by Peter Morris
guardroom into the daylight. The peak of his cap sparkled as did the shoes, the belt buckle, either end of his pace stick, his medals, his teeth. He looked so smart he could have snapped.
Jack knew it was the Station Warrant Officer, which was the Air Force version of a Regimental Sergeant Major but with only half the brain removed.
“Wot are you doing parking this ‘ere excuse for a vehicle outside my guardroom?” barked the Station Warrant Officer.
Jack had been warned about this man, who thought he was God because his shoes were shiny, and who shouted at people. Jack took orders from no man. Jack stood down from the vehicle. In order to show his intent, and his temper, he slammed the truck door, hoping it would stay shut and not swing back open like it normally did; that would ruin the whole effect. The door did close but the thump encouraged the vehicle to jump out of gear, roll forward and smudge into the pillar that was having its base flossed.
Grainne attempted to clamber out of the vehicle but mild panic, a seat that wasn’t attached to the floor of the truck and a seat belt that hadn’t automatically rewound since Henry Ford announced his comprehensive colour scheme, caused her to stumble and fall.
“Janker Wallah!” roared the Station Warrant Officer. Jack watched as the man with the toothbrush, still cleaning the pillar, shot up to stand to attention, toothbrush at the ready.
“Give immediate assistance to that young lady there!” barked the Station Warrant Officer, sounding as if he gargled every morning with treacle but that morning had forgotten to spit it out.
“She’s cut her knee, sir!” shouted the Janker Wallah, having helped Grainne to her feet and now enthusiastically, checking her for broken bones.
“Then escort her to the medical centre, laddie. Have it seen to.”
“But…” began Jack, who knew that Grainne, like most women, could easily deal with any amount of pain.
“But nothing Mister Mac Fecker,” said the Station Warrant Officer who bent forward to look at it, and indicate that he was concerned with, the damage caused by the truck.
“Where’s our Butch?” asked Jack, dismissing the Station Warrant Officer’s concern.
“Butch?” asked the Station Warrant Officer raising his eyebrows and his heels together, as if they were connected.
“Aye. Butch,” said Jack. “Big lad, ginger hair…”
“Dad!”
Jack turned to see Butch being led out if the guardroom, escorted by two military policemen, his hands behind his back secured with steel handcuffs.
“What’s occurring!” gasped Jack.
“Is this your son?” asked the Station Warrant Officer. “Is this Butch?” he asked again pronouncing ‘Butch as if it were a contagious disease.
“I didn’t do nothing, Dad,” pleaded Butch. “Honest.”
It was a cup of tea that did the trick. Apologies were offered like cucumber sandwiches at a royal garden party, they were neatly sliced into manageable segments and had the rough edges sawn off. The Station Warrant Officer apologised and explained that they thought Butch had been an intruder, sent to test their defences. They also thought he had been the most brilliant intruder ever, as he had successfully resisted all of their interrogation techniques. When asked for his name rank and number all he would say was “Warrenpoint, three, four, seven.” Little did they know that even then he wasn’t telling them the truth, he had dropped the dialling code.
Butch looked none the worse for his experience; in fact he was quite chuffed with himself. If resisting interrogation techniques was accepted by the DHSS as a qualification, or a skill, then he might be able to get on a decent training course or even get an NVQ in it.
To show how sorry he really was, the Station Warrant Officer allowed Jack and Butch the freedom of the station dump, which came under his direct control, and it was then that Jack understood just how powerful a man he was. Anyone who was in charge of the bins had to be alright, Jack knew that under all the military paraphernalia the Station Warrant Officer must have been a scrap man at heart. They were taken to the station dump and left alone to scavenge through piles of soggy clothing, tight clumps of still smouldering paper and tangles of rusty wire and gangly pipes that seemed always to pop up and lunge at you like Triffids.
Butch found himself a pair of boots, with laces, and Jack found half a dozen shirts that with a couple of stitches could well fit Aoife. They even managed to have food leftovers from the exercise dumped straight into their slops wagon. Life was looking good especially when Butch found the white cardboard box with cheese sandwiches and a Mars Bar that only had a tiny rip in its wrapper.
Back home and with Butch dispatched to deliver the shirts to Aoife, plus the request for a decent mug of tea, Jack began to unload the fresh slops. The pigs were soon involved fighting for the best position at the trough. Jack smiled as they squealed and grunted, they were like old friends, in fact they were like children, the way you had to care for them, feed them or treat their ailments, the only difference was that you didn’t kill you kids every so often and put the bits into the freezer, no matter how strong the urge.
Pigs had always been with the Mac Feckers. Never bred for profit, just for the table; however as Jack watched the closest eight healthy sows feed; he knew that with this new supply of slops, serious breeding could be possible. There were still some slops left over from the previous evenings run.
