30Years and Still Changing
Its late, the rain taps lazily against the window of the little corner café on Abbey Street. The walls are painted a warm ochre, and the glass pane fogs where the cold outside meets the heat inside. By the door three coats hang on brass hooks: a light tan one, a grey one, and a third with a thin stripe on the lining. Inside the place is dry and cosy, the air filled with the scent of fresh scones and brewing tea. The waitress glides between tables almost unnoticed.
I arrived first, as I always dobeing punctual is a small rebellion against the chaos of my job. I slipped off my coat, folded my scarf neatly, and pulled out my phone to scan through a few work emails, trying not to think about tomorrows board meeting. My hands are still cool from the street, while the room is warm enough that the windows have steamed up from the temperature difference. I ordered a pot of EarlGrey for the table; thats the usual start to any of our gatherings.
Sam slipped in almost silently: tall, a little stooped, eyes that look tired but still carry a spark. He hung his jacket on the neighbouring hook, slid into the seat opposite me, and gave a brief nod.
Hows it going? he asked.
Bit by bit, I replied, keeping my voice even.
He ordered a coffee for himselfalways a lateevening cup despite knowing it will keep him up.
Andrew was the last to arrive, a little out of breath after a brisk walk from the tube. His hair was damp beneath the hood of his coat. He flashed a wide smile that tried to convince us everything was fine, but his eyes lingered on the menu longer than usual; instead of his usual slice of cake he settled for a glass of water.
Weve been meeting here once a month for thirty years now, ever since we were undergraduates at the physics department of Manchester University. Life has taken us in different directions: Im now a senior manager at a tech firm in the City, Sam teaches at a furthereducation college and does a bit of private tutoring, and Andrew ran a small electronicsrepair business until recently.
The evening began as it always does: we swapped news about work trips, how the kids are getting on, what were reading or bingewatching, and the odd amusing anecdote from home or the office. Andrew listened more than he spoke, chuckling less; at times he stared out the window at the rain for so long that Sam and I exchanged quick glances.
It was I who first sensed the shift. Andrew didnt laugh at the old university stories like he used to. When the conversation drifted to the latest smartphones or a potential holiday abroad, he steered the topic away or offered a thin smile that didnt quite reach his eyes.
Sam noticed too. When the waitress placed the bill on the table and asked, Split up or together? Andrew fumbled with his phone, muttering something about an app glitch, and offered to pay his share laterunusual for a man who normally covered the whole tab.
At one point Sam tried to break the tension with a joke:
You look serious, mate. Did the tax man get you again?
Andrew shrugged.
Just a lots piling up.
I added, Maybe you could pivot? You could take an online course, do something freelance
He forced a smile. Thanks for the tip.
Silence stretched, and none of us knew how to move forward. The café dimmed as the lights sharpened, the street disappeared behind the misty glass, and only the occasional silhouette of a passerby flickered against the streetlamp opposite.
We attempted to lift the mood by talking about sports (which bores me), and debating a new piece of legislation (which Andrew barely contributed to). The tension, however, grew heavier.
Eventually Sam couldnt hold back.
Andrew if you need money, just say it. Were friends.
Andrew looked up sharply.
You think its that simple? You think asking makes everything easier?
His voice trembled; it was the first time he raised it that loudly all evening.
I stepped in.
Were just trying to help. Whats the problem?
Andrew glared at both of us.
Help with advice? Or with a debt that haunts you forever? You dont get it!
He stood up so abruptly the chair screeched against the floor. The waitress watched from the bar with a wary eye.
For a few breathless seconds no one moved. The air grew thick, as if the tea itself were cooling faster. Andrew grabbed his coat from the hook and stormed out, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Sam and I were left alone, each feeling a guilty sting we werent ready to voice. The doors slam let a brief gust of cold air sweep over the window seat. Sam stared at the distorted streetlamp reflected in the glass, and I found myself absentmindedly twirling a spoon in my cup. The tension lingered, but now it felt oddly essentiallike a thin thread that had to be tugged before anything could be sorted.
Sam was the first to break the quiet.
I may have overreacted Im not sure whats right. What would you say, Ian? he asked, sighing.
I shrugged, my voice steadier than usual.
If I knew a way to fix it, Id have done it already. Were all adults, but sometimes backing off is wiser than saying the wrong thing.
We fell silent again. From the kitchen the waitress sliced a fresh cake, and the smell of baked goods drifted back into the room. Through the door a shadow passedAndrew, standing under the awning, hood pulled up, scrolling his phone. Gathering my courage, I rose.
Ill go get him. I dont want him to walk away like this.
I stepped into the small vestibule where the chill from the street mingled with the lingering dampness. Andrew stood with his back to the door, shoulders slumped.
Andrew I paused beside him, not touching. Sorry if we overstepped. We just worry about you.
He turned slowly.
I get it. But you dont tell me everything either, do you? I just wanted to sort it out on my own. It didnt work, and now Im left feeling ashamed and angry.
I considered his words, then after a beat said,
Lets go back to the table. No one is forcing you into anything. Talk or stay quiet, as you wish. But lets agree: if you need real help, say it straight. As for money I could offer something concrete, just not let a awkward debt linger between us.
Relief flickered across his face, mixed with fatigue.
Thanks. Id just like to be here with you both, without pity or a mountain of questions.
We returned together. On the table lay a warm slice of cake and a tiny pot of jam. Sam gave a nervous smile.
I grabbed the cake for everyone. Figured I could at least do something useful tonight.
Andrew sat down, quietly thanked us. For a while we ate in silence; someone stirred sugar into tea, crumbs gathered on napkins. Gradually conversation softened, moving from problems to weekend plans and new childrens books Sams daughter might enjoy.
Later Sam asked gently,
If you ever need to bounce ideas about work or look for options, Im happy to help. Money-wise you decide when youre ready to talk.
Andrew nodded appreciatively.
Lets keep things as they are for now. I dont want to feel indebted or out of place among you.
The pause no longer weighed on us; each of us seemed to accept an unspoken rule of honesty. We promised to meet again next month at the same spot, whatever news each of us might bring.
When it was time to leave, we each reached for our phones. I checked a reminder for tomorrows briefing at the office, Sam replied to his wife with a quick all good, and Andrew lingered a beat longer over his screen before slipping it back into his pocket without fanfare.
Only two coats remained on the hooks now: my grey one and Sams light tan. Andrew had already slipped his coat back on after his brief sortie, and we helped each other fasten scarves or button a cuff, as if the simple gestures could restore the ease wed once taken for granted.
Outside, the drizzle thickened; the streetlamps glow reflected in a puddle right by the cafés doorway. We stepped out together under the awning, the cold wind biting our cheeks as the door swung shut.
Sam was the first to move ahead.
Next month then? Call me if anything comes up, even at night.
I clapped Andrew on the shoulder.
Were here, even if sometimes we act like fools.
Andrew gave a shy smile.
Thanks, both of you really.
No grand promises followed; each of us now understood the limits of our involvement and the true value of the nights words.
We went our separate ways: some hurried for the tube beneath the wet glow of streetlights, others turned toward the quiet courtyard behind the row of terraced houses. The tradition of meeting enduresnow it demands a sharper honesty and a gentler regard for each others pain, and that, I think, is what keeps it alive.
