Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  The man turned toward Tommy and looked him up and down, then raised his eyebrows.

  ‘That’s a lovely guitar mate, where’d you get it?’ It wasn’t lovely looking at all; it looked as if it was ready to fall apart.

  ‘Snot stolen, if what ye’s thinkin. My old Granpa took it off a dead Frenchie officer when we wuz fightin old Bony, an’ its past to me down the lines so’s ter speak.’

  ‘Can I borrow it for a bit? I’ll look after it, I promise,’ Tommy said with a smile, though the soldier still looked dubious. ‘Tell you what, me old mate, you lend me your guitar and you can have this.’ He passed him what was left of the pork and bread.

  The soldier’s eyes widened and he nodded quickly, taking the food and passing the guitar in the same instant. The food disappeared into his dirty tunic and he went off down the incline. ‘I be back fer it on the morn,’ he said, and disappeared into the night.

  Tommy turned to Arun. ‘Can you pass me the lamp from inside the tent, please, mate.’

  ‘Yes please, Sahib.’ Thirty seconds later the lamp was on the table and Tommy was inspecting the guitar. Its neck was at an acute angle and the head was a funny rounded shape; he had no idea what the strings were made of and the saddle bridge looked broken. He strummed it to see if it was in tune. It sounded like a cat.

  ‘Well, this looks promising, I must say. I’m so glad we – sorry, you – gave our breakfast away. I can’t wait to hear it. Tell me, what time do the rest of the orchestra get here? I might start selling tickets, what.’

  Tommy ignored him and continued playing with the keys whilst plucking the strings. Arun sat on the floor humming and bobbing his head as though this was the main show.

  As he was tuning, he spoke to Maurice. ‘When I was quite young, my old lady sent me to guitar practice. Hated it at first, until I was old enough to realise that girls love musicians. When I was a teenager, I started a band with my mates. Called ourselves Four Minute Warning. Crap, eh? It was a right laugh, though, and I honestly thought we were gonna be massive.’

  ‘Well, that’s all very well, Thomas, but could you do something, because Arun’s humming is starting to grate.’

  ‘Right, what would you like? I can do rock, jazz, anything. What do want? Actually, you know what, I don’t think rock or jazz will be up your street. Luckily, though, I trained in classic.’ And with that, he started to pluck the strings.

  ‘This is “Capricho Arabe” by Tarrega,’ said Tommy, as a tune started to emanate from the body of the guitar. ‘This is one of the first pieces I tried to master when I was a kid, before I wanted to become a rock star, that is.’

  As the classic guitar piece went on, so Maurice’s mouth got wider. The sound was beautiful; not note-perfect because the guitar had seen better days, but still beautiful. The tune flowed out as Tommy’s fingers flicked and plucked up and down the frets.

  Arun had stopped humming and sat perfectly still, staring at the guitar as though it were alive. Maurice too had assumed the look of a sculpture. As the piece was coming to an end, Arun adopted a stupid, docile look.

  Tommy finished. He leaned over and picked up his drink, took a sip and looked up at Maurice. There was a single tear running down his right cheek and an unbelievable look of sorrow on his face.

  ‘Maurice, are you all right, mate?’ asked Tommy, concerned.

  ‘That was wonderful.’

  ‘Cheers, pal,’ he said. ‘Do you wanna hear another one? Err, let’s see, ah, got one. It’s a bit quicker, this one, so I might make a few mistakes.’ He started again. ‘This is “Asturias”. I can’t remember who it’s by, though.’

  Tommy had to use all his concentration, as he hadn’t played this piece for years, and he had to ad-lib a little, but seeing that they would never have heard it, he thought, What the hell.

  His fingers were a blur, up and down the neck again, and as he was playing, he didn’t notice Major Preston slide up out of the night and stand just behind the gawping Arun. He was soon joined by Captains Garratt and McMath, who also stood in amazement at the tune Tommy was creating.

  He finished again and reached for his glass.

  ‘Well, you are full of surprises, are you not, Mr Evans.’

  Tommy choked on his mouthful of scotch and jumped to his feet, coughing. He stood to attention.

  ‘I apologise for making you jump. Please, remain seated.’

  ‘Major Preston, sir, would you care for a tipple? And who have you there in the shadows? Ah, Ernest, William, a pleasant evening to you both,’ intoned Maurice smoothly.

