It was the kind of exchange that only happens in Britain. The only reason the British education system doesn’t have a GCSE in small talk is because by the time you finish secondary school, you’re already an expert in it. I’m convinced it’s given along with the measles-mumps-and-rubella shot they give us in infant school. They probably regularly test our sewage for small-talk levels, like they do for polio, cocaine, and Jeremy Clarkson’s opinions.
“One hundred per cent, Dave,” I said, lifting another crisp to my mouth. “Thank you for sharing them with a blow-in like me.”
“You’re very welcome, mate.’
“Ow old are you, Ludo, if you don’t mind me asking?” Bertha said.
My crisp hovered. “Not at all. I’m twenty-four.” I popped the crisp in my mouth.
“He’s a good age for our Emilia,” Bertha said. I inhaled in surprise, nearly choked on my crisp, coughed, and found myself crouched on the ground with Dave banging his fist on my back. By God, he was strong. I lifted a hand to signal that I was fine before he could beat a vertebra right through my chest. Bertha popped the top on a can of Diet Coke and passed it to me. I accepted gratefully, taking a big hit of the sickly cola.
“You stepping out with anyone special then, Ludo?” Bertha asked when I had recovered. The question squeezed like a fist around my heart.
“No,” I said. “Sadly not. I thought I was, but… it wasn’t to be.” I could feel myself starting to well up, and I feared I might cry in front of these perfect strangers, and that, to be British about it, would be a bit much. I took another swig of the Diet Coke.
“Sorry. It’s all a bit recent.”
“Never too early to get back on the horse,” Dave said, gripping my shoulder like a vice. He only had a thumb and two fingers, but he could crack my clavicle if the fancy took him.
A roar went up from the crowd further along the Mall, and everyone stood on their tippy-toes and craned to see, ensuring no one saw anything at all. Someone started singing “God Save the King,” and we all joined in. Dave saluted. I felt terribly proud to be British. When we’d finished, Dave’s arm dropped to his side. I was staring, and I caught his eye.
“Fifteen years in the Royal Navy,” he said.
“Emilia’s at university in Sheffield,” Bertha said. “We’re very proud of her. She’s studying to be a psychopath.”
“A psychotherapist, not a bloody psychopath. Jesus, Bertha. He won’t want to take her out now, will he?”
I’ve never been terribly good at working out when to come out to people. Sometimes, it’s safer, quicker, or easier just to let things slip. But if an Englishman shares his crisps with you, surely you can trust him with your essential truth? I mean, if not then, when?
“Actually, I play for the other team,” I said. I was about to say, “So, if you have a grandson who’s studying to be a psychopath, give him my number,” but Bertha was way ahead of me. Bertha had a grandmother’s eye for matchmaking.
“Oh, you’d be just perfect for our Harry!”
“He’s eighteen, and he’s just gone into the navy,” Dave said. I bloody bet he had. Lucky old Harry. Probably being buggered around the mizzen mast from one side of the Atlantic to the other even as we spoke. Did the navy still use mizzen masts? What evenwasa mizzen mast?
“We’re very proud of him,” Bertha said.
Another roar of cheers worked its way up the Mall, and once again everyone craned fruitlessly to see what was happening. This time the crowd kept cheering.
“Looks like interval is over,” I said. “Show’s back on.”
A few minutes later the start of the King’s procession marched past us, horses and natty uniforms and brass bands, then carriages and royalty and the dawn of a new era. The cheering of the crowd was deafening. People waved flags and shouted hip hip hooray and sang “Rule, Britannia!” Children sat on parents’ shoulders watching history roll past—a story to tell their own grandkids one day.I was there.I remember when.Bertha and Dave were in tears. He stood behind her, his tattooed arms wrapped around her shoulders. He kissed her cheek, his tears and hers making a wet mess of their faces, and she turned and kissed him and then turned around completely and wrapped him in a hug. Smiles beamed across their faces, eyes as full of joy as they were full of tears. A peck on the lips, a peck on the cheek. Then I heard Dave say “I love you, sweetie” and Bertha say “I love you, too, bubby.”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen adults show each other actual affection like this before. Not in real life, at least. Onstage, yes. Porgy and Bess. Anya and Dmitry. Danny and Sandy. Even Bonnie and Clyde. (Come on, who wouldn’t take a hundred bullets for a love like the love between Bonnie and Clyde?) As far as I could tell, my father’s idea of a romantic gesture was stacking the dishwasher. I’d never seen my parents hold hands in public, never heard them say “I love you” to each other, and certainly never seen them climbing all over each other in public like teenagers in love. Most of their interactions seemed to involve petty bickering. I wanted the Bertha-and-Dave kind of love. The wonderful, visible, stick-a-flag-in-it kind of love. I wanted a no holds barred kind of love. Dave winked at me, and I realised I was crying.
“It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it,” he said. “Watching history unfold.”
But I hadn’t been watching history unfold at all. I’d been watching something no marching band or gilt carriage could ever match. Love. And I ached tohave someone I loved as much as Dave and Bertha loved each other, who I could share this moment with.
“I think I’m going to go,” I said.
“But they ain’t come out on the balcony yet,” Bertha said.
“We ain’t offended you, have we?” Dave added.
“Very far from it,” I said. “It has been an absolute joy to meet you. I can’t thank you enough for everything. It’s been splendid.”
“It were only a few crisps, but you’re very welcome, love.” Bertha wrapped me up in a hug, then apologised for wetting my cheek with her tears. Dave extended his hand, and I shook it.
