A Short Story: A Drinking Man Part II

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The little girl evidently needed some extra coaching to focus on her plate rather than anyone else’s. She must have been no more than three years old and was an expressive little madam, with a sound-bite, delivered with a grin, for anyone who paid her attention. Still she was making slow but steady progress with her spoon. I estimated that the boy was about six years old. He was an obliging soldier, commandeering his meal without encouragement but with a certain buccaneering gusto. His mum and dad had supplemented their meal with a pot of tea and water, but I noticed him hold up a bottle for his father to open. Fork laid on plate, he seemed to be looking forward to this elixir to the exclusion of all else.

I thought I saw him murmuring to himself, as if saying: Yummy! - a whole bottle of fizzy orange for himself, to savour with dinner. His little toddler sister toiled away tediously next to him, with a plastic cup of water in front of her.

Feeling like a voyeuristic outsider, I watched, through my peripheral vision, as the youngster’s dad unscrewed the lid off the bottle for him. He lifted it to his lips and swallowed a few mouthfuls. Ahhh yes! he seemed to sigh: absolutely perfect, sweet and bubbly and cool. He set the bottle back on the table, picked up the cap, and tried to re-seal it. He made a couple of concentrated attempts, but it would not catch. I was becoming fascinated, growing tense with anticipation to see how he would cope. Instead of completing the venture, he left the cap carefully balanced on top of the bottle, and he returned to the food, and the dimly intelligible chatter of the adults.

I bent my head, silently chuckling. In a few moments though, I spotted his little hand groping for the bottle again, ready for another scrumptious draught of orange. Past my fingers now pressed to my cheek, I sneakily followed his movements, before hearing his sister brazenly yell: “Gimme some!”

With her mop of blonde curls and cherubim features, she could afford to expect interest, and certainly did, cutely beaming around at everyone in a manic kind of way.

“Oh, aw right!” I could just about decipher this junior soft-drinks connoisseur limply reply. Though obviously well-behaved, my guess was that it was “greedy guts!” he was exclaiming in his head, annoyed at her talent to oust him from centre-stage, although the children’s fondness for eachother was plain enough.
Then, as I busied myself with arranging the cutlery laid out for me, I saw out of the corner of my eye, his mother pour some of his juice into a cup for the girl. She only half-filled it - plenty left. When the bottle was restored to him, he imbibed heartily again, but was still unsuccessful with the lid. Meanwhile, as his sister sipped, suddenly she lost her grip, letting the cup slip and the orange fall over her clothes and onto the floor. I was startled; I had to consciously restrain myself from leaning over. I looked away, hoping that harmony could be restored. Salome was nowhere in sight. I overheard his mother groan. It sounded like a muffled “Oh dear!” I surreptitiously turned back, and she was searching for a serviette to wipe up the sticky liquid.

I stifled a laugh as the little boy shook his head slowly, letting escape a barely audible “tsk tsk tsk!”; as if impatient on witnessing this scene for the umpteenth time; as if to say “babies really are stupid!” As I feigned a yawn, I made out his chubby arm stretch protectively in the direction of his fluid treasure. They were a delightful pair!

I tinkered idly with the cutlery. The young defender scooped up the remains of his dinner and, with a junior passion, seized his bottle again. Just then he caught my intent sidelong glance and I was exposed, momentarily frozen. An instant later, both of us were shocked into dismay at the spectacle of his precious drink wobbling on the side of the table. In his rush to straighten it, it toppled over the edge and his beloved fizzy orange gushed out, lost forever in a popping puddle on the floor. I hung my head, mercifully forgotten about in the unfolding catastrophe. By the time he rescued it a few seconds later, only a small quantity sluiced around the bottom of the bottle. His young brow creased in a frustrated frown; he crossed his arms as though bolstering himself against the pain of loss, and I sensed his struggle about whether or not to cry, as he tried to assess any compensation to be prised out of this nasty drama. I felt very sympathetic, quite desolate in fact, and guilty about my part in this tragedy. I sat crumpled and vulnerable in my chair; no redress to offer my victim.

Then his mam and dad were consoling him – “It’s OK, darling; we can buy one of those huge litre bottles for you later in the shops. And look, you still have some left there. Don’t let it go to waste”.

With distinct relief, I cautiously spied the small body relaxing as a shaky smile dispelled the clouded stressed features. So it wasn’t the end of the world – thank goodness! I myself too felt like a weight was being lifted from me and instinctively I hugged myself. I could breathe more easily now; the flow of felicity was coming back. The boy was regaining his companionable contentment but then he paused in thought. As if to ward off any further trespassing on his favourite property which was rapidly being drained away without his consent, he seemed to give the matter his full, undivided attention, and so decided to dispose of the stuff to its rightful owner once and for all. Internally bursting to applaud the valiant champion, I rejoiced to observe him carry the bottle to his mouth and, in three or four wholesome swigs, empty it neat. Bravo! Using the back of his hand to dab a glistening chin, his eyes met mine again. This time I smiled broadly at him, and spontaneously formed a thumbs-up sign, which he acknowledged with a shy happy nod before re-entering the conversational embrace.

Then there was Salome approaching demurely with a tray holding our meals. I leaned over to pull back her chair and make space for the plates. I had an appetite now, and was even in celebratory form. Despite doctor’s orders, and Salome’s conscientious ways, it was surely in order on this special occasion to take a risk, to request a toast, for survival, even victory, in the jungle of life? How about a glass of house red, dear, just one…?

- goinghome