  ‘Well, it seems to me that you have been having the better evening listening to this fine musician. That was a fair bit of playing, sir, if I do say so myself.’ The Captain walked forward and held out his hand; Tommy stood and grasped it. ‘Captain William McMath, and this fellow officer is Captain Ernest Garratt.’ The man who was clearly an Irishman stood aside to let Garratt shake Tommy’s hand.

  ‘Private Thomas Evans,’ said Tommy formally.

  ‘Well, don’t let us ruin your playing. Please continue,’ said Garratt.

  ‘Would you look, Ernest, on the table. A bottle of whisky, by the looks of it,’ said McMath with a smile.

  ‘Sit, gentleman. I shall have Arun fetch us three more chairs,’ chimed Maurice. ‘Major, that drink?’

  ‘I won’t, thank you. The dinner with the General has sapped my strength somewhat, so I shall retire, a good evening to you gentlemen.’ And Preston once again melted off into the night.

  Arun returned with two more chairs and the Captains sat with a smile, while McMath produced two tumblers.

  ‘So, Thomas,’ said Garratt. ‘You have a skill with that instrument. Tell me where you learnt it so well.’

  Tommy glanced at Maurice, looking for some intervention, but none was forthcoming. ‘My local vicar taught me, sir, from an early age. I picked it up quite fast. I seemed to have an ear for it.’

  ‘Would you know any Irish tunes, Mr Evans?’ asked McMath.

  ‘Err.’

  ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘Well, all right, it’s called “Sligo Creek”. You probably won’t know it. It’s just something I picked up years ago.’

  McMath nodded and sipped his drink.

  Tommy played and the tune had all three officers tapping their feet to the fast Irish melody. As the three had been enthusiastic with that piece, Tommy decided to play more, using his best DADGAD, the famed Celtic method of guitar tuning, and he plucked away into the night. What neither Tommy nor the others realised, though, was that a crowd had gathered while he was playing, just out of the lamp light, in the shadows. And along with some tears of yearning for home, there were also a lot more feet tapping away to the music.

  Later that evening, after they had retired to the hospital tent and the others back to theirs, Tommy lay on his bed listening to Maurice’s light snoring, and thinking about his predicament. Why was he here? What was it for? Could he actually be in some sort of coma? Was he lying in a hospital bed somewhere with severe head wounds, surrounded by his family and friends? Is this what actually happened to those unfortunate people? They lose one life and then live in another, dreamlike one? Why this life though? If he’d had to choose a dream life, it wouldn’t have been here, that’s for sure. Maybe with his mates in a rock band or something like that. He would never have given the Victorian period a second thought, unless you don’t get a choice. Maybe you just get dumped anywhere.

  ‘Well, thank God it wasn’t in the Roman times or something,’ he muttered out loud. He would probably be dead by now… again…sort of.

  Maurice mumbled in his sleep, ‘Oh, that would be wonderful, Jane, my dear, but lock the door first. Saucy minx.’

  Tommy smiled at his friend. Funny that, friend! An upper-class toff. But he was his friend, his only friend, actually. Tommy rolled onto his side and went to sleep.

  The next day, after he had eaten some stew for breakfast, Tommy decided on another stroll.

  ‘You
want to have a look at those cannons, Maurice, or stay with Jane?’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  Tommy smiled. It seemed Maurice genuinely couldn’t handle his drink one bit; he huffed and rolled over away from Tommy.

  ‘Suit yourself, mate, but I wanna take a quick butcher’s.’ He put his uniform on; he had gotten the hang of it by now and decided he needed to get it washed because it was filthy. Maybe Arun would do it? The wallah had been hero-worshipping Tommy since he had watched him play that old guitar. He caught a scent of something and sniffed under his arm.

  ‘Christ! I smell like a dead dog or something. Oh, for a can of deodorant.’ He stopped getting dressed. ‘Right,’ he said to himself, ‘I am gonna have a wash,’ and he took off his tunic. He walked out of the tent into the mid-morning sunshine and searched for Arun, who was squatting by a large cooking pot.

  ‘Arun, me old mate, do us a favour. Can you wash my uniform, please? It stinks.’

  The wallah jumped up. ‘Yes please, Private Sahib, right away Private Sahib, yes please.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you could manage some water and some shower gel – sorry, soap – could you?’

