Maybe Tomorrow

He listens to them talking, wonders when they might see him. Clears his throat, ‘It must be true; at my age I seem to have become invisible. Tea please, when one of you has a moment.’ The two young women look at him. ‘Without sugar.’ A cup is filled, tea slopping into the saucer. ‘Better take a paper napkin.’ The cup is pushed towards him spilling more tea. ‘Better take a couple more.’

‘One pound twenty.’
‘Thanks, and I’d like my tea topped up please.’

Coins drop onto the counter. The girls look at the money, at him. He smiles, picks up his tea, turns and walks towards the window table with a view onto the promenade. In the background the wheeze and sputter of a coffee machine softens the girl’s voices, their harsh laughter.
The cafe feels neglected; paint flaking from the window frame, putty cracking. He runs a finger round the rim of the chipped saucer, notes remnants of food scattered across the floor, and under tables.
He takes a creased envelope from his jacket pocket. Reads the letter again.
The cup is placed on the counter,  ‘The tea’s a bit chewy. It might be a good idea to add new tea bags to freshly boiling water. Make a fresh pot.’

He steps out into sunshine breaking through clouds. By the Clock Tower a cluster of gulls swoop and dive to catch chips thrown by a young man. A woman takes photographs. He watches, smiles, seeing time slip away.
At the end of the promenade the shelter overlooking the beach is empty. It takes a little while to find the initials carved into one of the wooden walls. Through successive layers of paint he manages to trace the outline of a crudely drawn heart bisected by a line. His initials above, and below D.W. He knows that either side of the heart there will be a date: 1967. He remembers an anxious time, but exciting; stumbling into sex, into love. And such a long glorious summer, before she left, moved away. He mumbles, ‘Funny how things turn out.’ Is surprised to see the sun so low, wonders where the time has gone. Looks again at the initials picked out in the evening light, shivers.
Streetlights are shining through the gathering gloom, as he walks back, just an isolated figure strolling along a deserted promenade.

Elsewhere

This is what he said, what he told me. Didn’t expect this when I sat down, but I let him talk, didn’t interrupt, just sat and listened.

I used to wonder, from where did it come, this desire he talked about, this need for the road and movement? That’s what I asked him, the last time we walked along the beach.
The dog was old by then. More content to walk quietly at its own pace. He was old too, kept saying, ‘Bit slow now, not like when you were little, eh?
‘You were younger too.’
He chuckled.
‘So where did this need to travel come from, this desire to be always somewhere else?’
‘Dunno. Didn’t think about it all that much.’
‘But just to leave without telling, to disappear for all those years. How old were you?’
He grinned, grunted as he bent to pat the dog’s head.
‘Younger than you are now.’
‘Mam said you were 17, and you wandering all that time. She used to call you shiftless didn’t she? Always throwing those times back at you.’
‘It was her way. Don’t want to think about that now.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s in the past.’
‘But you told me stories, tales I loved to hear. Talked while we walked on this beach. You, me and the dog.’
‘Long time since we did that, isn’t it? But let’s just walk, that’s what I’d like, just walk with the dog. He’s old now isn’t he? Like me.’
‘You’ve still got some years in you yet.’
‘Maybe. But look, we’re near the Rendezvous. Should we have an ice cream? How long is it since we last did that?’
‘Dunno. Years. Have you got enough? I’ll buy them.’
‘No, it’s my treat, and not from the beach, not from beachcombing. Don’t find much these days, not like when you were little.’
‘Dad.’
‘Talk about the travelling next time you’re here. Promise, ok?’
‘Dad.’

The next time was to watch his coffin burn. That’s what he wanted, to be cremated. We never did have that conversation. Didn’t speak again about that desire for movement, whether it was those vast distances he covered during his travels, or just those long walks we took along the coast. It seemed to me, still does, that there was always that desire for movement no matter how local, how small, contained; always a need to be elsewhere. And I’m still left with this question, this nagging thought, left wondering what he really meant those times he talked about the travelling, about what I’ve come to think of as this need to always be somewhere else.