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Monday 20 December part 8
The following week, he died. I wanted to convince myself I would have told him, but who am I trying to kid? It was just selfish greed.”
Max tried to look kind and understanding. “I think you would have told him. And besides, if he’d only a week left, what use would the money have been to him?”
Dolores shook her head. “I don’t think I was going to tell him. That’s the thing. I know my own guilt. If he’d lived another twenty years, I wouldn’t have told him. By dying, he’s made it easier for me. And that just rubs it in more.”
There was a heavy silence. As he contemplated Dolores’ story, it was some minutes before Max became aware that the bar - and, as far as he could tell, the airport concourse around them - was empty, apart from Dolores, himself, the bar waiter and the man who had just entered, blinking around, clutching a boarding card with the same logo as theirs.
Monday 20 December 22:00UTC
Max drained the last of his pint and waved the waiter over, with the bonhomie of the moderately inebriated. “Hey, fella, is this gaff still open? Get the man what he wants, on my tab. Same for the lady.”
Quiet and professional, the waiter complied, also bringing Max a fresh pint and whisky chaser. While waiting for the drinks to arrive, they had learned, through Dolores’ friendly but direct questioning, that the newcomer was Leroy Crowley, of Jamaican and British descent. His grandfather had arrived in London aboard MV Windrush in 1948.
Max tried to look kind and understanding. “I think you would have told him. And besides, if he’d only a week left, what use would the money have been to him?”
Dolores shook her head. “I don’t think I was going to tell him. That’s the thing. I know my own guilt. If he’d lived another twenty years, I wouldn’t have told him. By dying, he’s made it easier for me. And that just rubs it in more.”
There was a heavy silence. As he contemplated Dolores’ story, it was some minutes before Max became aware that the bar - and, as far as he could tell, the airport concourse around them - was empty, apart from Dolores, himself, the bar waiter and the man who had just entered, blinking around, clutching a boarding card with the same logo as theirs.
Monday 20 December 22:00UTC
Max drained the last of his pint and waved the waiter over, with the bonhomie of the moderately inebriated. “Hey, fella, is this gaff still open? Get the man what he wants, on my tab. Same for the lady.”
Quiet and professional, the waiter complied, also bringing Max a fresh pint and whisky chaser. While waiting for the drinks to arrive, they had learned, through Dolores’ friendly but direct questioning, that the newcomer was Leroy Crowley, of Jamaican and British descent. His grandfather had arrived in London aboard MV Windrush in 1948.
