Angelique

by Carl Leckey

  Back at the Railway Inn I have a pint and write a long letter to Denise giving her all the news. I also send a letter to Billy, Dave and Toot informing them of the Colonels demise. I am not sure if the letters will get to them in time for them to attend the funeral but I know they will appreciate being informed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Goodbye to my hero

  My travels begin again on the 0945 train from Cuddington to Chester. Edith and Sandy bid me farewell at the station. I hope they make it to the funeral but Sandy doesn’t appear too well when they drop me off.

  As I haven’t visited the village I have no idea where to arrange a meeting. Sandy solves the dilemma by pointing out they would just drive around until they see a funeral.

  At a loss to suggest anything else I have to agree.

  Two and a half hours finds me at Great Malvern station. The Station Master gives me directions to the Colonels village about ten minutes walk away on the outskirts of Great Malvern. My first task is to find somewhere for lunch and a nights lodging. I find a pub with the strange name.

  The Unwilling Volunteer.

  On a hand written board is the advertisement Good Homemade Food and Lodgings. I don’t know whether it is usual for a small village pub but when I enter the smoke filled bar it is surprisingly crowded for a lunch time.

  I have heard this lovely part of the country is a great holiday centre but certainly not at this time of the year. Although the bar is crowded there is an empty chair in the corner by the fire that everyone appears to avoid. I am sitting in a window table eating a nice meal and drinking a pint of scrumpy when something occurs to me as I note the clientele. Many are cripples with limbs missing, some show signs of burns. There are a couple accompanied by mates that are obviously blind. When I home into the chatter it is obvious they are mostly ex service men. Good God it is such a small village and yet there are so many maimed and disabled men. When I have finished my meal as I order another pint of scrumpy I ask the barman about accommodation.”

  He replies while pulling a pint. “You are lucky sir; there is just one room left. I’ll tell the Landlord you want it shall I?”

  I decide to take it without looking at the room. “Yes for two nights please.”

  He informs me. “We have never been so busy at this time of the year. Except for my time in the service I have worked here for fifteen years this is the first time we have had to bring in extra staff to cope with the rush.”

  “What’s it all about?” I enquire. He gives me a strange look and replies as he serves another customer “They are all here for the Colonels funeral of course. Aren’t you here for that as well?”

  Before I offer an answer he adds. “If you aren’t you’re about the only one isn’t, this was his local pub before er the accident, his funeral is leaving from here tomorrow.” He disappears for a moment through a door behind the bar and returns with a key. He instructs me.

  “Your room is upstairs at the end of the landing, room seven. Evening meal for patrons is in the back room at seven o’clock. Breakfast will be served from seven thirty until nine o’clock. That will be two pounds in advance please sir?” As I pay him I ask “What’s with the chair by the fire I notice even though the place is crowded its left empty, is it too warm by the fire or something?”

  “That’s the Colonels chair.” He replies without any further explanation and carries on with his duties. After I have stowed my gear in my room I go for a walk around the village.

  I would describe the place as chocolate box pretty. In the centre is a village green complete with duck pond. This pleasant open area is surrounded by thatched cottages I note the largest one has the name I recall from the address on the head of the Colonels letters. As I arrive at the ancient church I notice a man cleaning a Rolls Royce automobile outside the vicarage.

  There is something familiar about him but I can’t place where or whether I have met him before. I carry on with my walk and arrive at a small field on a crossroad. Two men are digging an oblong trench to a goodly depth. I have to smile as I hear them cursing the frozen ground. Must be digging drains or something passes through my mind. I recall frantically digging trenches for protection against air raids at the dressing station. I can’t help wondering if the two men have had similar experiences as they chat, curse and leisurely dig. I have reached fields on the edge of the village and begin to backtrack towards the pub. As I approach the vicarage the man I observed when I passed earlier has finished cleaning the Rolls he is now leaning on the gate having a smoke. As I pass him by I bid him. “Good Day.” He returns my greeting. I had not taken more than ten paces when he calls after me. “Is that you er Scouse?”

  I complete a smart about turn and move towards him.

  He says. “I thought it was you. You don’t remember me do you?”

  As I am close to him I realise I recognise him but still can’t recall from where until he informs me. “It was in the dressing station and the Chateau hospital. I am the padre’s driver George Wilkinson.”

  It still doesn’t ring a bell until he adds impatiently. “You know Captain Thomas De Silva.”

  I reply with derision. “Oh that shit! Are you still with him?” He replies. “Yes I’m still with him as a matter of fact he is in the vicarage at the moment.”

  I shake my head in disgust. “I can’t understand that George I’m surprised you stayed with him. I mean I know you had no choice during the war but after you got demobbed? I remember how much you hated the bugger when I saw you last?

  I burst out laughing as I remember the last time I saw the Padre.

  “Hey George remember when my mate fed him that jollop and gave him the shits at the Sunday service. I recall you danced with joy that day.

  What was it that the lads were singing? Oh yes I remember now. It’s a long way to the”

  I break of suddenly as he doesn’t join in my laughter instead he asks.

  “Where are you off to now, Scouse?” I respond. “I’m going to the pub down the road a way I’ve booked in for a couple of nights.”

