Hymn From A Village

by Nigel Bird

The old lady handed me a wooden bowl filled to the brim with a stew the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I was a child then passed me a hunk of bread on a plate.

  “Tuck in.”

  I did.

  The rabbit was so tender it was fit to wean a child. I nodded my appreciation at the couple who watched on intently.

  Madame Desmerais passed me a glass of cider.

  I raised my glass and sipped. Tasted like the apples had just been picked from the tree.

  Soon as I finished, I told them what I could remember.

  I took them to the hole where I watched the shell explode.

  I remember checking myself over to make sure it hadn’t taken a bite out of me, then crawling over on my belly, elbows pushing back the heavy mud and muttering prayers under my breath.

  Could hardly bear to look inside when I got there. Had to, though.

  Mud and blood covered their faces. Made it difficult to tell who was who.

  Bernard sat, Jean lay face down.

  I rolled in. Saw straight away the stare of death in Jean’s eyes.

  Bernard just sat, still as night.

  “Cigarette?” I offered.

  No reply.

  I lit up anyway. Needed both hands to do the job.

  The smoke calmed me down, like it had swirled round my head and into my fingers and toes. Removed the smell of butcher’s shop from my nostrils, too.

  Another soldier jumped in.

  I pointed my gun ready to fire.

  Just my luck that it was Rousseau.

  Should have pulled the trigger.

  He reached over. Snatched the cigarette from me and threw it away.

  “No time to rest,” he screamed, flecks of spittle catching in his moustache. Couldn’t see the trench map now the rest of his face had coloured. “Get the hell out of here and cut those bloody wires.”

  Neither of us moved.

  “Desmarais, shift that square arse of yours.”

  He didn’t budge. Just held tight to his brother.

  Rousseau leaned over. Took a handful of Bernard’s jacket and tried to lift him to his feet. Moved his face in close. “Now,” he shouted.

  Bernard brushed the Sergeant’s hand away and threw Jean over his shoulder. Straightening his legs, he walked right out the back of the hole towards our trench, stepping over the bodies of our fallen as he went.

  Rousseau fumed. Shouted at him using words I couldn’t repeat in front of a lady.

  Next thing he was telling me to advance.

  Soon as I raised my head over the edge, I drew enough fire to drop an elephant. I fell back and leant into the land, the cool of the earth connecting to me like it wanted me to stay.

  From somewhere on the left came the whistle for retreat.

  Never heard a sweeter sound before or since.

  “He wasn’t a coward?” Madame Desmarais asked. “Did you hear that, Emile? Our Bernard was no coward.” Her eyes were wet, tears dripping onto her tabard. Made her look like she had some kind of infection.

  He was no coward. I knew it and so did they, but it wasn’t going to repair the damage.

  “Retreating without permission they said. A disgrace to the uniform and to France.” The old man clenched his teeth onto the stem on his pipe.

  Manners prevented me from puking. I held the food in my stomach by sheer force of will and decided not to tell them anything more.

  ***

  On the train home I was haunted by memories.

  We were out by the chateau where the military brass camped out.

  It was like an Easter procession they way they headed for the post. A couple of infantry marched ahead, then there was Bernard, head held high. Just behind them, a priest muttered in Latin. Must have known he was wasting his breath on this one. Another couple of guards took up the rear.

  Rousseau had the job of leading our squad. Made sure it was men from the same unit that did the shooting so we could spread their warning. Marched us in like we were about to do something splendid.

  By the time we were in position, Bernard was already tied.

  Rousseau checked the knots that held Bernard to the post. Looked like he offered him some final words.

  Bernard spat in Rouseau’s eye when he offered him a blindfold, the crazy sod. I wanted to cheer. So did everyone else, it turned out.

  Instead my eyes watered.

  It was all so wrong. I remembered pointing my gun at Rousseau in the bunker back there.

  Thought about blowing his head off right there in front of the generals and the rest of the scum lined up for their morning’s entertainment. Didn’t though.

