dinner in some café. Lamb he thought it was. He
enjoyed it so much that he tried to say how pleased
he was to the proprietor by pointing at his plate
and going “baa-baa” with a pleasant, questioning
look. But the proprietor grinned, shook his head and
said “bow-wow!” It’s just a story. It must be just
a story. Though anything could happen out there.
You could believe anything. And though they said
that cities were bad places to live, they certainly
produced the best fighters. That’s what I found.
Paris, too. They had more guts. They had had to
fight all their lives. It was natural. We were
attached to the French there. Rum once a week if
you were lucky. Once it didn’t get through. Next
day we found the rum rationer dead on the road, not
dead drunk as we thought at first — Travel? I’ve
done enough of that in my time, if you don’t mind.
Her name for the exercise session. Stretch my
legs Could do with a stretch.
Ah. Mrs Bowen,
shall I give you a turn round?
Yes, I feel fine, Just for a few minutes,
eh? I’m sure she won’t want to keep us at it too
long tonight, eh, Mrs Bowen?
It was the guns all night. Then over the top at
dawn. Why wasn’t I killed like most of my mates?
It’s a mystery. No one can know. I had the new
shrapnel helmet on for the first time anything
came near my head. Left me a little concussed,
that’s all. Another time a Jerry got me across
it with the butt end of his rifle. But it didn’t
affect me and I got him with my bayonet while he
was recovering from the swing. I’d got used to the
noises people made, by then. It was him or me, I
knew that.
I saw a Jerry using
his spiked helmet as a weapon. Hand-to-hand it
was by then, in some attacks. When there were
gas shells about you tried to get a Jerry’s gas–
mask off.
Some of those old songs still turn me over.
March, march, left, right, left right, left right,
left! Don’t feel nervous on the corners, do you
Mrs B? Good.
I also saw gunners chained to their pieces to
stop them running for it. I saw officers urge
their men on from the rear with revolvers in their
hands. A man shot dead for answering back one of
the officers. Two weeks before the Armistice my
own cousin told me his officer had it in for him
and would certainly see to it that he got sent up
to the Front right to the last. He was blown
up with his gun. Serving his gun bravely to the
end, that so and so wrote to my poor Auntie.
Sent her the bits and pieces left, his brass
numbers all buckled, a tiny wineglass not broken, a
present for his daughter, she decided. And there
amongst the — Tourney? Right.
Right, Mrs Bowen,
sport now. You won the tourney last time, didn’t
you? You can do it again!
Thanks, Ivy.
Take the soggy mop.
Oh, this is a right
lark!
Off! Thunder
off! Better start than Sarah,
faster top speed, better knight, harder IMPACT!
Very good, Mrs Bowen, right in the face!
Round we go. And back again,
we’ll have another go.
BOMPF!
Right in the shoulder, Mrs Bowen!
And again. We’ll be the winners,
two-nil up.
Tiring. THUMP! Well done us, Mrs
Bowen, we deserve a rest, eh?
Well done!
I don’t want to listen to
all that rubbish again. Who does she think I am?
Bill and Glory asked
me to come and play in their pub in the city. I’d
never played in pubs before that. Because of my
disability I could not be called up. I was too
old anyway. But I had to go into industry, everybody
had to do that. I had nothing to do at night
times only go down the shelter or hide out in the
suburbs. So I was quite pleased to have something
to do. Shortly afterwards America came into the
war, and they used to pour out of Liverpool Street
station straight into this pub right opposite.
Somehow it seemed that the way I played was just
their handwriting. The word got around the
aerodromes in East Anglia and the pub did a roaring
trade. They would come in there with their five
days’ leave and lots of lovely money in their
pockets and say ‘Sing us the songs the old man sang in
the last war.’ They used to have a good time, I
was better off than I had been for a long time.
Nothing comes from nothing, I was
taught. But what about plants? The space occupied
by the growth must have left a space behind?
A field of wheat must surely have sunk by the volume
of the growth? If not, why not? These questions
should be answered. House
mother up on the dais again. Surely she’s not going
to tell us all those jokes again?
Yes, she is.
Groan, not laugh.
Heard it before. Shan’t listen. The
places I can’t reach. They must be getting very
dirty. Can’t scratch them properly, either. They
might be festering. They get wet when I bath, but
not washed. I am not allowed to be as fastidious
as I was. Or rather I am unable — Laugh! On the
word Laugh! you will laugh as ordered. Ha Ha Ha!
I went too far after the
rift with Betty. I just walked out on a job the
day after, and walked and walked all over, not knowing
— Groan, groan! I didn’t
care whether I lived or died. As it happened, I
lived. I don’t know how, at first. We had met too
many well-to-do people on our tours, and the girl
became dissatisfied. I can understand that now. At
the time it seemed bound to happen and very painful.
I went hungry once or twice, but soon found how to
ask for things with a fair chance of — HA HA HA!
I also offered to do
little jobs to help people out in return for the
odd meal or place to sleep for the night, and I
usually managed — Now what’s Ivy done?
Poor old girl. Just reading
her book quietly.
Who
wants to see hers? I’ve seen plenty of them in my
time, enough to last me a lifetime, thank you very
much. As for that great hairy dog….
One day I thought to myself
I can do better than this, so I went into a shop
and bought myself a penny whistle. It was a brass
one because they told me a tin one was illegal.
And as the fingering was the same as on the little
fife I learnt to play at school, it was quite easy
for me to pick out a few tunes. So from then on I
used to go drifting about all over the country playing
my little whistle and picking up enough coppers
to keep me going. But there were times when it was
hard. People wouldn’t give money to a young chap