I’m smoking a fag, wondering if it will be the last one I’ll ever smoke, and he’s looking at a picture of his girl, Alice or Maisie or something, I forget. He always does it before we go into action, to say ‘goodbye’.
McFadzean is opening the box of grenades...
I see him fumble... the pin coming out...the box falling slowly into the trench...
Someone shouts...
Everybody’s running, including me.
There’s a roar, my ears are ringing, my mouth’s full of mud.
Things are falling on my back, bits of box, grenade casings and McFadzean.
What makes a man decide in a split second that his friends’ lives are worth more than his own? I couldn’t do it. No one else did, except McFadzean. We ran, but McFadzean threw himself over the grenades.
“Stupid sod,” says Wallis, as he always does, tears in his eyes. McFadzean was his pal.
“Bloody hero,” replies Roberts, draining his glass.
They never found enough of McFadzean to bury but the padre said a prayer over what was left,
“Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
We’re alive today because McFadzean isn’t. They gave him the Victoria Cross, but he gave us far more.
True Blue
I worked at the local pizza restaurant. One day, Florrie came in during the slack time between three and four, too late for lunch and too early for dinner. I went to clean the toilets and there she was, a thin little lady about seventy years old. She wore a startling pink hat, overflowing with dirty roses. She had too much rouge on her cheeks and smeared lipstick. Her old grey coat bulged and her gloves were full of holes. Her battered handbag and plastic bags lay beside her on the floor. She had a strange smell, mustiness overlaid with a cheap rose scent. She started trying to comb her hair into shape with her fingers but the white fuzz stood out under the hat like an upside down umbrella.
“I had such lovely ringlets as a girl, Ellie,” she told me once, weeks later. “Everyone admired them and the other girls were jealous.”
The first time I met her, though, I remember thinking what an odd customer for a pizza restaurant. We mainly served young people and families.
“Hello, ducks,” she said. “You're new here aren't you?”
“Yes I am,” I said proudly. “This is my first job.” I felt all grown up but she looked at me rather quizzically.
“You watch out for that Giovanni, he's wicked,” she warned me. Giovanni was my boss. “He's been all right with me,” I said, defending him.
“Well you be careful, you hear!” she repeated, emphasising her words.
I took a long time to realise what she meant. Giovanni had an eye for the girls, but my adolescent awkwardness did not appeal to him and he left me alone. The older girls had a harder time.
I didn’t notice Florrie leaving, but she came in again the following week. This time, she did not judge the timing right. Steven, the Under Manager, caught her sneaking down to the Ladies when she thought he wasn’t looking.
“Here! Where are you going?” he shouted, blocking her way to the stairs. I felt shocked at his tone. I had never heard him be rude to anybody before, not even some of the children who could be real brats.
Florrie glared at him. “Coming in for a cup of tea and a pee, any objection?” she said belligerently.
“You got the money to pay?” He sneered at her.
The old lady stiffened. “Course I got money. You want me to show you?”
“Yes.”
Florrie put her hand down her blouse and fumbled for a while. She drew out a battered old purse. Carefully she counted out thirty-five pence, the price of one cup of tea. “There you are. Now fetch me a nice cup of tea and make sure the water’s boiling!” Triumphantly, she flounced off down the stairs to the toilets.
When I asked Steven about her later, he told me she lived rough on the streets. Apparently she used the restaurant to have a bit of a wash, when she could slip past the waiters. Steven told me to keep her out, if I caught her when Giovanni was around. He didn’t want people like her in his restaurant to give the place a bad name. Steven’s not much older than me but he’s been working for Giovanni for a long time. He said he felt sorry for the old girl. He used to let her have her tea when the restaurant was quiet and she had the money to pay. She rarely did.
“She's sad,” I said, “and she's not doing any harm.”
“Remember, don’t let Giovanni catch you and if she can't pay, she's out.”
I didn’t really get to know Florrie until the week when everybody else had 'flu. The cook and I were the only ones still working. Giovanni had hidden himself in his cubbyhole of an office with red eyes and a streaming nose. He never came out all day.
During lunchtimes, I never stopped. With only the two of us, the service and cooking were slow. We had plenty of irate customers, but no one became so nasty that I needed to call Giovanni out of his lair. We managed.
At the “dead time”, when we had only two people in the whole place, I sank into a chair to ease my aching feet.
“I hope Giovanni's going to pay me a bonus for this.” I muttered to myself. My earlier enchantment with working life had gone. Giovanni was not paying me as much as he should, that’s why he had employed someone still at school. Yet I was hesitant to look for another job, because the hours fitted in and I enjoyed the work most of the time. ‘Better the devil you know,’as Mum always said.
That day, the rain lashed against the windows and the wind rattled the plate glass. When Florrie came in, she was dripping. Her roses drooped and her hair curled tightly. I didn’t have the energy to stop her, even if I’d wanted to. She glanced round quickly, spotted me and scurried down the stairs. I sat there, watching the rain, thankful just to be still for a little while. She reappeared with her make-up gallantly smudged and her hair frizzy once more. She came over to my table.
“Still here then, ducks?”