  Something got in the way. Fear, I suppose. I guess it was me who was the coward just then.

  Rousseau wiped off the spit. Turned and marched to where we were lined.

  At least his moustache had the grace to tremble.

  He took out his sword and lifted it into the air.

  The injustice had me shaking. I could hardly keep the gun straight.

  As the sword was raised Bernard winked at me. Like I was forgiven.

  As it fell, the triggers clicked. All except mine.

  I cursed my rifle. Said it jammed. Not that it did Bernard any good – he was slumped at the post like someone had removed his spine.

  When I got inside I unloaded. Picked out the bullet that should have gone and slipped it into my pocket.

  I’ve had it with me ever since.

  ***

  Still had one piece of unfinished business. A little job over in Tours.

  Took a room at the Hotel Du Nord. Cost more than I wanted to pay, even with the discount for a week’s stay, but I needed to be opposite the bank.

  On the windowsill, a bottle of Bordeaux and a platter of sausage helped to pass the time as I watched. The wine was too new, the sausage had me chewing more than I like, but it wasn’t important.

  Rousseau didn’t come out for air until the end of day. He’d grown and extra chin and put on an extra tyre round the belly, but I’d have recognised him no matter how much he’d changed. His suit looked expensive, but he wore it like a scarecrow, jacket too tight, trousers a little short.

  Still had the watch chain and the shiny shoes, though.

  It took 3 keys to lock up.

  When he was done, he turned and bumped an old lady. Took off his hat and practically bowed before her, as aware as ever of rank, then marched off up the street.

  I too, was done for the day.

  I closed the shutters, lay down on my bed and blew smoke into the darkness.

  ***

  I’d fantasized about the moment on many occasions, tying the bastard up and having him begging for mercy, watching the piss puddle at his feet. Taking my rifle and the bullet that had Bernard’s name on it and shooting him right between the eyes.

  It was never going to end that way, more’s the pity.

  Instead I got up early on the Thursday, while bakers still worked their ovens and the sweepers cleaned the gutters.

  I waited at the bank. Leant against the door.

  Rousseau strolled up whistling some happy tune. Turned into me.

  I waited for recognition to show on his face and then raised the gun.

  The first shot was enough.

  I bent down and placed Bernard’s bullet in the pocket of his waistcoat, then stood and popped another into his skull.

  A little of his blood sprayed my leg, a little of his brain, too.

  I waited for him to tell me to wipe myself clean.

  The order never came.

  A Whole Lotta Rosie

  Fifty years to the day Rose has been walking on the planet. Not that she’s walked on much of it. Sheep farms in the summer. Back home the rest of the time.

  Hasn’t been far.

  Not that she’s needed to.

  A huge fish in a small pond, you might say. Six foot four and eighteen inches round the biceps. The blokes on the station all kid on she’d crush any man who lay between her thighs, but they�
�ve all taken their turn at one time or another and all gone back for more.

  She goes over to the pen. Tucks her golden locks into her polka-dot bandana. Hikes up her jeans and takes out the only sheep on the entire ranch that still has wool on its back. Turns it over like she’s tossing pancakes, grabs onto the fore-legs and drags it backwards through the swing-door.

  The rest of the crew stand round in their wide-brimmed hats and their sleeveless shirts. They’re smoking to a man and look keen to get down to the pub.

  Trapping one of the sheep’s legs between those enormous thighs of hers she gets to work, flat out like a lizard. She’s so busy trimming the fleece that she doesn’t see the crew tip-toeing around and getting into position.

  As she makes the last stroke and turns off the switch, she gets up awaiting her round of applause.

  Tom Brody, owner of the land, walks up to her with his hand outstretched ready for a shake. He doesn’t know that Rose is intending to crush his bones into dust. She doesn’t know that he’s not going to give her the chance.

  He leans forward.

  Instead of shaking, he pushes her hard in the chest.

  She falls backwards over Shifty, who’s curled in a ball behind her.

  The sheep gets up and runs for the door.

