"Trouble is..." said Tel, contemplating his pint glass with a frown, "the wife'n'I aint been geddin on well fer a while". He broke off as a waiter in a shiny black waistcoat and shiny black trousers, open-necked white shirt and mask, came to deliver our next beer order. Friday night curry. Changed from Saturday as Tel was off to the in-law's in Braintree yesterday. Welcome back.
The rain left beads on the windows; patterns of slowly trickling water snaked slinky-like across the panes. The patter of droplets on the restaurant conservatory roof was the timpani accompaniment to our conversation. Tel's mod anorak, the faux fur lining hanging outward so it appeared that his chair was a skinned sheep, pooled tiny puddles on the floor near his feet.
We had company; Rick, the new guy who disappeared when Tel went on holiday, reappeared as if by magic like the shop owner in Mr Benn. Tel invited him. I too had a friend, Ben, a mate from way back who I've known since primary school and who I'd invited ostensibly to meet Tel, something he'd been meaning to do for a while but never had. It was a bit risky as Ben is also someone I've known post the occasional comment on here. Not a regular by any means but he knows my nomme de guerre. He also knew not to say owt.
The week at work seemed never-ending. By Wednesday, with virus rampant and the news full of Trump v Biden and the trading of the sort of put-down's the writers of Have I Got News For You would dismiss as trite and schoolboyish (and they sure know unfunny when they write it), it was back to Autumn proper, with rain and wind and great puddles on roads. The work unfolded like a broadsheet paper on a train. It was just as difficult to fold back.
We'd arranged to meet at 7pm on Friday night but as it turned out, Tel was late and he was bringing Rick. So Ben and I sat, sipping bottles of Kingfisher, ignoring the dishwasher-clean tumblers proffered by the staff on the black trays they transferred the drinks by. A big notice on the brickwork that was the front of the bar said "Please. No service here. Take a table and service will be bought". A line of waiters stood by the restaurant door, fiddling with cuffs, faces alert for a raised hand or a call. We drank our beers down to the suds and called for two more, with a couple of prawn puris. It was 7.20pm. Still no sign. Ben asked if Tel was always late and I smiled.
The beers and puris came, as did Tel and Rick. Tel unhooked his arms from his coat and asked the same waiter who'd brought our beers and snacks for two more of the same. Introductions were made, elbows knocked in true Corona style and we were off. Rick finished telling Tel the story he'd clearly started in the car on the way. "So I wrote to the council and they said they'd sort it, so that's where I am". He explained the rest to the two of us who hadn't been privy to the start. Something about a nuisance neighbour cutting down a tree on his land. Tel grimaced. "Yer can't trust bleedin' ' councils fer action" he said. Then his beers and puris turned up. The conversation died for a bit.
We ate the poppadoms and the onion salad and pickles. Tel's bit of the table suffered direct onion strand hits, some with added pickles so they seeped minor blotches on the cloth. The rest of us managed to find our mouths. We talked about work and gossiped about colleagues and Ben's boss who'd been fired for sexual misconduct in 2018. Ben works for a firm of City lawyers in London. He's not a partner. It rankles.
Tel relaxed a bit after another beer and became expansive. When the others had left the table for a slash, he moved nearer to me and spoke about Mrs Tel. "Din't wanna talk while they're in earshot, like, but fings 'ave improved a bit. She's seen this counsellor in Colchester last week, pricey cos iss private but she needs 'elp so I agreed". Highwoods?, I asked innocently. "Yeah" said Tel, surprised. "'Owdyer knar that?" I said I'd heard of a counsellor up there. He nodded, satisfied, almost pleased that she was seeing someone well-known locally. I didn't let on about the card in the bin when I was round their bungalow.
The others returned and Tel said "Talk more in the pub tomorrow lunchtime" gently to me as he got back to his chair. The rest of the meal played out. Tel, driving us all home, resisted more beer and had a lemonade and lime cordial. He dropped Ben at the station for his train back to Colchester. He dropped me at home and then took Rick, who lives a few streets away from Tel, with him for the homeward drive.
Yesterday was wet and a bit wild. We'd arranged to meet in the pub at 1pm. Tel was off to Braintree at five, meal with the in-laws in some Chinese restaurant. "The wife's drivin'" he said, unconcernedly. I went for a walk in the morning, attempting to time it so I made the pub by 12.30. My timing was spot-on as it turned out. The walk was muddy, wet and blustery. My chinos had soggier bottoms than a Bake Off sponge. Still, rosy cheeks and a breath of fresh air, a good way to walk off the excesses of brandy I'd consumed the night before.
Tel arrived at one-fifteen, dropped by a taxi, his brown check face mask making him look a bit like Bane out of Batman at a distance. He sat at our table and asked the barmaid for a pint. There were a few in the pub, mainly walkers with wet labradors and old folk hoping for a slice of steak pie and cabbage with their IPA and Britvic orange and lemonade for her.
We drank and talked Mrs Tel. "She's been off for ages" said Tel, almost sounding sorrier for himself than his wife. "Bleedin' still got the hump wiv me, 'ad it all froo the 'oliday, din't wanna do much but sulk on her own. I said to 'er before we went, ah said 'yer need some 'elp love, get some. Try a couns'ler, like'. So she did. An' I fink iss workin'. Can't be any worse anyway".
He took a long, deep draught of his pint and fiddled with the beermat, flipping it up and missing the catch. Then he made eye contact with a barmaid and asked for a bowl of their chilli-beef nachos. I had a bowl of chips. We shared the two bowls, although the nachos aren't my favourite things. They taste of wet cardboard.
We talked on. Tel did the weekend footy bet at 2pm. We lost by the way. Ipswich let us down, for once this season. So did Blackburn. "Scored four 'gainst Derby larse week, should beat Cardiff" said Tel with conviction. Still, he did have fifty quid on Sottsass, and that just won the Prix de L'arc de Triomphe so we're up again. Rick tipped him it on Friday. Tel was going to do Enable. Rick changed his mind. Good old Rick.
We left at four, in a cab which dropped me first. Tel went home for a shower and the drive to Braintree. They were staying overnight and having Sunday lunch in some carvery today. He said it like it was a challenge, to be faced and got over, much like the wife and her issues. True, we did have a laugh as well, but these moments were fleeting and I felt sad looking back on them. He's becoming adrift in a sea of issues which aren't his fault and which he doesn't know how to overcome. He mentioned separation yesterday lunchtime, as if it was a last straw but one they'd clearly talked about despite this.
I mourned him a bit last night. I missed the old Tel, the one who always saw the humour and the funny side of even the trickiest of dilemmas. This version, the dismissive, deliberately misunderstanding mask which slips to show he does care, really, deep down, but which he wears because he thinks his caring somehow makes him vulnerable, is not the Tel I know. And yet separation would be the end of him. He needs her more than she needs him, or knows. And that's the most frustrating thing of all, the fact she doesn't know because he won't tell her.
And the Town only drew. I say 'only' like it's a bad thing. Perhaps three wins out of three has made us complacent? All I know is the satisfying fist I made when I logged into my phone in the pub at three thirty to find we were 1-0 up was gone, replaced by disappointment at 4pm when they'd equalised. "Ah don' miss the footy sometimes" said Tel, and, even though he was talking about not watching the Premier League games on Sky, I knew what he meant. Sort of.
|  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
