Most days Ed’s the only person who speaks to me. Ed’s the bloke who serves food and drink from his mobile catering van from early in the morning until eight at night. If he’s serving someone else I wait under the shelter of the yew tree, until they’ve moved on.
Ed usually pretends he hasn’t seen me, not straight away anyway – I think he doesn’t want me to get into a habit of expecting something from him every evening, but despite this we’ve got into a kind of ritual.
“Here” he’ll grunt, and hold out a polystyrene cup. Neither of us smiles. I load three spoons of sugar into the drink; he shakes his head and points to the bench a short walk up the hill which overlooks the town. As I turn away he usually tosses a bread roll wrapped in cling film into the air. I don’t make any attempt to catch it in case I spill my tea. I always hope it's cheese – tuna or egg makes the bread soggy after being sat on Ed’s counter all day. With my left foot, I stop it rolling into the gutter; I stick my thumb up in the air, pick it up and put it in my pocket. As the cathedral clock strikes eight Ed scrapes down his metal shutter and seconds later starts up the van. Sometimes I think I should say something to him - like tell him his exhaust needs fixing. It gets noisier by the day, but I guess he doesn’t need me to tell him that.
I make my way up the hill and Ed and his dilapidated vehicle chug past winking an indicator to turn right towards Dunnock village – except Dunnock’s no village; it’s a council estate on the edge of town.
Walking’s painful; the toes on my right foot remain swollen and cramp into my boot. I daren’t take it off though; I haven’t even loosened the laces for weeks. Sometimes I wonder where Ed takes off his shoes – if he’s got someone to say goodnight to – and Sundays – his van isn’t there on Sundays.
I settle on the bench and sip Ed’s tea; it’s so sweet it sticks to my teeth. Yesterday I was round the back of Debenhams looking for some dry cardboard when I found an opened can of lager. I was so thirsty for the kick of a ‘real’ drink, I poured it straight into my mouth, but it wasn’t lager at all, someone had pissed into the can. It made me spew into the gutter. But Ed’s tea is superb; it seeps into the lining of my gullet and stomach like sunshine.
On clear evenings I fancy I can make out Woodside Drive, number twenty-six. Maisie would fill the dishwasher about eight and Nina would loll on the stairs, twiddling her hair, making arrangements over the phone for a night out on the town. I can almost hear their voices in the drone of distant traffic.
It was their faces after the accident. The two of them sat at my bedside bored out of
their minds, willing me to move, to say something. They couldn’t keep my job open Maisie said – I was redundant – on the scrap-heap. She kept saying I was a fool; I should have taken out accident insurance. The day I discharged myself I just kept walking – it was that easy.
It’s easy to blend in with the street too, in a threadbare overcoat with torn cuffs, and boots whose left sole has worked loose from its upper. People are more interested in the newly opened tapas bar on the High Street, or the furniture shop’s eye catching display of leather sofas lined up behind glass.
At first I would keep away from the town centre, but no-one would recognise me now, with an untrimmed beard and long grey hair. I certainly don’t miss the suit, the tie, the office. But I miss sinking into my armchair, the scent of Maisie after a bath.
It’s been too cold to have a proper wash, but every morning just after the toilets are opened in Bridge Street, I get chance to splash my face. Last week I found a pound coin on the floor glinting like a gold medal. I kept it for a whole morning, feeling the Queen’s face until it struck me I know her profile better than my own. Nina has my nose though. I always admired how she gave up sugar in her tea when she became a teenager. She’ll graduate this summer. She’s a bright girl – she’ll have got a student loan – she won’t have given up. As I remember the ceremony is at the cathedral. I’m going to stand tucked behind the refectory wall every day in June and wait to catch sight of her in her cap and gown.
They’ll have moved by now; Maisie couldn’t afford the mortgage on her own. She’d have bought somewhere smaller with perhaps two bedrooms instead of five. I always found it strange Maisie doesn’t make tea; she never liked it. She prefers cold drinks. By eight o’clock she’s usually on her fourth vodka and tonic, adding a slice of lemon and ice.
Ed’s different - he notices people. I reckon he can anticipate whether you’re a coffee drinker or a tea drinker within ten yards of his van. One day I’d like to drive away. Leave behind some old fool with a limp, who’s never tasted tapas, sipping a cup of sweet tea – shivering as the sun sets.
When my gloves had fingers it was easier to grip the polystyrene beaker. Now ecstasy is no more than a fleeting moment, found in a clear spring evening as the silhouettes of the gold-stoned steeple, Dunnock Estate and the hospital chimney dissolve into an orange sky. If only Ed’s tea came in a bottomless cup.
They meet every day. One of them barely notices, but for the other it's a link to a lost life.