I smiled as I hoisted myself tiredly to my feet. “Can I get you anything?”
“A cup of tea, please, ducks. Nice and hot, on a day like today.”
I brought her the tea.
“Sit and talk to me, dear,” she said.
I was willing enough. The other customers had gone so we were the only ones left in the restaurant and no one else would come in this weather. I’ve never minded smells and I tried not to react to the powerful odour of her damp clothes. Perhaps talking to her might take my mind off my tiredness. We chatted for a while about my job, my family and my school. Gradually I warmed to her and told her a little about my ambitions to go to college and have a good career. I wanted to be a teacher.
“Get a good man, ducks. A career is all right, but it's lonely without someone to tell your troubles to at the end of the day, believe me. I had a good man once and life’s hard now he’s gone.”
“Tell me about him,” I asked, humouring her.
Her reaction surprised me. Her face changed. Something sparkled in her eyes and she straightened in her chair. For a moment, you could see the girl she had been, so young and pretty. For a fleeting instant, she seemed radiant.
“His name was Bill.” she said softly, “He was very handsome in his uniform. All the girls chased after him, but he picked me.” She paused, gazing off into space, a little smile hovering on her lips. She did not say anything for a long moment, as if she had almost forgotten my presence.
“What happened to Bill?” I asked after a while. She gave herself a shake, as if she was returning to the dreary everyday world from far away. I felt sorry I had broken into her memory.
“He's dead, ducks,” she said briskly. “My parents didn't like him, because he was in the army and they thought him beneath me. But I married him all the same and very happy we were for a long time.”
“Did you have any children?” I asked shyly.
She smiled. “I had a little boy, but he died too. Billy we called him, after his D
adda. He was lovely, just like Bill. We lived in India then and India’s no place for children, with all the sickness. I had three wonderful years with my darling and I couldn’t have any more babies. Perhaps it's as well.”
“I’m sorry.” It sounded lame but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Why should you be sorry, love? All this happened ever such a long time ago, before you were born or even thought of. Look at you, you're going to cry. I'm sorry I've made you unhappy when I've enjoyed myself remembering. Don't you fret. Life's too short, my pet. Enjoy yourself and you’ll have lots of good memories. That's my motto.” She got up. “Ta for the tea, see you again.” She whisked out and left me.
Some time later, I realised she had not paid me. I put the money into the till myself, but I did not regret it. I’d enjoyed Florrie's company. I drank many more cups of tea with the old girl. She seemed to have an instinct for when I was alone, or with Julie, who did not mind her sitting and talking to me. I always bought her tea and she repaid me with stories of the far away places. She had visited India and Singapore, South Africa and Canada or so she said. Florrie and Bill travelled all over the world, with the army and afterwards. They enjoyed it all. She described the things she had seen and the people she had met.
Sometimes I did not believe her, because her tales seemed so incredible. She could obviously read my thoughts, because she’d say, “It’s true blue what I’m telling you, ducks, cross my heart and hope to die if it isn’t.” ‘True blue’ was her favourite expression.
I would have liked to believe her, but she said she had been on tiger shoots with Rajahs and had climbed the Rocky Mountains. Once she had met Clark Gable. She’d seen Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dance when they’d been in Hollywood. She also said that her husband had won a medal for bravery during the war. The only thing she would not tell me was how he died.
“I don't want to talk about sad things, pet. Better to forget them and keep cheerful. Life will make you awfully miserable, if you let it. Fight the sadness and remember the happy times. You keep true blue, ducks, just like me, and never give up.”
She came in every week for nearly a year and then, suddenly, she stopped. I missed her dreadfully and I was shocked to realise how much I’d enjoyed her company.
Three weeks later, I got a message in class to go to the headmaster's room. I knocked apprehensively on the door, wondering what I had done wrong. Mr Webster called me inside. A strange woman was sitting on one of the chairs, looking very ill at ease. She had bright red lipstick and dyed blond hair which looked as if she hadn’t combed it that morning. In a funny way she reminded me of Florrie, although she was much younger.
“Mrs Donovan’s come to see you, Eleanor,” Mr Webster said, indicating his visitor. He had a strange pinched look on his face. I was surprised, because I had never seen the woman before in my life!
“Hello,” I said hesitantly. “I'm Eleanor Thompson.”
“Are you Florrie's friend, ducks, the one who works in the pizza place?” She had an Irish accent so thick I could hardly understand what she said.
“Yes I am.” A strange cold feeling gripped my heart. Immediately, she confirmed my fears.
“Florrie's passed on, darlin’. Last week.”
“I'm so sorry” I faltered, as the tears welled up into my eyes. “Were you a friend of hers too?”
“One of the few she had left,” Mrs Donovan said briskly. “She never stayed long enough in one place to make many, did Florrie. Always moving on. But she used to come and meet me, from time to time, and she told me all about “her Ellie”, as she called you. Did you know that she would come back from wherever she’d got to just to see you? Walked miles out of her way, she did.”
“No, I never knew,” I said, through my tears.