  He enquires. “Are you here on holiday or something?”

  Before I answer he says. “It’s a queer time of the year for a holiday if you don’t mind me saying.” I inform him. “I’m not here on a holiday mate I’ve come to attend an old war time comrade’s funeral.” He replies. “That will be Colonel Sanders you are on about I reckon?”

  I agree he then asks. “Do you mind if I come with you to the pub I wouldn’t mind a pint and I have something to tell you I think you should know?” I shrug my shoulders and invite him along. “Yes by all means come with me for a pint. It’s nice to see you George even if you are still with Captain bloody Silva.” As we stroll towards the pub I enquire.

  “I presume you will be here overnight as well? Where are you staying?” George informs me he has a room at the vicarage he and Captain De Silva are staying as guests of the local vicar. The pub had officially closed for the afternoon when we arrive but being a guest my companion and I are served a drink in one of the small rooms. When we settle down and the chit chat is over George relates an incredible story to me that justifies why he remained in Captain De Silva’s employment. “It was a couple of weeks after the armistice. I was ordered by the Captain to take him and a photographer to the front line. I think he wanted pictures to take back to blighty so his cronies would think he had regularly been amongst the fighting.

  We were about to leave when he spotted a bombed out church. It was a right mess but amongst the chaos there was a statue of an Angel virtually unscathed.”

  I intercede excitedly. “I know exactly where you mean it was one of our pick up points for the wounded. I used to be amazed at the sight of that Angel myself. All around it there was chaos and yet that one headstone with the Angel on survived virtually intact. Weird that wasn’t it eh? In fact I nearly copped it there when the Boche shelled us. Carry on George I’m sorry to interrupt.” He continued. “Anyway as I was saying, he wanted his picture take
n looking at the statue for some reason. The photographer was setting up his camera on one of those tripod things. He was advising the Captain where to stand for the best picture. As the Captain moved closer to the Angel there was a bang and puff of smoke, to cut a long story short the explosion blew him backwards, when I got to him the Captain was in a right mess. I thought he had bought it when I saw the state of him. To be honest I wasn’t that bothered because at that time as you know I hated him. An engineer officer close by reckoned he had disturbed an unexploded shell and it had partially blown up. He thought maybe just the detonator had gone off. He would have been certainly dead if the whole caboodle had exploded.

  Your dressing station had closed down by then and we had to take him a long way to the Chateau hospital.” I sympathise. “Phew that’s a long way to transport a casualty. I know that road it’s in a right mess. I bet he didn’t half suffer?” George reveals. “Actually he was lucky in a way because he was unconscious. When we got him to the chateau he remained in a coma for weeks under the care of the Colonel and his staff. But this is the crunch to the story. When he eventually came around he was as blind as a bat. All he remembers is the last thing he saw before he lost his sight and that was the bloomin Angel. It must have been like some kind of holy retribution he had brought down on himself for being an absolute shit. In your wildest dreams you will never believe how it has changed him. He is the most caring Priest and humane man you would ever wish to meet. Since demob he has involved himself in all kinds of charities for ex servicemen. That is the reason we are here now. I read the newspapers to him every day, when he learned of the Colonels death he decided to travel here immediately. He has even offered to conduct the funeral service because of the Colonels suicide the Parish Priest won’t have anything to do with it.”

  I enquire “So where do you live are you married?”

  He replies with a cynical laugh. “Who would have me Scouse? No I am not married I have a good life to be honest. I live in De Silva’s house in Bath. I want for nothing. Great food, the maids do the cleaning they look after all my needs. I have this understanding with the housekeeper a comely Lady, know what I mean?” He winks and gives me a knowing nudge. “And the best of all I get to drive his brand new Rolls. No Scouse on the whole I think I’ve cracked it since he saw the light. Saw the light ha, ha. I shouldn’t laugh but eh! I got to remember he was a right shit for years so I reckon a little laugh now and again kind of squares things up a bit, don’t you?”

  I hesitantly reply. “Well George. I wouldn’t normally wish blindness on anyone but as you say he was a shit when he got himself blinded. If it has made a better man out of him maybe God does move in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. I remember him saying that at one of his long, long, boring, sermons.”

  Changing the subject George asks. “By the way how did you get on with that little French bit at the Chateau? I remember you really had the hots for her?”

  George falls into an embarrassing silence when I inform him I am married to the little French bit.

  Fortunately an elderly chap enters the room and introduces himself as the Landlord Edward Stokes. “Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen? The bar staff are going off duty for a couple of hours. May I get you another drink or something to eat perhaps?”

  I reply. “That sounds great, two more of the same if you please and have one for yourself?”

  He replies. “Thanks for the offer but I am teetotal.” He smiles and explains. “Strange that eh? A Pub Landlord teetotal but I can assure there is a reason.” He returns with two foaming tankards and a book under his arm.” He enquires. “I take it you Gentlemen are here to attend Colonel Sanders funeral?” We agree. “I wonder would you care to sign the condolence book. We admired the Colonel around these parts you know? After the funeral I want to display the book with pride along with his medals in a glass case over his chair. People in the future will know he died a hero in our eyes, not a coward as that despicable paper portrayed him.”

