His Dear Friend

Last winter, late every Monday evening, the moon hung high over South London’s suburban canopy and velvet clouds sifted across the horizon like waves of ashen chimney smoke. The sullen bus stop by a small train station, jaded from rush-hour’s stiff-necked assault, had, by that time, fallen asleep, and, as stragglers stumbled from the pub across the street, it was there he would find himself steeped in conversation with his dear friend.

His bus stop confidant was a haggard greying man in his seventies who had a barbed, scratchy cough and a slight stammer, and who would almost always wear a faded baby blue jacket and creased flint trousers. His eyes were dung-beetle black and would flutter between the naked oak trees and the stream of clumsy, drunken passers by. He had a gentle demeanour and a soft, round face that always bore a hearty smile, as if there was something he knew about life that the rest did not.

And, for twenty minutes or so, while sat at the bus stop’s long red bench, shivering as they waited for their single decker ticket home, when the only sound to be heard was the faint skate of a passing train and the gentle hum of dim street lights, they were friends. His ‘Dear friend’ as he called him, would tell him about the years he had spent as a trader up in the city and how he had shuffled around careers until he found happiness in the Navy. By now, in the 21st century, he was long retired, spending most of his hours consumed in daytime television, except on Monday’s when he made his way by bus to drink with a few of his friends.

His dear friend was a curious soul and, on some evenings, after recalling stories of the sea, he would smile his hearty smile and quiz his young friend about the dreams and aspirations of his own. And then, having listened through the wishes and wants of a writer, who soon planned to be an author and eventually a producer of some sort, he would smile and say, “Well you know, you've got to do what makes you happy in life. That’s all it’s about, that’s what I did.”

His dear friend kept a childlike joy in his step, the type that bread a strong heart and a healthy mind, and, as they sat and talked at the stop, and on the bus home, the air often filled with laughter. Some evenings, they would sit and stare at the pub across the street, and watch the stragglers stumble from the inn as the lights slowly flickered off, except for the room in the attic where two of the pint pullers lived. Then, when the pub had emptied, their attention would shift to the boarded up building adjacent and they would take turns in guessing what the vacant structure was now used for. “I’ve got a sneaky suspicion about that place,” his Dear friend would admit. And then with a wink he would add. “Well I know a few shady figures from over the years who could figure that out.”

On other evenings, when more emotionally charged, they would talk about the cruelty of big business, or the church a few streets away, or about family and friends; casually pacing through life and its dramas without ever once swapping names.

Then, as the calendar flicked to 2016, and the days grew longer, his dear friend no longer turned out on a Monday evening at the bus stop. But he still thought about him from time to time, wondering if he ever did figure out what happened in the building across the street, or whether he managed to rid himself of that stabbing cough.

One recent Monday evening, as the the train doors shunted open at his stop, he couldn't shake the memories of old times. He thought about seeing his dear friend again and telling him about his new job and what he had been up to in the months since they last spoke.

As he stepped off the train and dragged his feet towards the bus stop, towards home, he spotted the big full moon shimmering on the oak trees, and the sleepy-eyed stragglers from the pub fumbling into taxi’s. He scanned the eerie boarded up building for any signs of activity and heard his train skid away in the distance. But his friend, with eyes the colour of coal and the faded baby blue jacket, was no where to be seen. And so, on that Monday evening he rode the bus home alone.