Aoife came bundling out from the house, a new light blue shirt over her rust red jumper, a jumper that had once turned every item of underwear in the Mac Fecker household a soft pink, an incident that Jack still refused to talk about.
“Oh Jack,” she mused as she drew closer to him. “Has our luck really changed?”
“Aye,” answered Jack, taking the mug of tea and sucking a decent mouthful up for all to hear, not that he cared. “I think it has missus.”
“All this food and now clothes,” Aoife gave a swirl for Jack as if she were a model on a Paris catwalk, except Aoife had a decent bit of meat on her, she looked like a woman, not as if she was ready to be snapped in half like a dried wishbone.
“Butch was saying he wants to go into rare breeds,” mused Aoife, as they sank back against the side of the truck, happy that the romance had not left their relationship, and watched the sows jostle for scraps.
“Takes some money that,” said Jack, thoughtfully.
“Aye,” agreed Aoife. “But with all these slops it wouldn’t half be cheap to raise them.”
“But why rare breeds?” argued Jack, out loud and mainly to himself. “I mean, why not breed some Saddlebacks or Hampshires? Ye know something that will generate money. Meat”
“Why not do both?” suggested Aoife, carefully, knowing that Jack would only accept an idea if he had thought of it first; the delicate problem was getting him to believe that he had thought of it first.
“Ye know, lass,” said Jack, while rubbing his beard. “I was about to say the same thing meself.”
“He’s just like you is Butch,” said Aoife, squeezing Jack in a lovers’ arm lock.
“What? Do ye mean he’s handsome and generous and stuff?” joked Jack.
“Nay,” said Aoife, “I mean he loves his animals.”
“Don’t we know that only too well,” said Jack, with a trace of frustration in his voice. “That’s why we have to send him to Belfast for the day every time we want to slaughter a pig.”
“He’s harmless,” said Aoife, inspecting the stain on the sleeve of her new shirt and wondering what it could be.
“Aye here’s another one,” said Jack, nodding in the direction of the big barn as Sean wandered around into view.
“Over here, Sean,” called Aoife, pleased to see a huge smile spread across Sean’s face.
“Dad. Dad. Dad,” began Sean, as if his feet were on fire. “You were right, there’s badgers in the top field.”
“How many?" asked Aoife. Is it a breeding pair?”
“I don’t know,” said Sean, who low
ered his head as if ashamed of his ignorance. “They all look the same to me.” “Sean,” said Jack, in a gentle, fatherly, voice, “Were there any big badgers and were there any small badgers, or were they all about the same size?”
“Yeah!” said Sean, excitedly, realising that he really had known the answer to the previous question all along but he hadn’t been able to answer it because it hadn’t been asked in the right way. People were always doing that to him.
“There were a couple of big ones and a couple of small ones.” said Sean, holding his hand out and moving it as he spoke as if there were a yo-yo on the end of it.
“But you’re not sure how many of each?” asked Aoife.
“No,” said Sean, again feeling shame creep over his visage. Then his face lit up. “It’s cause they kept going in and out of their holes,” he explained.
“Set,” corrected Jack, and like the two scowling dogs Sean obeyed.
“Get up, Sean,” said Aoife, moving over and offering the seated Sean a hand. “You’ll ruin your jacket.”
A noise of metal bouncing along a road had them all look into the distance. Two vans entered the lane which was just under a mile long, but visible all along its length from the farmhouse, perfect for a Mac Fecker who didn’t want to meet certain people, especially people with pointy hats.
“It’s our Manston,” said Sean, wiping himself down as the art of moving slops from the back of the truck into the trough had no precision about it whatsoever.
“Aye but who’s chasing him?” asked Jack, who had already grabbed the slops shovel, just in case.
“Perhaps it’s Mary,” offered Aoife.
“Driving like that?” asked Jack who still thought it wrong that women were allowed to vote never mind drive on the public highway, not that he ever voted.
Like the wacky races, the two vehicles sped along the lane, which in decent weather was no more than a rough path.
The second vehicle was a white, long wheelbase Ford Transit Van. Diesel by the sound of it, or else it needed a service. Manston screeched to a halt in the yard. The second van had slowed, perhaps being unsure of the parking arrangements. Manston jumped from his van, pointed to the big barn, and the second vehicle drove up to park its nose against the barn wall.
“Come on then,” said Jack, moving off to meet the visitor as Aoife quickly brushed his jacket.
“Mary Mac Fecker,” said Manston, indicating the occupant of the newly arrived van with a sweep of his right arm.
“Well I’ll be…” began Jack.
“I bet ye didn’t try to chat our Mary up,” laughed Sean, at Manston who shrugged off the jibe but knowing his manners and his place, began the serious business of introductions.
“Jack Mac Fecker and his good lady, Aoife Murphy, may I introduce Mary Mac Fecker”
Jack was still gobsmacked, for standing before him was Mary Mac Fecker in the flesh.