  ‘Yes please, Private Sahib.’ And with that he turned and disappeared round the back of a cart that was parked next to the hospital tent. A few minutes later he returned with a large bucket of water and placed it in front of Tommy. ‘Will Private Sahib be wanting a shaving also?’

  Tommy rubbed his chin and found at least a week’s growth. ‘Sure, why not.’ Arun still stood in front of Tommy with a confused look. ‘Yes please, mate.’

  Arun gave a big toothy smile. ‘Jolly good, Private Sahib,’ he said, and produced from nowhere a cut-throat razor.

  Tommy jumped. ‘Shit!’

  ‘For chin, for chin, Private Sahib.’ Tommy had been expecting a Bic razor for some reason. Arun indicated for Tommy to sit on a stool he had dragged over from outside the tent; he then started to rub a little round brush into a big block of something that Tommy presumed was soap, which he dipped it into the bucket every now and then. Once he had worked up quite a good lather, he said, ‘Please be opening shirt, Private Sahib.’

  Tommy reached for the shirt laces at his neck but then decided to take the thing off, so he pulled the whole garment over his head. Tommy was proud of his body; he worked out in the gym as much as possible, when he could get in there, of course, so he was quite well muscled in an athletic sort of way. He also had a fair share of tattoos, and this was what made Arun stop what he was doing and stare in fascination.

  ‘Do you like them, Arun?’ Tommy asked when he noticed the other man staring.

  ‘Private Sahib, you are having beautiful paintings all over body.’

  ‘They’re tattoos, me old mate, not paintings, and they cost me a fortune.’ He paused, then: ‘Watch.’ He grabbed the rough flannel from the bucket and rubbed at the Celtic cross on the top of his right arm. ‘You see? You can’t wash them off.’

  Arun leaned down and traced his finger over the tattoo on Tommy’s right bicep. ‘This is being your tribe, Private Sahib? Your army?’

  ‘No, mate,’ Tommy chuckled, ‘that’s a football team. Man United, the Red Army.’

  ‘Ah, I am knowing football, Private Sahib. Robert Vidal, the Wanderer, a truly great man, yes please.’

  ‘Err, yeah, I suppose so, mate.’ Tommy had no idea what he was on about. He sat on the stool and waited as Arun lathered his face. He gave him the closest shave Tommy had ever had. After rinsing off with some water and then wiping his face with a towel, he asked Arun if he had a mirror, as he realised he hadn’t seen his own face in a while. Arun disappeared for a few moments and then returned with a small ornately carved wooden box about the size of a house brick. He lifted the lid and handed it to Tommy, who hesitated. He had the awful notion that the face in the mirror wouldn’t be his own. He hesitantly took the box and gazed into the mirror, and to his relief the face looking back was indeed his own. Tommy inspected his face closely and he noticed a few light bruises, but they were yellowing, nearly healed. He had a slightly black left eye as well, but apart from that, he looked relatively well, maybe just a little thinner in the face, though not surprising, with the crap they ate here.

  ‘Thanks, Arun, that’s got to be the best shave I’ve ever had, mate.’

  Arun bobbed his head up and down. ‘Yes please, Private Sahib,’ he said, and handed Tommy the large block of soap. Tommy took it and, leaning over the bucket, he began to wash. The soap was efficient but bloody awful to use, and the scent was a strong chemical one as opposed to the perfumed version he was used to. Oh well, it is quite invigorating, he thought.

  Twenty or so minutes later he, was drying himself off with a rough flannel; he had also washed his short hair, cut military-style, which had also been filthy. After looking in the little mirror, he was pleased to see his natural brown colour was back, and not the greasy, dirty thing that had greeted him before he had washed it.

  Arun approached him. ‘Pardons Private Sahib, I have cleaned tunic.’

  Tommy accepted the dry uniform and, realising a vigorous brushing was all he was going to get, he put it on. Now smelling a bit better, well, more than his pet dog’s basket anyway, he thanked Arun and strolled off into the camp, making his way over towards the cannon he had seen yesterday. Or the day before. His body clock was totally off, he realised. In fact, it already felt like years since he was on patrol with Jacko and had gotten hit with that RPG, and entered Narnia.

  He approached the row of cannons and was amazed to find how new they looked. Idiot! Of course they’re new, he thought, or newish, anyway. The last cannon he had seen had been hundreds of years old and kept in a castle back home. As Tommy got a little closer, he noticed some native mud-built houses beyond the guns. A village, he thought, realising that he hadn’t noticed them before now. That made him wonder where exactly he was.