  The other four guys pounce onto Rose and pin her down.

  It’s not easy keeping the nation’s arm-wrestling champ floored, but they’re big men and are skilled in stopping wriggling creatures getting away.

  “Happy birthday to you,” they sing like a choir of horny dingoes.

  “Get the fuck off, you mongrels,” she shouts, but it’s all part of the fun.

  She hears the sound of the clippers starting behind her. “Not the hair boys,” she shouts, “Not the bleeding hair.”

  *

  Two days later and Rose is back in the city. She loves the big nights. The rush of adrenalin and the buzz of the attention.

  She watches from the curtain that separates her from the audience. Watches her opponent milk the crowd as she struts down to the stage.

  A woman gets under the rope and steps in front of Mo. Next to anyone else, she’d look huge, but alongside Mo she looks small. Her huge cleavage is easier for Rose to look at than the landscape of scarring on her face. She gives Mo a pen then squeezes her breasts together till they look like two bald men kissing. Mo signs them like she’s a celebrity and the woman lifts her shirt so all her friends can see. They whoop and cheer like they’ve never had it so good, a flock of mutton in sheep’s clothing.

  Word on Mo has travelled far, even up to the sheep station. Goes by the name of ‘The Maori Mountain’ and Rose sees for herself that it’s not all about the alliteration.

  The way she plays the audience it’s more like a Miss Universe contest than Victoria’s arm-wrestling final, heavyweight division.

  The Mountain steps up and flexes. Lets those at the front rub on oil, her muscles straining against her tattooed skin as if they’re trying to burst out.

  “Blooming poser,” Rose says and then she sniffs hard at her bottle of salts. Like snorting urinals, she thinks.

  The announcer looks over and she gives him the nod, making sure she’s hidden when the spotlight turns in her direction.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” (though it’s mostly ladies), “Undefeated in the professional arena,” (that since the age of eighteen), “The Queen of Victoria, the Maid of Melbourne, The Sheila of the Shears...”

  “Christ, get on with it,” Rose says to the back of the curtain. She looks at the wallpaper. The cheap bastards haven’t changed a thing since she first appeared there.

  She counts the fading flowers of the pattern while she waits to hear her name.

  “A whole lot of Wrestling Rose Robbins.”

  The floor shakes as the guitar booms in.

  Ba da ba da ba da ba.

  The shrieking and the booing begin, the shrieks winning on a split decision.

  This is the part she hates. All the frills and nonsense. The only things that matter take place at the table. Even so, she does the sponsors proud, hitting the high-fives, punching the air, singing along to her theme-tune.

  “She ain’t exactly pretty,” (her fans scream), “She ain’t exactly small,” (like the song was written for her), “42, 39, 56,” (in her dreams), “You could say she’s got it all.”

  The sweat’s pouring down her face by the time she reaches the stage. Has something to do with the synthetic fibres of the wig, cheaper than the natural stuff, but not as forgiving.

  “Nice look,” George shouts into her ear as he goes over and kisses her cheeks. “Might even buy you a drink after this is done.” It’s true. She looks good in the pink bob, like Louise Brooks after a few good meals.

  “Might even accept,” she tells him, pulling off her silk cloak and handing it over.

  She points to the words written on her t-shirt, ‘OFTEN LICKED, NEVER BEATEN’ and draws another cheer and a couple of boos for her effort.

  Mo gets in her face.

  Other than big, she’s everything Rose is not. She works out, does her nails, moisturises, conditions her pit-black hair and holds it in place with sprays.

  Her dark eyes stare at Rose like she can see inside her skull.

  It’s nothing Rose hasn’t seen before, but it’s better than most. Like she really believes she can win.

  Rose knows better than to stare back. Instead she admires the tattoos that cover her arms. She’s seen their likes before on her travels. Thought about getting her own done till the artist pointed out it would just make her skin look older.

  Kisses her ring for luck. Won it on a coconut-shy when she was still a virgin. The fake emerald leaves the taste of polish on her lips.

