger asked what that beautiful song was. For a moment, we were proud to be this peculiar mix of people.

Chocolate eclairs were then served, still in their plastic, three to a pack, in place of a cake. Probably Sainsbury’s.

Our parking was about to expire. A blessing disguised as a ticket.

The drive home took ninety minutes. I sat beside my mum, repeating every scrap of conversation so she would not feel left out. She did not hear her own flatulence, so I behaved as though no one else could either. Window down. Cold air. My hand, resting near hers.

She asked to detour past our old house in Camberwell. She could not remember the way. Roads we knew by heart had unravelled into dead ends and bus lanes.

We dropped her home. She waved us off. We returned to our quiet flat, mint tea and silence, relieved and heavy in equal measure.