A cup of kindness yet
A short story
Hello! I hope you’re having a restful festive break, however you’re celebrating. Just a quick note to say thank you for all your support this year. Since we embarked on this newsletter in March, we have loved every moment of getting to know the community here and reading all your thoughtful messages. We’re still figuring it out. No one would describe us as “consistent”, but you can expect a lot more from us in 2025 (something to do with quitting the rat race).
Here’s something a little different to round off the year. In the past week, an eerie fog has spread over the UK. I was walking through my hometown thinking how pretty it all looked, the twinkling lights through the mist, and it inspired the backdrop for this fictional piece. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks again, and wishing you all the luck in the world for the new year.
When the fog is this thick, you can hardly see where you’re going. You take one step, then another, almost in blind faith, because you trust that this street will take you where you need to go. Tonight, it’s the pub. The lights are still up, shining through the mist, and tonight they are your stars. The town is dripping in them: lights the colour of blue ice outside the station; glowing amber down the main street, where the shops are all shuttered; red and green outside the amusements on the pier, where the sea laps the cold stone walls.
For once, you resist the urge to run. Even though you know the streets of this town like the lines on your palm, and could run them with your eyes shut. You’re tired now. You take the same old turns like it’s some kind of predestination, but it’s just muscle memory. On the promenade, drunk revellers sway in each other’s arms. They come in twos, threes and more. You see versions of your former selves in them, appearing through the mist, then disappearing. You’re careful not to look these apparitions in the eye, because you know you will turn to stone. Whoosh. That’s a cold wind blowing in from the sea. You pull your collar tighter and hunch your shoulders, turning yourself into a battlement against the forces. Now you are a barbican, you are a walled city and you’ve pulled up the drawbridge. Nothing can harm you.
But who are you really? No one knows any of your names, any of your faces, anymore. You wandered from city to city, searching for something (you refuse to name it), until you ran out of places to go. So here you are: home. You’ve lost the accent. You smoothened your edges until you could slip into any disguise, but none of that works in this town. That wind is fierce enough to strip away the most hardened façade.
You can’t even remember why you left anymore. One day, you just kept running and running until the town fell away and became a distant memory. Was it some minor heartbreak, an argument, a misunderstanding? Whatever it was, it felt important at the time. You wanted the anonymity of a city, to lose yourself in a crowd of strangers. To try on different masks and see how it felt to become someone else. And for a while, you liked it, that transitory life. The constant movement. You swore you’d never come back, yet here you are, still searching. Perhaps you’re hoping you’ll find what you’re looking for in the pub tonight, although you won’t admit as much. There’s too much vulnerability in that.
The pub. This is how you remember it: the sprawling beer garden lit up with fairylights, packed with everyone you knew. The drinks were cheap, and they weren’t particularly good, but no one cared. On nights like these, there’d be a live band playing old blues and folk songs. Conversation was easy then. You didn’t come expecting a seat, but you might end up squeezed onto the benches, sharing cigarettes with strangers who’d be friends by the end of the night. One year, someone kissed you when the clock struck midnight, and it seemed as if you might spend the whole year together. Like someone had taken a sparkler and spelled out your future in the air, and for a moment it shimmered brightly, then it was gone. You still think about these missed opportunities sometimes, when life, for whatever reason, pulls you in different directions. But nostalgia is a false friend – you know this.
You’re approaching the pub now, and you see that the beer garden is empty. Your first thought is that the pub is closed, or has shut down for good, and you feel a pang of something threatening to be sadness. But look there: a warm glow from the window. You’ll take it. Inside, you see that little has changed. The grey-stone walls, hung with paintings of old sailors; the tables flickering with candlelight; the worn leather seats. You feel a sense of time folding in on itself. You look around, expecting to see someone you know among the small groups of drinkers. Perhaps an old friend, if you are lucky. But you recognise no one. When they turn to look at the stranger in the doorway, their eyes linger for the briefest instant, then they turn away. Conversations resume, and you are just a detail in the background. You know exactly how unremarkable you are.
At the bar, you order a glass of whisky. You want something as thick and pungent as the sea. Something that tastes like tarry ropes and bonfire smoke, like salt trails on your skin. Like something buried deep inside you, if only you could reach it. The closest you’ll get to that, right here, is Laphroaig. You shrug: it’ll do. The bartender fills a glass with a generosity that surprises you. You make to pay, but she waves you away. “This one’s on the house,” she smiles, then she bids you a happy new year. It feels like a bridge back into the world.
You take a sip. The band is tuning up now, getting ready for the final hour of the year. The pub fills up slowly as the band starts to play. These are well-worn songs, but they feel different this time, as if you are hearing them anew. People begin to dance. They are looser now. The year is shedding its skin, peeling at the edges. It’s all about to come undone. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know anyone, and no one knows you. When they see you sitting alone, they pull you to your feet. Their hands are warm, and there is light in their eyes. To your surprise, you do not turn to stone. Instead, in the arms of these strangers, you soften. Soon, you are moving as one, singing an old song together. You hardly know the words, but it doesn’t matter. The year turns on its axis. You do not know what will happen tomorrow, or how you will remember this night, but right now, you are exactly where you need to be.