I clowning around together, Justin refereeing, with his caustic wit, Susie playing exasperated mother.
Sometimes I stop participating in the conversation and just hum happily inside myself, enjoying our togetherness, revelling in the way we all broadcast on the same frequency. I watch us from the outside.
… didn’t she marry the singer from the Mumfords? I’d rather be an ISIS bride. (Susie)
… this cherry Stolichnaya that Hester brought back from duty-free, it’s amazing, tastes like Baby Calpol. Or so babies tell me. (Ed)
… he was a right mardy carrot top. I said to him, do you know why gingerism is the last acceptable prejudice? Because it’s acceptable. (Justin, of course)
‘Shhhhh,’ I say, as I can see the quizmaster adjusting his readers, as he squints at an A4 piece of paper.
‘Question ELEVEN. The word “CHRONOPHAGE” is an Ancient Greek word for what is now an idiomatic expression in English. But what does it mean? Clue: your mobile phone may do this. That does not mean you can check your phones, hahaha!’
The quizmaster blows air out of his nostrils in a windy gust, directly into the bulb, and you can hear his spit.
The looks on the faces of our hiking cagoule nemeses suggest they’re considerably more confident about this than they were about Mr Stormzy.
‘Chrono means time …’ Ed whispers. ‘Chronograph watches.’
‘Chronological,’ Susie nods. ‘In order of timing.’
‘Phage,’ I say. ‘Hmmm. Coprophagic is eating poo. Fairly sure the copro’s poo, so the phagic must be eating.’
‘Eve!’ Susie barks, with a Scampi Fry halfway into her mouth. ‘How do you even know that?’
‘I’ve lived a full life.’
‘I’ve been around for most of it so I know that isn’t true. A quarter full, at best.’
‘… Eating time?’ Justin hisses. ‘It must mean eating time. Your phone does that. Boom. Write it down.’
Ed obliges.
We come to The Gladstone every Thursday. I would say without fail, but we are thirty-somethings with lives and jobs and other friends and – some of us – partners, so there are some fails. But we’re here more often than not.
‘Question TWELVE, before we take a short break. What do Marcus Garvey, Rudyard Kipling, Ernest Hemingway and Alice Cooper have in common? I’ll give you a clue. It involves a mistake.’
We stare blankly at each other. Packable Anoraks are frantic-whispering instead of writing or looking sneaky-smug, which means they’re not sure either.
‘Is it choice of first wife? As in they’ve all had more than one?’ Ed says.
‘We don’t call people we divorce, mistakes, now,’ Susie says.
‘My mum does,’ I say.
‘Remember when our RE teacher said: “People are too quick to divorce nowadays” and you said, “I think they’re too slow” and you got a detention for it?’ Susie says and I guffaw.
‘Ah, there she is,’ Ed says, as the door slaps open and his girlfriend Hester appears, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the slight fug of ‘armpit’.
My heart sinks a notch but I ignore that it has done this and paste on a strong, welcoming smile.
To be fair, The Gladdy does have a bit of an aroma sometimes, what with the sticky floor, but that’s part of its charm. It’s a dartboard-and-devoted-regulars pub.
I love it, year round, with its scrappy concrete beer garden with flower planters on the fire escape. I think they are supposed to simulate ‘verdant urban oasis’ in a yard full of lager and smokers. But it’s at its best in autumn and winter. Frosted-leaf mulch and dark skies with bright stars on the other side of the steamed-up panes. Serious hygge to be had, on this side of the window.
Well, mostly.
Hester moved to Nottingham for Ed, a fact she likes to relitigate about once a month.
She looks like a colourised picture has walked into a black and white, kitchen-sink realism film: skin the colour of ripe peaches and shimmering champagne-blonde hair. She’s like a human Bellini.
Her balled fists are thrust in her coat pockets, a Barbour with a fawn cord collar, as if she’s smashed into a saloon in a Western and is going to draw two guns.
It’s not that I don’t like Hester …
‘Are you all drunk by now, then?’ she says, bullishly. She glances at me. ‘Eve looks drunk.’
Oh, why do I bother. It’s absolutely that I don’t like Hester.
‘And once again for the cheap seats! What do Marcus Garvey, Rudyard Kipling, Ernest Hemingway and Alice Cooper have in common? It involves a mistake. A mistake. An error. OK, back soon.’
‘Hemingway was in a plane crash, were any of the others?’ I whisper.