You do the Maths

I’m 43
I’m 47
They’re calling 35
There’s 3 on the bench
Waiting
I’m leaning on salt
Wondering why I stopped my car for a jumper that was lying flat on the road today
And if it’s possible to be exhausted by love
And whether that man knows there’s a number system here

I didn’t realise that you became anxious about things like this. But when I suggested we go for a quick pint while we were waiting you let it slip. What if they call our number and we don’t hear? Number system anxiety. Even though we were well into our forties and they were only calling 30 you never knew. It could be a big order of say 20 cod and chips before us or it could be just one. It was a numbers game. It was windy. The voices were carried off by it. What would they do if someone didn’t answer or come for their order? How long would they give you? Would they put you at the back of the queue? Would everybody get angry if they didn’t? Would you have to get shirty? Would everybody else get shirty? Would the seagulls attack us while we ate. Sorry – that was my fear not yours. Yours was the number thing. The little white notelets thing. I tried to ease the tension. Perhaps you should get some for the pub? Perhaps they sold them in Paperchase or Pub stationery world. It was better than those wooden spoons with felt tip you had. They got lost or left and had to be held up and the felt tip got smudged. Whichever way you looked at it it made sense. Unless there were more than a hundred customers and you had to start another pad. Then you might get into a two number 32 situation or what have you. My new phrase. Or what have you. As opposed to you do the maths. Which I was apparently doing anyway on a day to day basis as a matter of course.

There’s something about being with somebody who is more anxious than yourself. Like watching Woody Allen. It’s cathartic. It’s not empathetic because they take on the worry for you. You don’t feel it with them. Whoever they are, were or what have you it made me love you even more. To see a grown man so fearful made me feel as free as a bird.

We must have been a dream order for the people ahead of us. Mr and Mrs No. 48.

Or perhaps we were their nightmare.

Perhaps one of them had persuaded the other one to go to the pub and take a chance not thinking that we might only have one cod and chips between us and number 48 would be thrown into the wind and lost forever. Perhaps I was empathising too much.

We sat on a large piece of wood. Between a car and the harbour edge. The birds started to gather but they couldn’t get a look in. The batter was good on the fish we were sharing. The chips were tasty too. I thought you didn’t like vinegar but you did. You didn’t mind the ketchup either. That’s right it was mustard you didn’t like wasn’t it?
But it was all a miracle. Without the loaves.

And there were a few chips left. You shook your head. They were mine.

Back on the ferry the man was rowing with such practice. I guessed that after the fiftieth turn across the water he had his strokes down to tee. Counting. One over there. Two, three to the curve and more if the current was bad, then across. I noticed he went with just 2 people on board after he’d dropped us off. To keep it regular I guess.

Now I knew about your number problem thing I felt free to tell you how I’d felt
when we were crossing over before. When I had worried about what would happen if we were the last ones to get on but they only had enough spaces for one. It turned out you’d been worried as well. But you hadn’t let on. We hadn’t let on that we were worried we’d not be let on.

Back in the pub we were people watching. A woman came in with a flamboyant blonde hairstyle. About 70. I’d love to look like that in 30 years. She was with a girl who looked like she was wondering how interesting she was looking. I think they were related. A man came in. He was Roger from London and he’d rung earlier. The sensible landlady rolled her eyes at us slightly and attended to him. He was fit and short but kind of thick in the middle with a big head and mane of dark curls. A Neanderthal rock star. His consort looked like she’d come from hanging around back stage. And I was with you. Both of us looking like we weren’t wondering anything. Half full of cod and chips.

On the way back to the car park we passed an ice-cream van. You absentmindedly asked me if I wanted one. I said no thanks. You said you’d only offered because you were so used to being with your daughters. And I made a joke about oh that’s why you bought me this balloon then. Sometimes I do that. Make jokes where I pretend conversation and think that everyone gets it. But sometimes they don’t and they think I’m really talking.

When I stopped my car in the road I must have been thinking about something else. Having a jokey conversation inside my head perhaps as usual. Imagining the laughter and the puzzled looks. Thinking about salt and water and gulls and fear and hairstyles and people rowing boats across the water to a numbered system.

It must have only been a few seconds. Like I was waiting for this jumper to move. Or was too scared to do it further damage. It had been so pummelled by other cars and looked so dirty and pathetic. Knitwear roadkill. Flattened and disarranged. A garment once worn but not realising it’s days had been numbered. Ha ha. I moved on, remembering that I was alone.