"Answer Me"

A cold, steady rain falls over South Street, turning the pavements dark and slick. The lamps glow in the wet and the buses hiss as they pull in, spraying water over the kerb. People walk quickly; collars up, scarves tight, breath showing in the air.

George sits at a corner table nursing a mug of tea and watches their blurred figures through the café’s steamed up window. The air inside is thick with the smell of tea, damp coats and frying onions. A wireless on a shelf behind the counter plays the Light Programme at low volume.

He works at the Eastern Electricity Board, just a few doors away. It’s a steady job and he considers himself a man of steady habits, but this evening he looks as if he hasn’t slept and he keeps glancing anxiously at the door.

The bell rings. Irma sweeps in, accompanied by a gust of cold air. Her coat is buttoned up to the neck; her hair pinned neatly despite the rain. She hesitates when she sees him, then strides over.

“You wanted to talk,” she says, sitting opposite him without removing her gloves.

George nods. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m not staying long,” she says. “Mum’s expecting me.”

He nods again, staring at his tea. “Right.”

The wireless drifts on, David Whitfield’s voice soft under the café noise: “You don’t answer me…”

Irma’s jaw tightens. “I wish they’d turn that off,” she mutters, too quiet for anyone to hear.

George clears his throat. “I wrote you.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t write back.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

He looks up at her and struggles to meet her eyes. “You could’ve said something.”

She removes her gloves slowly, smoothing the fingers flat. “George… we’ve been over this.”

“No,” he says quietly. “You said you needed time. That’s not the same.”

Irma looks out at the rain-blurred street. “I needed space.”

“That’s not the same either.”

She sighs. “You don’t make things easy.”

“I’m not trying to make things hard.”

“You don’t talk,” she says. “Not about anything that matters.”

George looks down at his mug. “I talk.”

“Not to me.”

He doesn’t have an answer.

A group of lads come in from the rain, stamping their feet, shaking off their coats. The door bangs shut. Whitfield’s voice swells again from the wireless:

Irma winces. “Everywhere you go, that song.”

George says, “I thought you liked him.”

“I did,” she says. “Before.”

He watches her. “Irma… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“That’s the problem,” she says. “You never do.”

He grips the edge of the table. “I want you back.”

She closes her eyes briefly. “George…”

“I do,” he says. “I know I’m not… easy. I know I don’t say things right. But I thought we were all right.”

“We were,” she says softly. “For a while.”

“What changed?”

She hesitates. “I want a life, George. Not just… waiting.”

“I’m not asking you to wait.”

“You’re not asking me anything.”

He looks away, jaw tight. Outside, a bus rumbles past, its lights smearing across the wet glass. The rain drums softly on the café’s awning.

Irma stands, pulling on her gloves. “I should go.”

George rises too quickly, knocking the table. His tea sloshes. “Irma...”

She steps back. “Don’t make a scene.”

He lowers his voice. “Just tell me… is it no?”

She looks at him for a long moment, the café noise seeming to fade around them.

“I don’t know,” she says at last.

He swallows. “Will you tell me? When you do?”

She nods once. “If I can.”

She turns and walks out into the rain, coat pulled tight around her throat, head down. The bell above the door jingles, then falls silent.

George stands there, staring at the empty space she left behind. The wireless plays on, Whitfield’s voice drifting through the steam and clatter. He sits back down slowly, hands clasped, looking at his murky reflection in the spilled tea.

Outside, the rain keeps falling, steady and cold, washing the lights of South Street into long, blurred streaks.