  She tightens up her lifter’s belt and sits down at the table. Spreads her legs and takes hold of the post with her left hand. Flexes her fingers around it till the grip feels right, then sticks.

  Mo does the same at the other side of the table.

  George starts talking then brings the hands together.

  Mo grips like enormous pliers, the vein on her arm pulsing like a snake.

  First round it’s easy for Rose. She moves through the gears so fast that Mo hasn’t time to react. She’ll learn, one day, that strength without technique is like water without a bottle.

  Second round, though, it’s all attrition. Stuck in the middle for a while, then inching one way then the other until a shooting pain works its way from Rose’s elbow to her shoulder. For a moment she loses focus. Thinks her heart’s giving up on her. Wishes she’d given up the smokes. Feels the back of her hand on the table and realises she’s not dying. Not tonight.

  Round three’s the decider.

  The pain has faded. A quick rub like it’s no big deal and they’re back at it.

  Things aren’t the way they usually are. All Rose can do is defend, her wrist an inch from table’s top.

  Only her hand-strength keeps the bout alive, her reputation solid. The rest of her body trembles with the tension and is crying out to submit.

  Mo tries again to shift the lock. Digs her nails in to gain an edge.

  Rose bites her lip to find a different kind of pain.

  She knows she’s beat. There’s no way back. Just a case of going out with pride.

  A stream of sweat peels off her nose to meet her eyes, stinging like pokes from a pair of chilli fingers.

  Her left hand wipes them clear and snags her wig on return, only she’s too focussed to notice.

  As if the Lord descends, she feels Mo’s pressure slacken and knows it’s time to act. Throws every ounce at one last stand.

  Feels Mo’s arm push back and give. Hits the back of her hand to the table like she’s in a game of snap.

  It’s all over.

  Rose stands up and punches air.

  Looks out to gather adulation.

  Can’t believe there’s none of it around.

  Instead it’s the hysterical laughter of play
ground shame.

  Mo’s the same. Pissing her sides and pointing.

  The only straight face she sees is George, his mouth down-turned like a falling, crescent moon. He puts the microphone to his face. Rose doesn’t hear it all, like her brain clicks on and off like alternating current. “...disqualified for taking her hand from the table...new heavyweight champion...the Maori Mountain.”

  It’s all a blur, like a night out with the boys.

  “Come on, Rose,” George says and puts an arm around her neck. “Let’s get you out of here.” He waves to the DJ who cues her up.

  Ba da ba da ba da ba.

  And even the guitar sounds like it’s laughing.

  It’s only when she gets to the dressing room that she sees it, the bob of pink snagged onto her ring and hanging in the air like a distress signal.

  Seated in her van, she looks in the rear-view mirror and gazes at her scalp.

  Atop her sun-blasted, outback skin the cone of her scalp shines like an egg. All she needs is a tea-spoon and toast soldiers to complete the picture.

  Feels another tear roll down.

  Lets her fingers play along the hand-held shears she uses for the exhibitions. Waits to take the Maori Mountain’s crown.

  Sisterhood

  “Veil and evil.” This was the part Brandon enjoyed the most. “Same four letters. Ever noticed?”

  The three women tied to the chairs that used to sit round his grandfather’s table offered no response. Just stared.

  Ever since Granddad had gone into the home, Brandon had been using the house as a base. Seemed fair enough - he spent his week teaching brats who didn’t want to learn to pay for the old goat to stay there.

  ‘The Chamber’ he called it. He liked to hear himself say it out loud.

  Brandon and his mates loved weekends. A couple of pints at the meeting followed by a trawl round town to do their bit to clean the streets.

  Seemed like their lucky night when they saw three of them together.

  When they bundled them into the van they made no attempt to struggle. Wasn’t so much fun without having to beat them into submission, but there was still time to get their kicks.

  Billy was all for chucking them into the Ribble, leaving their fate to the undertow, but Brandon ordered them to head for the usual place.