Pints & Friends
1979
The hands of the great clock above platform eleven were stuck at a minute to twelve when John first saw Mike again.
He had forgotten how big Mike was, tall, broad-shouldered, with that effortless confidence that seemed to come naturally to anyone in uniform.
“John!” Mike bellowed, his voice carrying over the hum of travellers and the echo of the station tannoy. “Still standing under clocks, waiting for life to start?”
John laughed. “Still turning up late, you mean. You are the one with the military precision, remember?”
“Ah,” said Mike, patting the dark blue sleeve of his new uniform, “that was before the Navy decided to make me a Sub-Lieutenant. Now I’m paid to be late, it builds anticipation.”
They clasped hands, that peculiar mix of affection and rivalry that never quite fades between friends. It had been three years since they’d last seen each other, saying goodbye outside their grim student digs in Exeter.
John was twenty-one, clean-shaven, dressed in the faintly crumpled suit of a young man trying to appear older than he felt. He’d found a job with a small marketing and PR firm in Holborn, dull work mostly, writing copy for toothpaste and pet food, but it paid the rent and the occasional pint.
Mike, meanwhile, was now officially Navy. He’d gone through Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, learned to salute and navigate, and had just been posted to HMS Sheffield.
They went to a pub just off The Strand—The Wellington, still smelling faintly of smoke and fried onions—and ordered a proper lunch: steak and kidney pudding, chips, and pints of bitter.
Mike’s stories were vivid and loud. “Gen Dits” he would call them. He spoke of life on base, the camaraderie, the long nights of “runs ashore” in ports from Plymouth to Gibraltar.
“You’d love it,” he said, eyes gleaming. “It’s all chaos, but beautiful chaos. The Sheffield’s a proper ship, Type 42 Destroyer, sleek, full of pride.”
John smiled, half-jealous. “I just write press releases about cleaning products.”
“Ah, but someone’s got to keep the world smelling fresh,” Mike teased.
The afternoon slipped by with pints and laughter as the two men wandered from pub to pub, telling stories and embellishing the truth as only old friends can. They promised, with the solemn sincerity of the slightly drunk, to meet every year, right here, under the clock at Waterloo Station, whenever they could.
And for a while, they did.
1985
The clock looked different now, cleaner, brighter, its brass rim polished to a shine. John stood beneath it, fidgeting with the strap of his briefcase.
He was thirty-one, married, and the father of twin boys—Ben and Charlie, who had inherited their mother’s serious eyes.
Work was better these days. He’d moved up in the PR firm, managing accounts, steering campaigns. But something about it left him hollow. He found himself drawn more and more to his charity clients, the ones that made him feel useful, not just successful.
Then he saw Mike, limping heavily across the concourse. The easy swagger was gone, replaced by a careful, deliberate step. The uniform still fit, though the gleam had dulled.
“John,” Mike said, smiling, his voice quieter than before.
They shook hands, and John felt the steel of his friend’s grip, still strong, though something else lingered behind it. Perhaps loss.
“Good to see you, mate,” John said. “It’s been ages.”
Mike nodded. “Six years, give or take. You look well. Family life suits you.”
They found a corner table at a restaurant near the river and ordered a bottle of wine. Mike drank quickly, almost thirstily.
He told John the story as if it belonged to someone else, the Falklands, the air raid, the Exocet missile that struck Sheffield. The smell of burning metal. The screams. The sea swallowing the ship. She stayed afloat but went down when taken under tow.
“I was lucky,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Leg took the brunt of it. Others didn’t get that chance.”
John didn’t know what to say. Words, his professional currency, suddenly seemed cheap.
Mike laughed, seeing his discomfort. “Don’t look so glum. I’m still in. Lieutenant Commander now, two and a half ringer. Though it’s mostly desk work, a Pusser’s Office in Portsmouth. Making sure the ships have enough baked beans and toilet paper on board. Glorious paperwork.”
They drank more, moving from reminiscence to distraction. Mike spoke of the Navy, of men he’d served with, of the odd comfort of routine. John spoke of his boys, of Christines’s garden, of his yearning to do more meaningful work.
