Last Orders

I watched as he drained the remaining dregs from his pint glass. I’d been intrigued by him all evening – the scruffy clothes, the dreamy expression, the ink on his fingers. Reluctantly, still watching him, I rang the bell above the bar, and gave my usual shout of “last orders, last orders at the bar please”. Tonight was a quiet Monday, and there was only a ghost of a surge as most of the tired looking punters began to wearily say goodnight and gather their belongings. I served a few regulars; Tony, the charismatic old Italian who ran the village restaurant, Deb, the local hairdresser, and the incredibly sad old man who shuffled in and out every night and whose name nobody seemed to know.

Suddenly, it seemed to be just him and me.

“I’d better get a move on, then”, he smiled gently. His eyes, when they lit on mine, were dark blue, engaging and warm. I noticed the crinkles at the edges, and reckoned his age to be about 30.

“Take your time, love”, I responded. Why was it that since becoming a barmaid I felt compelled to call everyone by this silly pet name? Perhaps it was something to do with my Northern roots. Whatever the reason, it certainly didn’t seem to fit this stranger, as he scribbled in his notebook. Quietly, I cleared away glasses from tables, not wanting to disturb his thoughts. His presence was somehow reassuring. I wasn’t attracted to him – oh, no – but drawn. That was it. Drawn. Part of me desperately wanted to strike up a conversation, while the other half continued to enjoy the companionable silence between us.

I attempted a pleasantry, regretting it almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” The rest of the trite enquiry died on my lips as he looked up swiftly, startled from his reverie. He smiled.

“Actually, I’m visiting family”, he said.

“Oh? Who’s that then? We all know each other round here. Kind of incestuous, you might say.” I attempted a wry smile, all the time realising that here was a man who abhorred small talk. He humoured me.

“Perhaps. I find villages like this one fascinating. Everyone knows everyone else. You’re sure of your roots and everybody else’s. There’s nothing unfamiliar. I imagine a place like this would seem like home more than anywhere else.”  The yearning of the drifter, I thought. Perhaps he was a city boy, or maybe he travelled a lot. Perhaps he had no home to speak of. I still hadn’t got the information I was looking for.

“So, who are you visiting?” Perhaps a direct enquiry would get me a little bit further. I certainly had no desire to rush off. All that was waiting for me at home was an old landlady and her cats – to whom I was violently allergic.

“That’s the thing,” He said. “I’m not sure. I know that there’s someone who moved to this village a while ago who may well hold the key to who I really am. I was adopted, you see, and after my parents died last year I’ve been searching for my biologicals,” The eyes crinkled again.

“Biologicals? Sounds like washing powder,” I grinned.

“Doesn’t it? That’s just the nickname I’ve given them. It’s weird, being adopted. You never know if the next person you meet is your long-lost brother, father, whatever. I’d never really thought about it before Mum and Dad died, but suddenly it became clear to me that I needed to know what they saved me from. I almost felt as though I owed it to them”, his words were tumbling out now, his large hands twisting the notebook round and round.

“So I wrote to this agency that helps people like me. They said that my real parents had moved abroad, left no forwarding address. But that one person still remained.”

My heart began to thud. I’m not sure why. How could I have known?

“I’m looking for my sister. Stella. Stella Chapman. Do you know her?” His eyes searched mine, eager, terrified. I could feel his racing heart match mine, beat for beat. I held onto the bar for support as I looked at him, incredulous yet knowing.

I held out my hand in greeting.