Our drinks were drained and the vestiges of two types of Iberian sauce were all that remained on our plates. Alex was swift to order another wine – I prevaricated. Did I really want another drink? The waiter seemed to think so, but shrugged in weary capitulation at the negative shake of my head before making the long migration back to the kitchen. Yes, damn it, I did! It was a fine summer’s night, I was in fine company and although the wheels of my sociability were turning smoothly, a few more drops of oil could only improve things. Once again the waiter was summoned, a thousand apologies were expressed for the inconvenience and a knowing smile creased his lips as if to say, “Of course you wanted a drink, I could have told you that!” Banter emerged, fellowship bloomed and I took the opportunity to slip my copy of Don Quixote from my pannier bag. His eyes lit up when he recognised it and he hurried away to fetch my drink – a fleshy, ruddy-faced descendent of Sancho Panza.
I settled back in my chair. The place was filling up, or rather, full up. Tables had changed hands; the Question Mark and his Latin Lover had gone and the Captain’s table had been taken by a trio of corpulent women. Conversation buzzed, ranging from who was two to one to win Ascot to what the low down was at the Walthamstow Dog tracks at the other end of the scale.
Then a figure appeared, extraordinary even by the standards of Goya. He was straight-backed and of military bearing. Although probably well into his sixties he was trim and nimble in a stiff-jointed sort of way. He wore a brown trilby on his head and sported a three-piece houndstooth check suit of an old fashioned but very fine cut. He carried, in one hand, a tightly folded copy of The Times, and in the other, an ancient leather briefcase. If our waiter was the jovial but rapacious peasant, then this surely was the Ingenious Hidalgo himself.
He approached our table, inclined his head, and said in tones of charming courtesy, “Excuse me, I spied this vacant seat and wondered if I might join your table for dinner?”
Now, this wasn’t the trendy fusion-type eatery with long benches studded with a proliferation of random diners. Ours was a round table, barely two feet in diameter, comfortable for two, crowded for three, and unthinkably crowded for two lubricated artist friends and a retired brigadier.
“Well I…” I shot Alex a helpless look. “The thing is…” I felt myself reddening around the gills, signalling the inevitable descent into embarrassment – a thing the English do so well.
“What you’re trying to say is that you’re in the midst of a private conversation and that my presence would be somewhat off-putting for you. I thoroughly understand.”
My jaw slid open in astonishment and I gazed after his retreating back in profound gratitude. This swiftly turned to sadness. I turned to Alex. “I feel bad.”
“Don’t worry – I would have done the same,” interjected one of the corpulent women over Alex’s shoulder, without a hint of compassion. The words were meant to be supportive, but sunk my spirits further.
The evening was over. We paid the bill and climbed to our feet. The Brigadier had disappeared. Perhaps he had gone indoors and found his own table, or been given the corner of somebody’s with more generosity of spirit than I.
As we strolled away I took a parting look at a little patch of London where spivs mixed with bankers, harlots mixed with dowagers, thugs mixed with officers and I swilled around with the lot of them. I breathed in the cool night air and headed for home.
Written and illustrated by Harry Chapman.
