Toasting

‘Dinie,’ he says simply.

‘Herm,’ says the cemetery caretaker. ‘Come in.’

He steps into the hall, puts his stick in the umbrella stand and walks through to the living room. The dog doesn’t look up, but thumps the rug once with its bushy tail. The beast pants and drools. As usual the place is spotless. He glances at the photo of Dinie’s late husband as if asking his permission to come in and sit down at his wife’s dinner table and, later, possibly – it’s something he can never count on – kiss her and lie down next to her in bed. Dinie follows him into the living room and closes the lace curtains. She does it every time and the baker’s never mentioned it, though he wonders why she doesn’t do it before he arrives. The table is already set, as tastefully as ever, with a runner, silver cutlery, crystal wine glasses. Wine. He thinks of the three glasses of lemon brandy he’s already knocked back. It will probably be white wine, lightly sparkling, he likes that and so does Dinie. He’s put on a clean shirt, but the armpits already feel damp. The window behind the lace curtains is a single large pane, without any small windows above it or to the side to let in some fresh air. Not that there’s much difference today, inside or out, it might even be cooler inside.

‘I’ll serve dinner straight away,’ Dinie says. ‘It’s all ready.’

He sits down on the chair that gives him a partial view out onto the street through the lace curtains.

‘Take your jacket off, for goodness’ sake. It’s stifling in here.’ She sets the dish of potatoes down on the table and walks back to the kitchen.

He half rises and worms his arms out of the jacket before hanging it over the back of his chair. He was right: now that the shirt has been strangely twisted by his contortions, a wet spot has appeared over his breastbone.

Dinie brings in a dish of runner beans and two plates with two beef olives on each. ‘God, I’ve forgotten the wine.’ And she’s gone again. The dog doesn’t seem interested in the food. The baker sucks up the smell of the beef olives. It’s been the kind of day he forgets to eat. Not counting breakfast, but that seems a lifetime ago. Dinie returns with a bottle of wine – white, because it’s in a cooler.

‘Delicious,’ he says.

‘You can’t say that yet.’

‘Knowing you.’

‘Bon appétit.’ She fills the two wine glasses

Before starting on his meal, he raises his glass and looks at her. ‘To?’

‘You tell me.’

‘To today.’

‘Has it been a good day?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I think so.’ The shell grit hurt, but that was superficial. Now the pain is deeper, in his kneecaps, which feel numb and hard. Less stiff now after the short walk from his house to Dinie’s, but he’d needed to use his walking stick again.

She doesn’t ask for details. Or what’s happened. She drinks her wine almost grimly. ‘I’m glad it’s over.’

‘Whoa, not so fast, there’s a lot to go yet.’