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Endeavour looked at the foam sticking to side of his beer glass. He was half way through his pint of ale. He would need another very soon. He took another long sip of his beer.
“Mum’s been extra vigilant about his diet, making sure he eats right,” said Joyce. She barely touched her pint of beer while she relayed the family news. “But he’s not having any of it. He just sits there, silently fuming and pushing every plate of boiled veg away. Two weeks ago, he was gone for two hours. Mum tried to pretend it didn’t bother her, but I could tell she was worried. When he came home, he was so pissed, he couldn’t walk straight without feeling around for the walls and furniture. Now that he’s stuck in bed, he just sits there, sulking and fuming.”
Joyce paused. Endeavour wondered if he was supposed to say something now. Instead, he took another long sip of beer. There were people who smoked so that they had something to occupy their hands. Endeavour drank when he had nothing to say. The glass was a quarter full now.
“Did you need another beer, Endeavour?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine,” said Endeavour, despite the fact that another pint was exactly what he needed. But asking for another pint would make Joyce worry. This was his second pint this evening.
“He asks about you, you know,” said Joyce, no judgement coloured her voice. That was what Endeavour liked by Joycie, she didn’t judge. She worried and reassured lost souls like him. It was the only familial comfort he knew since his mother died.
So he indulged her. “What did he ask?”
“What you’ve been doing these past few years,” she said. “If you’re happy at Oxford. He worries about you.”
It took every ounce of Endeavour’s self-control to keep his face neutral and keep from saying what he really thought. It was typical of Joyce to voice her concerns by claiming they were his father’s. He took another sip of beer.
“Are you happy?” she asked.
Endeavour put down his beer. There was still foam in his beer. Whoever pulled it did a terrible job. He played with the handle of the beer mug, considering his answer.
“I was much better than when I last left Oxford,” he finally answered. “I don’t have much to tell except I’ve got my sergeant’s exam coming up and my superiors were impressed with the results of my firing range test.”
“Remember the gun practise in the yard, Joycie?”
Joyce nodded. “Mum always complained about what the neighbours might think of the noise.”
He smiled wistfully. “I was quite good at shooting those tins. I think it was the one thing I did that pleased him.”
He tried to conjure up an image from his memory of his father being proud of him in that cold yard. But there was nothing but his sneer, forced indifference and disappointment whenever he tried to remember his father’s face. Endeavour grimaced. “In his eyes, I’ve made a mess of my life, haven’t I?”
Bless Joyce, she didn’t even try to outright lie to him. She reached out for him, holding onto his shoulder, looking straight into his eyes. They shone in the dim light of the pub. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks. I’m glad you’re happier. That will have to be enough for now, won’t it?”
Endeavour broke her gaze and finished his beer.