As evening settled, Mike glanced at the clock behind the bar. “Funny thing about time,” he said. “You think you’ve got oceans of it, and then one day poof.”
John nodded. “We’ll meet again next year, same place?”
“Of course,” Mike said. “Under the clock. Always.”
1990
Five years passed in what felt like a heartbeat.
John arrived early this time. He was now running his own PR company, a small but thriving operation focused on charities, cultural institutions, and the occasional corporate giant willing to pay double. He was proud of what he’d built.
When Mike arrived, it took John a moment to recognise him. He’d filled out, not just a little weight, but the kind that spoke of whisky nights and quiet unhappiness. His once-neat hair was thinning; his eyes, though still bright, carried shadows.
“No uniform?” John asked.
Mike shook his head. “No Navy now. Left last year. Desk work wasn’t for me. Thought I’d try civvy street.”
“And how’s that going?”
Mike gave a small laugh. “Let’s just say the sea doesn’t let you go easily. But I’m managing, the Navy pension is decent enough”.
Over lunch, they talked of families, careers, and old times. John offered him a position at the firm, “We could use a man like you: organisational genius, leadership skills” but Mike declined gently.
“I need to find my own way, John. Can’t just be the Navy bloke in a PR office.”
They went for drinks after, though John noticed Mike’s hands shook slightly as he lifted his glass. The stories were still there, but less sharp, more melancholy.
When they said goodbye, Mike clasped John’s shoulder. “You’re doing well, mate. Don’t lose sight of what matters.”
“You too,” John said, though he wasn’t sure Mike believed it.
1999
Time passed, as it does, stealthily, without asking permission.
They still met, though not always yearly. Sometimes work, illness, or family intervened. But the promise of under the clock endured.
By ’99, John’s company had become reputable, small but respected. His boys were teenagers, perpetually hungry and perpetually late. Christine remained the anchor of his life, quietly strong.
Mike, however, was drifting. His drinking had worsened; his weight had ballooned. Yet when he appeared under the clock, he still carried himself with the ghost of his old naval bearing.
They went for lunch no longer boozy, for John had learned that one drink too many loosened truths best left unsaid.
“You ever think,” Mike said suddenly, staring into his pint, “that maybe life isn’t about winning, but surviving?”
John looked at him. “You’ve survived a war, Mike.”
“Aye,” Mike said softly, “but surviving peace—that’s harder.”
2009
It was a spring morning, unseasonably warm, when they met again.
John had just turned fifty-one, his sons now men themselves. His company had grown, his reputation solid. Life felt, for once, balanced.
Mike arrived looking older than his years, heavier still, face flushed, eyes rimmed red. He walked slower, breathing heavily, but his smile, when it came, was still the same.
“Had a bit of a scare,” he admitted once they’d sat down. “Heart attack last winter. Doctor says I’ve got to lay off the booze and lose a few stone. So, coffee it is.”
John nodded. “I’m glad you’re still here, Mike.”
“Me too,” Mike said, his tone oddly light. “Scared the hell out of me, though. Makes you take stock.”
They spoke at length about health, family, and regret, two men edging into late middle age, aware of time in a way their younger selves never could have been.
When they parted that day, Mike said quietly, “Next time, I’ll be fitter. You’ll see.”
2015
He was true to his word.
When John saw him again six years later, Mike was transformed. He had lost weight, and walked briskly, no limp, no wheeze. His face was tanned, eyes clear.
“You’re a new man,” John said, genuinely impressed.
“Had to be,” Mike replied. “Gave up the drink, started walking, even met someone.”
“Really?”
Mike smiled sheepishly. “June. Widowed. Runs a dog rescue near Fareham. Fierce woman, terrifying really, but she keeps me honest.”
John laughed. “Is she as terrifying as you say?”
“Ugliest woman I’ve ever met,” Mike said fondly, “but I love her to bits.”