  Just before he reached the nearest cannon, ‘Can I help you, Private?’ came a strong but quiet voice.

  Tommy turned and saw an officer walking toward him. Realising the role he had to play, he came to attention.

  ‘Pardon me, Sir. I wus just admiring the cannons, sir,’ he said in the best cockney accent he could muster, remembering Jacko with fondness.

  ‘Are you, by God. Well why don’t you stop playing at infantryman and join the Royal Horse Artillery then, eh? Become a galloping gunner?’ He said this with a stern, clipped voice, but also with a slight smile.

  Tommy hesitated.

  ‘At ease, Private. So, what do you make of our little toys, then?’

  ‘They’re beautiful, sir,’ replied Tommy.

  The officer smiled. ‘That they are, Private,’ he said, but before he could continue, another soldier trotted up and came to attention.

  ‘Captain Slade, sir,’ he panted, ‘Major Blackwood sends his compliments and asks that you join him and the rest of the officers in his tent in ten minutes.’

  The Captain became thoughtful for a moment. He inhaled deeply through the nose and nodded to himself. ‘So it begins,’ he said quietly. He looked over at Tommy, ‘My apologies, Private. Sorry, you didn’t tell me your name.’

  ‘Thomas Evans of the 66th Foot, sir.’

  ‘Well, Private Thomas Evans of the 66th Foot, I must leave you, but feel free to ask Gunner Bale here any questions you might have. Farewell.’

  The Captain walked off into the mass of tents and Tommy was left with the bemused Gunner Bale.

  ‘What questions have do you have, then?’ asked Bale.

  ‘None really, mate. I was just looking at the cannon when the Captain came over. Just admiring, really.’

  Bale frowned. ‘Mate? Anyhow, these are muzzle-loading nine pounders. They fire case shot, explosive and shrapnel. Has that answered your questions, Evans?’

  ‘My name’s Thomas, or Tommy if you like.’

  Bale smiled. ‘My name happens to be Thomas as well. Pleased to meet yer,’ he said, and held out his hand, which Tom
my shook.

  Bale smiled. ‘I have a few minutes to spare if yer like, to tell yer about the guns, but it’ll have to be quick mind, else Sergeant Mullane will give me a roasting!’

  Tommy nodded.

  ‘Well, like’s I said, these here are nine pounder rifled barrels, but we also got some smooth bore, a couple of Howitzers and the rest are field guns – we took these off those levies.’

  Tommy was genuinely interested and was about to ask about shells when he heard a commotion behind one of the tents where the Grenadiers were: raised voices and the sound of pots and pans tipping over.

  Just then Arun came sprinting round the corner of a tent and nearly collided with Gunner Bale. ‘Hey, watch where yer running, you bloody heathen!’ he shouted.

  Tommy reached out and grabbed Arun’s arm, bringing him to a standstill. ‘Arun, what’s up, mate?’ Tommy asked, concerned with the look of fear on his face.

  Arun stopped panicking when he saw it was Tommy. ‘Pardons, Private Sahib, but I am making message for Major Preston Sahib with the request for having more tents from baggage. But I having trouble on the way with giant soldier of Grenadier for trying to help old chai wallah.’

  He said all this quite breathlessly and was visibly shaking.

  ‘Show me,’ said Tommy. But Arun quickly shook his head and his eyes nearly popped out.

  ‘Everything will be alright, Arun, I’ll be with you. Thomas, good luck, mate,’ he said, turning to Gunner Bale and shaking his hand again.

  Bale shrugged. ‘Aye, you too, Tommy lad,’ he said, and with that he turned and walked away.

  Reluctantly, Arun led Tommy to where he had heard the noises, and as he rounded the nearest tent, Tommy had a flash back of memory.

  It was the scene all over again, but instead of Sergeant Adams standing over an old man, it was the nasty looking Grenadier boxer standing over a terrified Bhisti wallah. As Tommy and Arun neared, the Grenadier slapped the wallah across the face and shouted something at him.

  Arun quailed back, but Tommy stepped up and stood in front of the wallah as he had done with the old man. The Grenadier had about three inches on him, so Tommy had to look up. And what he saw looking back was contempt.