The Last Thing Ever Lost by James Smyth

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Read by Peter Noble

It’s seven forty-four, which is fine because we said eight o’clock. I didn’t want to be late, but I didn’t want to be too early either. The pub is quiet, and I choose a secluded table in the corner. It has a rose in a jar on it, which I think is a nice touch. I order a half of bitter at the bar and take it back to my table.

 

There’s a group of three builders chatting to the barmaid, in their fluorescent vests and dirty blue trousers. One of them looks at me a bit strangely, but perhaps that’s just my imagination. I catch a little of their conversation as I’m waiting for my drink – it seems to revolve mainly around football. The barmaid, it seems to me, is only humouring them.

Elizabeth will be here soon. It’s seven fifty one. I’m nervous, but I think that it’s okay to be nervous. I realise that I’m drinking a little bit too fast – my half is almost halfway gone – so I make a conscious effort to slow down. Being drunk, or even a little bit tipsy, in front of Elizabeth would never do. It occurs to me that she will have made up her mind already, and that there’s very little I can do now to change things, but still. I have on my best clothes. I’ve had my hair cut. I even bought some fancy cologne from the chemist, which isn’t something I would normally do, but it’s a special day. Or at least, it could be a special day. It could be the best day there’s ever been.

I asked Elizabeth to marry me. Part of me thought I must be going mad. I’ve only known her for three weeks, and we’ve only been out twice. The first time was to the park, which is where we met, really, so I don’t suppose that counts. The second time was to the cinema. After the film we went for a coffee. We talked about the film, and then the conversation wandered onto other things. She asked about my family and I asked about hers. We discussed the places we’ve been. Elizabeth seems to be very well travelled – some of the countries she mentioned I hadn’t even heard of. I’ve been to Europe a few times, but nowhere very exotic. The wonderful thing was, though, was that she didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t think any less of me.

I realise I’ve finished my drink. The clock on the wall says five minutes past eight, but there’s every chance it could be a few minutes fast. And even if it’s not, I shouldn’t worry. Girls like to be fashionably late, or so I’ve heard. I get up and go to be bar for another drink. The first one doesn’t seem to have affected me at all, so I’m not too worried about overdoing it. One more drink won’t hurt. The builders are still at the bar, and they’re going through their beer a lot faster than I am. One of them flicks a peanut at me, and shouts something I don’t understand. I ignore them. There’s no used in getting annoyed. I should concentrate on Elizabeth, and what I’m going to say when she arrives. The barmaid brings my drink and I ask for a glass of white wine to go with it. I don’t even know if Elizabeth drinks white wine, but it will be nice to have something waiting for her, I think.

“Shall I keep it in the fridge for you?” asks the barmaid, when I explain the situation. “Keep it cold. In case she’s running late?”

“Very kind of you,” I say. I like the barmaid here. She has a nice smile.

We were outside the coffee shop when I proposed. It was raining a little and the street was damp, so I didn’t go down on one knee. I didn’t even have a ring. I just blurted it out, said what a wonderful time I’d had, and how it was really soon but she was such a lovely girl, and maybe sometimes you just know, and I think I may have babbled a bit, but I remember that she smiled. It was the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen. I kissed her hand, and she gave me a hug, and said she couldn’t give me answer there and then. But she said it in a nice way. She said it was a shock and she’d have to have time to think about it. I didn’t mind that she didn’t say yes straight away. I think I was just pleased that she didn’t say no. I said I’d see her tonight.

I must admit that I’ve never really understood how to talk to girls. I think that was what made Elizabeth so special. I was comfortable with her. Comfortable, and not afraid.

It’s nearly half past eight. I don’t know how late fashionably late is, but this seems to be overdoing it. I ought to be worried, perhaps. Maybe something’s happened. Some sort of accident. But I think this is a little morbid of me. I wonder if this gives some sort of hint about her answer, though. If it was a ‘yes’, you’d expect her to be on time, wouldn’t you? You’d expect her to be keen to tell me.

