All stories

Clive’s mug sat on the table among the dirty plates and overflowing ashtrays. It was summer, so the bins were emitting that ubiquitous kippery smell, even though no-one in the flat had had anything resembling fish for months. In fact, Clive dreamed of fish. He dreamed of creamy mashed potatoes...bacon sandwiches...buttered toast…

Tonight it was Jules’ turn to conjure something edible from whatever leftover vegetables they could scrounge from downstairs. It would probably be cabbage (it was always cabbage) with something like sweetcorn or cucumber or whatever else Reg the Veg couldn’t shift. Clive sighed, but thought about how he’d write that in his autobiography:

...It’s not all glamour you know. When I first started out I lived in a godawful squat in the East End. It was all rats, cabbage and syphilis in those days...

The syphilis was his own embellishment. He was pleased with it’s rock and roll edginess. He wallowed in the daydream until the sun came up and all of his milkless tea was gone. He’d better get out there.

He slung his guitar over his back and headed into town, setting up within view, but out of earshot, of the one-legged violin girl. She was wearing her red dress again and Clive looked away before she caught him staring.

He waved at glass harmonica man, who gesticulated wildly, called ‘hello’ to the plastic rose seller and began to play.

Clive wasn’t bad at the guitar playing, but he wasn’t so great at the singing. He never quite reached the high notes in Space Oddity and his Hallelujah was...troubled (he did the Jeff Buckley version). But there was something about today - maybe because it was sunny, or because he’d snaffled two helpings of cabbage and beetroot souffle while Jules was having ‘alone time’ in their bathroom last night - he was going to go for it.

He eased the arpeggios from his guitar, his soft, folksy sound carried soothingly across the busy street and soon drew a small audience draping soppy, beatific expressions across their faces.

But as soon as he began to sing, Clive realised he’d made a mistake. His voice cracked, and so did the smiles of his meagre crowd. He knew it could only get worse from here; the high notes were coming and there was no way he could pull out now, he was committed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and went for it.

Clive missed. Spectacularly. His voice scraped the underside of the note he’d aimed it at and plummeted to its doom. He felt it crash and burn, but when he prised open his eyes the crowd was still there and, somehow, smiling.

Looking behind, Clive saw the pretty violinist sitting there. She was playing a soaring countermelody that dipped and danced around his guitar, twining around his thin, reedy voice, bringing it to life. The audience clapped, threw coins, dispersed. The violinist smiled at Clive and launched enthusiastically into Space Oddity.

I hope Duncan’s not pissed when I ask Eddie be my best man.

The three of us were drinking pints of Estrella on two for one, sat outside the Lion. Me and Duncan were splitting a pair but Eddie was going some by himself. Across the street a busker was drawling Coldplay.

Eddie said, ‘Christ, he’s aching my tits.’

He drained his pint and put his face onto his folded arms on top of the table.

His muffled voice said, ‘Life’s shit for everyone, right?’

‘Another bad date was it?’ Duncan said.

Eddie sat up. He was smiling wanly. ‘Best first date ever. Date number two tonight, meeting in The Wheatsheaf.’

He rocked to his feet, then said, ‘Fuck,’ loud enough that the busker missed a note. Quietly he said, ‘Get some rollups,’ and staggered way.

Duncan said, ‘Am I only the normal one?’ He showed that sly smile that told me what was coming, said, ‘Found Moongirl yet?’

I turned to the busker. It’s only Eddie doesn’t give me crap about the girl I met in the museum, the girl who held my hand all that day still gripped by heart.

I call her Moongirl because she never said her name, but she did show me the inside upper thigh tattoo of Neil Armstrong. One hour after meeting, she said, ‘You wanna see it?’ and before I could blink the jeans were down.

Lifetime ban from the planetarium, but so worth it.

It was her first date thing, she said; get a kick from the guy’s face, but also know – would it go places?

I thought so, but now I can’t find her.

When Eddie came back he had had his cigarette papers, and he had a packet of smoked fish he tossed to the table. He rolled himself a poor cigarette, then hung it limply from a corner of his mouth.

‘Heading now.’ He pointed the packet of fish at me. ‘Favour for you, mate. Be at the Wheatsheaf, eight tonight. Tell her I got held up, yeah?’

I said, ‘Eddie, mate, you’re not going?’

That same wan smile, and he said, ‘Life,’ before drifting away.

We watched him standing in the road watching the busker.

Duncan said, ‘Why do we hang round with that guy?’

‘He’s a mate, is why.’

‘But seriously, dude. He’s across the street throwing kippers at a busker.’

I didn’t look. When Eddie got like this it was best not to.

I went to the Wheatsheaf at eight; went to find the girl sat by herself, tell her Eddie was sick, tell her he lost his phone.

It was Moongirl sitting at the table by herself with a glass of wine half gone.

The very last thing she’d said to me: if it was meant to be then fate would put us together again.

Eddie with his online dates since forever. Eddie, mate, true blue.

After her shock gave way to a smile, she said, ‘What took you so long?’