The Sense of an Ending

and had supper at the William IV. I was asked if I’d been away on holiday. In the shop I said yes, in the pub I said no. The answers hardly seemed of consequence. Not much did. I thought of the things that had happened to me over the years, and of how little I had made happen.
    At first I assumed it was an old email, mistakenly re-sent. But my heading had been left there: ‘Apology’. Below, my message was undeleted. Her reply went: ‘You still don’t get it. You never did, and you never will. So stop even trying.’
    I left the exchange in my inbox and occasionally reread it. If I hadn’t decided on cremation and a scattering, I could have used the phrase as an epitaph on a chunk of stone or marble: ‘Tony Webster – He Never Got It’. But that would be too melodramatic, even self-pitying. How about ‘He’s On His Own Now’? That would be better, truer. Or maybe I’ll stick with: ‘Every Day is Sunday’.
    Occasionally, I would drive over to the shop and the pub again. They were places where I always felt a sense of calm, odd as that may sound; also, a sense of purpose, perhaps the last proper purpose of my life. As before, I never thought I was wasting my time. This was what my time might as well be for. And both were friendly places – at least, friendlier than their equivalents where I lived. I had no plan: so what else is new? I hadn’t had a ‘plan’ for years. And my revival of feeling – if that’s what it had been – towards Veronica could scarcely be counted as a plan. More of a brief, morbid impulse, an appendix to a short history of humiliation.
    One day, I said to the barman, ‘Do you think you could do me thin chips for a change?’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘You know, like in France – the thin ones.’
    ‘No, we don’t do them.’
    ‘But it says on the menu your chips are hand-cut.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, can’t you cut them thinner?’
    The barman’s normal affableness took a pause. He looked at me as if he wasn’t sure whether I was a pedant or an idiot, or quite possibly both.
    ‘Hand-cut chips means fat chips.’
    ‘But if you handcut chips, couldn’t you cut them thinner?’
    ‘We don’t cut them. That’s how they arrive.’
    ‘You don’t cut them on the premises?’
    ‘That’s what I said.’
    ‘So what you call “hand-cut chips” are actually cut elsewhere, and quite probably by a machine?’
    ‘Are you from the council or something?’
    ‘Not in the least. I’m just puzzled. I never realised that “hand-cut” meant “fat” rather than “necessarily cut by hand”.’
    ‘Well, you do now.’
    ‘I’m sorry. I just didn’t get it.’
    I retired to my table and waited for my supper.
    And then, just like that, the five of them came in, accompanied by the young minder I’d seen from Veronica’s car. The badge man stopped as he passed my table, and gave me his bow from the neck; a couple of the badges on his deerstalker chinked quietly together. The others followed. When Adrian’s son saw me, he turned his shoulder as if to keep me – and bad luck – away. The five of them crossed to the far wall but didn’t sit down. The care worker went to the bar and ordered drinks.
    My hake and hand-cut chips arrived, the latter served in a metal pot lined with newspaper. Perhaps I had been smiling to myself when the young man arrived at my table.
    ‘Do you mind if I have a word?’
    ‘Not at all.’
    I gestured to the chair opposite. As he sat down I noticed, over his shoulder, the five of them looking across at me, holding on to their glasses, not drinking.
    ‘I’m Terry.’
    ‘Tony.’
    We shook hands in that awkward, elbow-high way that being seated imposes. He was silent at first.
    ‘Chip?’ I suggested.
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘Did you know that when they put “hand-cut” chips on a menu, it just means “fat”, it doesn’t mean they’re actually cut by hand?’
    He looked at me rather as the barman had.
    ‘It’s about Adrian.’
    ‘Adrian,’ I repeated. Why had I never wondered about his name? And what else could he have possibly been called?
    ‘Your presence upsets him.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied. ‘The last thing I want to do is upset him. I don’t want to upset anyone any more.
Ever
.’ He looked at me as if he suspected irony. ‘It’s all right. He won’t see me again. I’ll finish my food and be off, and none of you will ever see me again.’
    He nodded. ‘Do you mind me asking who you are?’
    Who I am? ‘Of