Six foot six tall with a healthy mane of long ginger hair, that could have been a sign of potency in some countries, and with a beard to match. The steel toe caps of his boots shone out through the worn leather and might not have been noticeable if his feet hadn’t looked as if they were size thirteen’s, at least.
“So you’re my Uncle Jack,” said Mary, holding out a hand that was close to the size of a shovel, a coal shovel that is, not a slops shovel. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Aye,” said Jack, finding himself a bit lost for words.
“And Aoife,” said Mary, giving her a hug that could have been learned from Mick MacManus himself.
“I’m Sean,” said Sean, who wiped his hand on the arse of his trousers before offering it to Mary. Jack gave his approval with a nod, till Sean asked, “How come you’ve got a girl’s name?”
“It’s an old tradition in rural Ireland,” began Mary, with a sigh, as if he were used to, or tired of, explaining, “For boys to be named after their mother or a favourite saint. Sure I thought you would have known that yourself?”
“Who are you named after then?” asked Manston, with his usual sneer.
“Sure I’m named after Our Lady,” said Mary, facing Manston and showing with his body language that enough had been said already on the subject.
“Yeah but what’s her name?” asked Sean, who had enough problems reading words, never mind body language.
“He’s a bit simple is Sean,” explained Jack who stepped across to protect the boy.
“Aye,” said Aoife, who wrapped an arm around Sean’s shoulders. “But he’s got a heart of gold.”
“Listen,” said Mary, slapping his hands together, “Manston said you normally have your tea about now…”
“Aye,” interrupted Jack. “Normally we would but we’re a bit short…”
“Show me a Mac Fecker that isn’t,” said Mary laughing heartily. “Sure haven’t I bought us all some fish and chips. It’s a sort of welcome present.”
“And,” said Manston, reaching into the cab of his vehicle. “A couple of flagons of cider.”
“Well then,” said Jack who knew it wasn’t Christian to refuse food or drink, “Let’s…”
“Let’s nothing,” commanded Aoife, who for some reason or other briefly reminded Jack of the Station Warrant Officer. Aoife gave everything the once over before issuing her orders. Butch was coming out through the front door and Manston was sagging under the weight of the cider. Butch had white froth around his ears so it was plain to see that he had either been washing or eating.
“Butch, get back inside and set the table.” Butch didn’t question orders that involved food. “Sean,” ordered Aoife, nodding at Mary’s van. “Get the food. Manston see to the glasses. I’ll show Mary where he can wash his hands and Jack, you finish feeding them pigs.”
“But….” began Jack.
“But nothing, Jack Mac Fecker, if we’re going to make money off them pigs we’ve gotta start treating them better than ourselves.”
Jack accepted Aoife’s forward thinking, which was after all only following his own idea of increased breeding. He happily jumped back up onto the rear of the truck and began shovelling the slops out. He didn’t mind the delay for there would be pandemonium while they sorted out places and plates and salt and vinegar and knives and forks, if anyone wanted them, for there was only one way to eat fish and chips.
Something caught Jack’s eye and he bent forward to investigate. Part submerged in what looked like a mixture of cold custard and special fried rice, was a book. The monosodium glutamate had rotted most of the print and it had stuck all the pages together, but two words stood clear, two words at the top of every other page; NATO Restricted.
Jack cleared the truck with a flurry of sweeps, then dropping to the ground, with the truck between himself and the farmhouse; he reached into the van and hid the book under the driver’s seat. He would leave it there till he had time to think what to do with it. Meanwhile, his chips were getting cold.
Seated at the table they all chewed as silently as the chips would allow, which still sounded like someone running in mud, their cheeks and fingers glistening with grease. One bag, at the end of the table, sat unopened.
“Where’s our Grainne?” asked Sean, as he picked a green bit from a chip, then ate it.
“Probably upstairs making herself beautiful,” joked Manston, who was the only one to use a fork, although that was to clean the clogged holes in the saltcellar as Butch had accidentally jabbed it into his chips.
Aoife should have been none the wiser. Like the others she was thoroughly enjoying the warm chips and sweet cider. If there had been a priest around he would have called their total enjoyment a sin and made them all go to confession. It was Jack who sat bolt upright at the mention of Grainne’s name, as if a red hot poker, fitted with a homing device, had found its target.
“Jack?” asked Aoife, suddenly alarmed, although she was still stuffing chips into her mouth.
“Now Aoife love,” began Jack, who pointed at Mary, �
��We’ve got company.”
But introductions had been made, Mary was no longer company, he was family.
“Did you leave Grainne on that camp with all them soldiers?” gasped Aoife.
No one answered. Not even Jack who took his chips with him as he left to drive back to the camp. He knew what had to be done and he knew he had to do it. But there wasn’t just one thing that had to be done, there was the other thing too. There was the secret stuff. Perhaps someone would want to buy it, with money. Getting into his truck Jack wondered if this is how James Bond felt.