“Been stood up, Stan?” shouts over one of the builders. He has a fat red face and a thick neck, and I don’t know how he knows my name. I raise my glass towards him limply, because I don’t know what else to do. The builders mutter something among themselves and then roar with laughter. It’s a horrible sound.

“I’m just hoping there hasn’t been some sort of accident,” I say.

“Don’t you worry, love,” says the barmaid. “I’m sure she’s fine. We got the white wine in the fridge for her when she gets here.” She gives me the smile again.

“Thanks,” I say. “She’ll like that.”

Is it a strange thing to do to ask your first girlfriend to marry you? I hear a lot of men talk about playing the field, and sowing wild oats and all this kind of thing. I’m not really sure I understand it all. If you find someone nice, why keep looking? It doesn’t make any sense. You can’t always think that there’s something better around the corner, because then you just end up on your own, and nobody wants that. I found somebody nice. I found Elizabeth.

It’s nine o’clock when I go to the bar for my third drink. I’m not so worried about getting drunk now. I don’t think she’s coming.

“Don’t give up hope, Stan,” says the barmaid. “You said she’s a nice girl. If she said she’ll be here, she’ll be here. There are loads of reasons why women are late for things.”

“Yeah, but this is really pushing it,” puts in one of the builders with a snort. It’s only nine o’clock. Perhaps I should listen to the barmaid. An hour isn’t so bad. And just imagine that the answer’s yes. Just imagine that. That would be worth waiting an hour for. That would be worth waiting a lifetime for.

It’s a funny thing, love. People are always talking about it. Everyone seems to think they know what it means, and that’s why they can have all these conversations. To them it’s just like the state of the economy, or the football, or delays on the trains. But I don’t know what it means. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about it. All I know is that I have, somewhere close to the pit of my stomach, a small secret feeling that was never there before, and that I never want to go away. I don’t know if it’s love, but I know that it’s mine.

I’ve had five drinks by the time the last order bells rings. I feel a little tipsy. I go to the bar and offer to pay for the wine.

“Don’t be daft, Stan,” says the barmaid. “I’ll pour it back into the bottle. Don’t you worry.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if she’d said no,” I say. The barmaid is listening indulgently. “I just wanted to see her again.”

One of the builders lurches towards me and slings a heavy arm around my shoulder. He smells of sweat and lager and I try to squirm away.

“She not coming, mate” he says, slurring. “She didn’t come last night, and she didn’t come the night before.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say. “I wasn’t even here last night. I was with Elizabeth.”

I manage to shrug him off and he reels away, snorting.

“Yeah, whatever, mate. Old pisshead.”

The barmaid takes my hand. My fingers, in hers, look suddenly ancient, wizened. I feel tired, and old, and the coffee shop seems a terribly, terribly long time ago. Time’s a strange thing, isn’t it? Sometimes it can go so fast. I wonder, as I wrap my scarf around my neck, how long I’ll wait for Elizabeth. How long, after all, can you hold out hope?

“Are you going to be okay getting home?” says the barmaid, leading me to the door.

“I’ll be fine. I just wonder where she went. I wonder what happened.”

The barmaid’s eyes look very pretty in the soft light of the pub. She squeezes my hand.

“Don’t you worry, love. We’ll see you tomorrow?”

I don’t know what she means. I never want to come here again. I shrug on my overcoat and head out into the rain.

(c) James Smyth, 2013

James Smyth currently works in the City, doing a job so shamefully unBohemian it hardly seems appropriate to mention it here. He’s been writing for years, specialising mainly in unfinished short fiction and barely begun novels. Once he almost had a story published.

Peter Noble trained at LAMDA and the Royal Academy of Music. He is a regular narrator for RNIB Talking Books, and is in the middle of an MA in Creative Non-Fiction at UEA. He went to 18 schools in seven countries, on four continents, so there’s a lot to write about.