"Answer Me"

A cold fog has settled over Chadwell Heath High Road, softening the lamps and making the air taste of coal smoke. Buses appear and vanish like ghosts. Pavements shine with damp.

Inside The Greyhound, the lounge bar is warm and dim, its windows steamed. It offers a quieter haven than the public bar, with its patterned carpet and polished tables, where a few couples linger and two older women share a sherry.

From a wireless behind the bar tuned to the Light Programme, Frankie Laine’s voice drifts through the low murmur: “Answer me… oh my love…”

Jane sits a small table near the door with a small port-and-lemon untouched in front of her, She keeps her coat buttoned up and back straight, trying to look as if she’s just stepped in out of the fog to warm up, not to linger.

The door opens. Archie enters with a swirl of cold air, his cap damp and scarf tied crookedly. He spots Joan immediately and flops down into the seat opposite.

“You’re early,” he says, blowing on his fingers.

“You’re late.”

“Bus was crawling. Fog’s thick as the proverbial.”

She nods, eyes on the bubbles in her drink.

Archie studies her. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

She shrugs. “Long day.”

“At the Co‑op?”

“People want everything done before Christmas.”

He waits. She doesn’t go on. The wireless fills the silence and Jane’s fingers tighten around her glass.

Archie notices. “You hate this song.”

“It’s everywhere,” she says. “You can’t get away from it.”

He watches her for a moment. “Mum said you’ve been quiet.”

“Mum says a lot.”

“You’ve not been round.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Archie leans back. “With what?”

She doesn’t answer. A couple in the corner laugh softly. Someone in the public bar shouts over a dart score. The fog presses against the windows, making the lounge feel smaller and warmer, but also more enclosed.

Archie lowers his voice. “Is it him?”

Jane purses her lips. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You haven’t talked about anything for weeks.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

Archie waits. He’s good at waiting; he’s been doing it all his life.

Finally she says, “He’s gone.”

Archie nods slowly. “Right.”

“He didn’t say goodbye.”

“Men don’t,” Archie says. “Not properly.”

She gives a small, humourless laugh. “You do.”

“Well, I’m your brother. That’s different.”

She looks away, eyes shining in the dim light. “I thought he’d… I don’t know. Try.”

Archie says nothing. The wireless drones on obliviously, Frankie Laine’s voice rising to belt out the climactic lines.

Jane closes her eyes briefly.

Archie says, “You want me to go round there?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “All right.”

She takes a small sip of her drink, hands trembling slightly.

Archie says, “You’re not daft, Jane. You saw what you saw.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t see anything. That’s the trouble.”

He studies her. “You think there’s someone else?”

She doesn’t answer. The fog outside thickens, turning the pub windows into blank grey squares.

Archie says, quietly, “You want him back?”

She hesitates. “I want… an answer.”

He nods. “You might not get one.”

“I know.”

They sit in silence, the lounge bar’s soft noise rising and falling around them.

After a moment, Archie says, “You can stay at ours tonight. Mum’ll be pleased.”

Jane shakes her head. “No. I’ll go home.”

“You shouldn’t be walking in this fog.”

“I’ll be all right.”

He watches her, weighing whether to argue. He decides not to.

She stands, pulling on her gloves. “Thanks for coming.”

“You hardly touched your drink.”

“Didn’t want it.”

He stands too. “I’ll walk you to the bus.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

They step out into the fog, its cold embrace closing around them. The lamps glow in soft halos. Their breath hangs in the air for the briefest of moments before being absorbed.

Jane looks straight ahead. Archie walks beside her, hands in his pockets, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say.