by Iain Maloney
I turned and saw the cavalry: The barmaid returned with two policemen. ‘Joe,’ I said, trying to attract his attention.
‘Over here, Bill,’ the landlord said to the first bobby.
‘Right, son. You heard the man. Out you get.’
‘Two of you? You’re gonnae need more than two tae make me fucking move.’
‘If we need more men we’ll call up Sergeant Hawkins and get him down here. Would you like that?’
That made Joe stop. He was in uniform now. ‘That’s what I thought,’ said the bobby. ‘Now, let’s go.’
‘Fucking outrageous, so it is,’ said Joe. ‘Just trying tae have a quiet pint. It’s racialist, so it is. Imperialism. If we werenae Scottish you wouldnae be victimising us like this.’
Us?
Joe necked his pint in one, grabbed his note off the bar. ‘Right,’ he said to me. ‘Let’s get out this dump.’
I looked round for help. Terry was too far away. ‘Go on,’ the landlord said. ‘Hop it, and don’t come back.’
Joe marched through the crowd, head high. All eyes were on me. Embarrassed, I followed him.
The coppers watched us head down the street. What had just happened? I didn’t doing anything wrong. Why pick on me? Joe was laughing.
‘Shite boozer anyway. Tomorrow, let’s find somewhere better, somewhere with birds.’
He was billeted in the building next to mine. We were supposed to go in the back but Joe ran up the front steps, bold as brass. I watched him from the top of the alley. ‘You know, Jack,’ he called back. ‘They’re no better than you. Remember that, right?’
I didn’t think they were better than me. I didn’t think they were worse. We’d all been enjoying our drinks.
Getting up early was easy for me, fresh from the farm, but others weren’t so keen. After breakfast we were back in front of the MO for vaccinations. I was behind Terry again. ‘Enjoy last night?’ he said.
‘Yes, great. Barred from the local for reading the paper.’
‘You want to stay away from that one. He’s the kind that leaves trails of destruction behind him but walks away fine.’
I was watching the MO. He got through an average of six men before his syringe was too blunt to break the skin and had to change it. I’d either be first or last, depending on my luck. Some men fainted and had to be carried out. ‘Aye, well, I didn’t invite him over. You buggered off to chat up the barmaid.’
‘Betty.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Not in the way you mean. Purely business.’
‘Business? Oh, your… products.’
‘Indeed. Are you in need of anything?’
I thought about Lizzie, taking back some chocolate. Maybe Ma would like some. It could be months before I got any leave.
‘No, thanks.’
Terry got the new needle, jammy git. Onto the barber, a factory line. Ninety seconds, next.
Classrooms. Desks. Lectures. Marching. Square-bashing, up and down, turning, marching, turning again, being shouted at for a step a second out of time. As we marched I composed ditties in my head to the percussion of our feet. I imagined we were one big jazz orchestra preparing for a concert, like Joe’s at the Royal Albert Hall. I was on trumpet, naturally, and as we marched I played my solo to a packed house and received a standing ovation. There’d been no-one to play with in Inverayne and all the time I’d played alone I’d fantasised about being in a band, playing music unscripted, something that grew out of a shared understanding. Organic, totally natural, the world of the farm taught me a great respect for nature. Take one piece away and the world fell apart. The air, the water, the ground, the rocks and trees and plants and insects and cows and worms all contributed to the fertility. I’d gone through the classifieds in the Melody Maker and, checking directions with one of the cockneys, had circled a record shop that wasn’t too far away. We had the weekends to ourselves and I figured a record shop would be the best place to find out about any gigs going on. I had three weeks in London, and maybe I’d never be back.
In the meantime I composed to the tempo of 140 paces per minute. Sergeant Hawkins assembled us. ‘Any complaints?’
Silence. ‘No? No-one’s got any complaints? I find that hard to believe. Myself, when I was a young recruit like you, my feet were covered in cuts and blisters. Of course in my day you were lucky if your boots fitted. Not like you spoiled lot. Either you are the hardest bunch of recruits we have ever had here or you are all lying.’
Nothing. We weren’t biting. ‘Now then, lads, I don’t want to cast aspersions on your characters but judging by the look of most of you, this is the most physical exercise you have had in quite some time. I know your feet are hurting, so why not admit it?’
Nothing. ‘All right then. You are aware that lying to a superior officer is a very serious offence. I know you are, because I told you all this afternoon. By refusing to answer a direct question you are, in effect, lying to a superior officer. Now. Hands up all those with sore feet.’
Slowly, each making sure we weren’t alone, hands were raised. ‘That’s better. A bit of honesty at last. So. All those poor, sore feet. I know a cure for that. A two mile march.’
