Not Not While the Giro

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The old man lowered the glass from his lips and began rolling another cigarette. His eyes never strayed until finally he lit up, inhaling deeply. He stared at me for perhaps thirty seconds then cleared his throat and began speaking. ‘Funny places — pubs. Drank in here for near enough twenty years.’ He paused, shaking his head slowly. ‘Never did get to know him. No. Never really spoke to him apart from Evening Dennis, Night Dennis. Been in the navy. Yeh, been in the navy alright. Torpedoed I hear. 1944.’ He paused again to relight the dead cigarette. ‘One of the only survivors too. Never said much about it. Don’t blame him though.’ He looked up quickly then peered round the pub. ‘No, don’t blame him. Talk too much in this place already they do. Never bloody stop, it’s no good.’ He finished the remainder of his drink and looked over to the bar, catching the barman’s eye who nodded, opened a Guinness and sent it across.

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