They spent the day walking along the Embankment, talking about the past, the absurdity of fate. For once, it was Mike who offered wisdom.
“You know, John,” he said, “we’ve both had our wars. Yours in business, mine at sea. But the real victory is just still turning up, still meeting under the clock.”
2020
The world changed.
John’s business collapsed under the weight of the pandemic. Contracts dried up; staff were furloughed and then gone. Decades of work disappeared in months. Bankruptcy followed, humiliating, painful and final.
When restrictions lifted, he almost didn’t come. But habit, or maybe hope, drove him to Waterloo.
He recognised Mike instantly, though the transformation startled him anew. Mike was lean, fit, dressed neatly, carrying a thermos of coffee.
“John,” he said warmly. “Good to see you. You look…” He paused, tact failing him.
“Ruined?” John offered.
“Seasoned,” Mike said kindly. “You’ve weathered storms before.”
They sat on a bench near the concourse, sipping coffee in paper cups, watching the surgical masked commuters rush past.
“I’ve lost everything,” John said quietly. “The company, the house, even the car. Christine’s gone to stay with her sister. I feel… finished.”
Mike shook his head. “You’re not finished. You’re between tides. The trick is to wait for the next one.”
John looked at him. “How did you do it, Mike? How did you change?”
“Nearly dying helps,” Mike said with a faint smile. “Then you realise every day’s a second chance.”
They didn’t drink that day, or the next time. Their friendship had become something steadier, less about stories, more about survival.
2025
The clock had been restored again, its face gleaming, its hands steady.
John arrived first, as always. He was seventy now, retired, living in a modest flat near Richmond. The twins were grown, both fathers themselves. He was content in a way he hadn’t expected to be, his days filled with reading, volunteering, the occasional visit from his grandchildren.
Mike appeared a few minutes later, walking easily, carrying two coffees. He was broader than before, but healthy. The years sat comfortably on him now.
“Still punctual,” Mike said, handing him a cup. “I suppose one of us has to be.”
“Habit,” John replied. “And I like the view.”
They stood for a while, watching people hurry beneath the vast glass roof. Young lovers, business travellers, students with backpacks, all versions of who they’d once been.
“So,” Mike said, “retirement treating you well?”
“Surprisingly so. You?”
“Better than I deserve,” Mike said. “Consulting for a few small firms. Keeps me sharp. June and I travel a bit. Life’s good.”
John smiled. “It’s strange, isn’t it? We’ve been meeting here for forty-six years.”
Mike chuckled. “Longer than some marriages.”
They found a quiet café and sat for lunch. No alcohol now—just coffee, water, and good food. Their conversation drifted easily between memory and reflection; pensions, flu jabs, bowel screening practicalities and winter fuel payments.
“Do you ever think about Sheffield?” John asked softly.
“The Shiney Sheff - every day,” Mike said. “Not the explosion, not the fire, but the lads. Their laughter. Their courage. It’s funny, isn’t it? The things you choose to remember.”
“And forget,” John added.
They lingered over dessert, unhurried.
When the time came to part, they walked back to the concourse together. The clock loomed above them, patient, eternal.
“Same time next year?” John asked.
Mike smiled. “Of course. Under the clock. Always.”
They shook hands, two old men who had shared the long rhythm of life, its storms and calms, its heartbreaks and recoveries.
John watched as Mike disappeared into the crowd, the dark shape of him swallowed by the station’s movement. Then he turned and looked up at the clock, the minute hand ticking forward, steady as breath.
The promise endured.
Years later, long after the last of their annual meetings had faded into memory, a young naval cadet stood beneath the same clock, waiting for his train. He glanced up at a small brass plaque mounted on the pillar nearby:
Under the Clock
In memory of John Whitfield and Michael Harris
Friends for a lifetime.
Met here every year, 1979–2025.
Time passes, friendship endures.
The cadet smiled, lifting his gaze to the clock—still ticking, still keeping faith.
And somewhere in the rhythm of that steady motion, the laughter of two old friends seemed to linger, echoing softly through Waterloo Station.
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