“Florrie thought a lot of you. She said you were kind to her, when nobody else was. You cheered her up. She called you ‘true blue’, the highest praise she could give. When she was dying, she made me promise to give this to you.” She got up and came over to me, thrusting a plastic bag into my hands. “She valued that, did Florrie. You look after it now. She told me where to find you. Don't go to the pizza place, she said. She didn't like the man who owned it. Ellie's at Greenfield High School, one of the big girls there now, she said. They'll treat you right, not like those people at the cafe. She sent you her love and said to keep fighting, just like her Bill. That was her message.”
“Thank you,” I faltered “how did she die?”
“She died easy and quick, thanks to Our Blessed Lady. Don't you worry about that. She wouldn't want you to be unhappy about her death, or go fussing about her grave or anything. Forget about death, she'd say, life is for living.”
I nodded. “I know,” I whispered softly. I could hear Florrie saying it. “Thank you so much for coming to tell me.”
She pulled me into a malodorous embrace and planted a moist kiss, leaving her red lipstick on my cheek.
“That's a girl!” She turned round to Mr Webster “Ta very much, Mister, I'll be going now.”
“I'll show you the way out,” he said and led her away. As soon as they left, I wept freely, clutching Florrie's present close to my chest. When the Head returned, he gave me a box of tissues and opened the windows, to let the fresh spring air into the room.
“Are you all right, Eleanor?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“She was important to you, this old lady?” he asked gently, obviously curious about my strange visitor.
“She used to come into the cafe where I work. We used to talk and she told me stories about her life. Yes, I was fond of her.”
“Would you like me to keep the bag safe for you, until the bell goes?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you, I’d better find out what's in it.” Florrie had few possessions and a strange sense of humour. She’d shown it often enough, though rarely at my expense. I needed to check what she had given me, just in case.
Inside the plastic bag was a long thin package, wrapped in old newspaper. I opened it gingerly. The newspaper contained a slim leather box, rather battered now, but it had once been fine. I looked up questioningly at the head, who was smiling.
“Open the box, Eleanor. Your friend wanted you to have it.”
I pressed the spring catch on the front and lifted the lid. Inside was a bronze coloured medal in the shape of a cross. It was attached to a dark red ribbon. I heard the head gasp.
“What is it, Sir?”
“May I see the medal, please, Eleanor?”
I handed the box to him and he lifted the lining. A long yellowed piece of paper lay hidden under the velvet. It was faded and crumpled as if it had been opened and read many times.
“What does it say?” I asked eagerly.
“Corporal William Saunders Hamilton displayed repeated extreme gallantry and unquestioned valour, despite intense direct attacks and personal injury in the face of enemy action...the rest is hard to read.” The Head looked up at me. “Do you know what this is, Eleanor?”
“An army medal. Her husband was in the army.”
“Not just any medal, my dear. I’ve only ever seen these in museums. This is a Victoria Cross, the highest honours our county can give. Her husband must have been a very brave man. Take care of it, won’t you. It is worth thousands of pounds. You should be proud that she left it to you.”
I couldn’t speak and it was some time before I could leave the room. Florrie had kept his medal when she didn’t have enough money for food. She’d sent it to me as she lay dying and I didn’t deserve it. All I’d ever done was buy her cups of tea and talk to her. I hadn’t even believed her stories, although I’d always enjoyed them. I wasn’t the one who was true blue. Florrie was.
The Winged Horses of Anver:
The Choosing
“Come on, we’ll be late,” Roya called, as she came into the room. She was twisting honeyblossom into her hair and she was already wearing her festival costume with its swirling emerald skirts and
close fitting jacket.
“I’m not going,” I replied, steeling myself for her reaction, “not this year.” I continued to stare at my screen, although I did not really see it.
“Don’t be silly, you’ve got to go. It’s your last chance.” She was looking at me with both sympathy and amazement.
“I’ve gone for the last five years and what good has it done? It’s awful, standing there and being passed over. You know that.”
“I know,” Roya said softly and she did. She had stood in the arena for her full six years and she had not been chosen. I knew that her failure still distressed her, but it could never happen now. She was too old. She was making a real effort to get on with her life, but I knew that each Festival Day the memories and the sadness came back. I was sad too. I think everyone is on Anver, if they are not one of the lucky ones. It is a shame that it has to be like that.
“You go if you want to, but leave me in peace. I want to finish this paper. At least it’s something I know I can do.”
“You can finish that anytime, it will still be there tomorrow or next month or next year. If you don’t go today you will have lost your chance forever.”
“I’ve no chance, especially now.”
“Other people have been chosen in their last year...” Roya whispered. It had happened, but it was rare. Those candidates were special and no one had ever used that word about me, even when our lives had not been tainted by Father’s disgrace.
“Don’t you understand? I can’t do it. I can’t bear the thought of all the eyes watching me fail again and gloating!” My voice cracked and suddenly her arms were around me, hugging me tight.
“I do understand, I do,” she whispered into my hair, “but if we don’t go, people will say we are ashamed of Father...”
“I’m not ashamed of him. It wasn’t his fault...”
“Then prove it to everyone by going.”
Baker's Dozen Page 8
