Fire & Stones
Issue 32 East Lerwick
24
Silver Diner Dances —Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21
Noon dawned in East Lerwick, wet and dark. The clouds, which at sunrise had clustered on the horizon, had grown steadily until they covered East Lerwick at midday. Fog was to come next, the townspeople knew. Fog always came after the clouds, after the sun. It was a pattern, and this was the best part. Jameson Brooks regarded the dun clouds with a furrowed brow as he sipped his tea. The people of East Lerwick glanced at him once or twice, then continued on with their day. Whatever the odd man was doing was none of their business, they decided. Foreigners often wandered through on their way to the city and stopped for a spot of tea or a photograph. It’s just how things were. Once. The first droplets fell just as Jameson finished his tea. It was pitiful, he decided. The town, the rain, the tea. An unholy trinity of half-assed things that came together in a hideous display of hospitality. Or a lack thereof, he mused, ducking under a faded awning. Not one person from the whole town had shown him the least bit of kindness. No ‘hello’ or ‘are you lost?’ All there was, was rain, and this horrid gas station tea. “You there,” he said finally. “Where’s the nearest cafe?” A boy looked up from the shoelace he had been tying. “Over there, sir. The Lerwick Pigeon.” Jameson rubbed his face with his hands. “That’s a bloody tavern, boy.” The child got to his feet and shrugged. “Does it make a difference?” Whistling an off-pitch rendition of “God Save the Queen,” the boy inclined his head and strolled away. “It does make a difference,” Jameson said to the wet pavement. “It does, you foolish boy.” He squinted against the flurry of drops to the stores across the street. Neon signs turned the rain into futuristic art, their messages distorted by the odd refractions. Pulling his jacket over his ears, Jameson ran, ducking into the dirty alcove which housed a tired “Open” sign. Jameson tugged on the door, which, despite the sign, stayed closed. He peered into the window, eyes narrowing at the cluster of townspeople passing beers around. One lady, in her forties, Jameson assumed, detached herself from the group and strolled to the door, tossing words over her back like coins. She opened the door, shoving Jameson back into the rain. A cigarette was procured, then a flame, the woman watching the group inside with an aloof interest. “That’s the Lerwick Pigeon?” asked Jameson. The woman took a long drag with an eyebrow raised. “What’s it to you?” “I would like a cup of tea. This is the Lerwick Pigeon, yes?” Strands of smoke dissipated into the fog as she considered her response. “For some.” He sighed at her strange words and lifted a hand to the doorknob. “But,” she added, dropping the cigarette to the ground and grinding it, “not for you.” She pried his fingers off the knob then went inside, the lock clicking once the door shut. 25