  Both George and I sign the book immediately. I read some of the remarks men had written alongside their names. Without exception they all praised the Colonel, many gave him and his staff credit for saving their lives. When the Landlord returns to collect the book I enquire.

  “Have you any idea what’s going to happen tomorrow, have the pall bearers been selected? Where is the internment taking place?”

  Edward asks. “Do you mind if I join you to explain what his friends have decided?”

  I invite him to sit and he outlines the funeral procedure. “Let us start with the Pall bearers. There have been so many volunteers we have had to think up a procedure to select the six men needed. On the bar is a sheet of paper if you want to be a volunteer put your name on it. From those we will draw six names out of the hat a ten o’clock tonight. Whoever is selected must be capable of carrying the coffin. You know a number of the men are maimed that didn’t stop them putting their names on the list though.” He adds with feeling. “Silly sods just want to be involved but who could blame them?”

  He pauses for a moment then continues. “The pall bearers will have to carry the coffin from the Colonels house to the burial site, we want to see him off in style. You know he was a great benefactor for this community since he arrived. If anyone had a problem he was always there to help them. Take me for instance? I did my bit in the Boer War. Incidentally that’s where I first met the Colonel. He was only a Lieutenant then but he was one of the best there was. He cared for the men in his command I can tell you. You know I never ever heard a bad word against him. Most of the officers were right shits. Some of them with their fancy titles considered us their bloody servants, and the war was like some kind of hunting party to be enjoyed. I heard one of them say once, the only difference between a foxhunt and the war in South Africa was they were hunting Boer’s instead of foxes.

  His mates thought that was really funny. Most of the Boers were only farmers trying to protect their way of life. Damn that gold they found over there. That is what it was all about you know the Boer War? Bloody Gold! Just think how many people have died over the centuries for that yellow metal?” George adds thoughtfully. “And most of it finishes around fat rich women’s necks eh?”

  His statement encouraged Edward to continue. Poor old Lad once he starts on about the Boer war it is impossible to stop him. All his anger pours out. I have seen this before when veterans feel the need to tell other veterans of their war time experience.

  “Thank goodness I was too old for the last one, I saw enough horror in South Africa to last me a lifetime. Did you know about the concentration camps out there?” I have to admit I don’t.

  He explains. “I was posted to one camp called Standerton on the Vaal river, a right shit hole of a place alive with them filthy mosquitoes.

  God damn Kitchener, Milner and Roberts, they were the lousy sods that dreamed it up.” Shocked by his statement I remark. “I thought Lord Kitchener was a hero? He got drowned on the HMS Hampshire on his way to Russia didn’t he?” Edward Stokes nearly explodes with anger.

  “Hero did you say! The bugger was responsible for thousands of innocent deaths.

  Did you know we killed about twenty seven thousand women and twenty four thousands kids in the three years war? It still wakes me up at night when I think of what we did over there.

  Lloyd George had him to rights though. He knew what a murdering sod he was. Aye I think if the Great British public had really found out about them there would have been a bloody great uproar. I am ashamed to say after I got myself wounded I was guarding them for a while, thanks goodness I got malaria and they shipped me home. I still suffer with it but I was glad to get away from that hell hole. It was a living nightmare I can tell you. Men women and kids crammed in those disease ridden places. I wish someone would expose what the British were up to out there? There were a couple of reporters having a go at investigating it. But this last war came along and it was all covered up. One journalist by the name of Stead tr
ied to expose what happened. I heard pressure was put on his editor and proprietor to cover the whole sorry scandal up. He came here looking for the Colonel, that’s when I met him and told him all I knew about my time in South Africa.

  He stayed with the Colonel for about three nights. The Colonel and him had some real drinking bouts I can tell you. If anyone could or would tell the truth about those stinking camps you can bet the Colonel told him. Anyway when he tried revealing the truth at speaker’s corner and at public meetings he was shouted down and denounced.”

  I intercede at this point. “That’s an odd coincidence! I met a man in New Brighton by the name of Stead. Joseph Stead. I had a game of Billiards with him in the hotel. If I recall correctly he told me he was a war correspondent. I bet it was the same man, do you know what happened to him?” Edward informs us. “I believe the poor bugger lost his job and disappeared. The Colonel remarked on it when there were no more articles under his name in the paper. I did hear from the Colonel he was writing under another name and was covering the last war as a freelance reporter. They kept in touch you know?”

  There was a pause in the conversation as we digest the information until Edward breaks the silence by announcing. “The old Boer was a good fighter, very brave you know? Most of them were not professional soldiers like our mob.” Edward goes into another one of those kind of trances. I have seen the same thing so often among veterans that have witnessed the horror of war. I experience similar lapses myself, thankfully less frequently of late. He consciously pulls himself back to the present and continues. “Anyway sorry to load you down with my horrors, I bet you have seen enough of your own eh? Back to the Colonel I was telling you before I got carried away. He inherited his Father’s house in the village. When he finished his army service he came to live here in the village. Would you believe it the Colonel remembered me from all those years before. I had a drink problem at the time and have to admit the pub had run down.