The classes began. Law, aerodynamics, engineering. Information was thrown at us and if we missed anything, tough. The ditties in my head now had words, formulae and equations, the catechism of Air Force rules recited in time with steadily synchronising boots. Every night before bed, every morning before breakfast, I’d run through what I’d learned. There would be tests, many tests, and I had to pass them all. Another bass drone, constant in my life, like air raids. Coming, coming soon. Joe joined Terry and I for lunch. He’d managed to alienate most of the lads. I’d already heard him referred to as ‘that lunatic Jock.’ Terry thought he was a lunatic as well, but we couldn’t make him piss off without an almighty fight. At first I was on edge, worried he was going to take every sentence the wrong way, kick off for no reason, with me, with anyone, but I only had so much space in my brain. He’d come to my defence, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. After being tested, prodded, shaved and worked near enough to death, we felt like meat, like beasts whipped around a field. Eating in the zoo seemed fitting. ‘The only thing they haven’t done to us that they do to these animals is make us impregnate a female of the species while zoology students look on,’ said Terry.
‘Maybe they’re saving that,’ I said. ‘For after the exams.’
‘What, like a reward? Doesn’t sound much like a reward to me.’
‘Sex?’ I said.
‘No, doing it in front of a bunch of blokes with lab coats and clipboards. Knowing for sure that she’s going to be knocked up at the end of it doesn’t sound like much fun.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ I said.
‘You suppose? You’ve not done it, have you?’
‘Shut up, you sod.’
Guffaws around the mess. ‘Really? Jesus, at your age. We’ll have to do something about that.’
‘Listen—’
‘No, don’t thank me, at least not until it’s over.’
Easier to say nothing. I shovelled the food into my mouth. ‘What are they feeding the animals?’ Joe asked. ‘I mean, we’re all on rationing. There’s never enough tae go around, yet the animals are still here.’
‘Not that many of them are,’ said a man further down the table. He was tall and well-built, looked like he’d have had a full-head of curly hair had he not shared the same stylist as the rest of us. ‘They moved a lot of the big ones out into the country or to Whipsnade and some other zoos.’
‘But they must be eating,’ said Joe.
‘I suppose so,’ said the man. ‘But most animals are herbivores, so they’ll be fine on grass and leaves.’ As he spoke he tugged at his collar, like it was too tight.
‘Are you telling us,’ said Joe, ‘that around the country there are lions being kept in fields?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ he said. ‘That would be a bit dan
gerous. But certainly the non-dangerous ones could be.’
‘What about the dangerous ones?’ I said. ‘Like the snakes?’
‘Apparently the really dangerous animals were killed.’
‘Good,’ said Terry. ‘Last thing we need is a bomb dropping on the zoo and two hundred cobras and things being set loose.’
Joe stopped eating, lost in that thought, as if the image were playing inside his head.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Doug,’ and introductions were done.
‘And how dae you know all this?’ asked Joe.
‘Oh, I spoke to one of the keepers. A few of them are still around.’
‘Well, see if you can find out what the animals are eating,’ said Joe. ‘Because if I find out there’s something in there getting the steak I’ve been denied then I’m gonnae go in there with a big knife and some firewood.’
‘Did you know?’ said Doug. ‘They did that in Paris during the Siege in 1870. They were starving so they went through the zoo and slaughtered everything.’
‘Like what?’ I said.
‘Everything. The most famous were the elephants.’
‘I’d love to see that on a menu,’ said Terry. ‘Elephant and chips twice and a pot of tea.’
‘So did they share it around?’ asked Joe.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Doug. ‘Apparently the best restaurants made up menus, things like ‘Côtelettes de chien aux petits pois’.’
‘What’s that?’ said Terry.
‘Dog chops with peas.’
Laughter.
‘I wonder what giraffe tastes like,’ I said.
‘Chicken,’ said Terry.
‘So it was the toffs that scoffed the zoo?’ persisted Joe.
‘I think so,’ said Doug.
‘And what did the workers eat?’
‘Whatever they could I would’ve thought. Rats. Nothing. Many died.’
‘Rats? Typical, isn’t it? Even in France, the working man does all the work and gets none of the rewards.’
‘How would you have done it?’ I said. ‘Even with two elephants there wouldn’t be much to go round if you share it equally.’
‘Put together with everything else, the rats, the dogs, there would be enough. There was obviously enough tae go round or everybody would’ve died. Take the rough with the smooth. A bit of nice meat and a bit of rat. Instead of the rich getting the choice cuts and the poor getting all the crap. Share it out and everyone gets the same treatment and everyone gets the same chance tae survive.’
‘It’s not really fair on the restaurants though, is it?’ said Terry.
‘How?’
‘Well, since the restaurants are the ones selling it, I’m assuming they were the ones who organised it all, got the animals, slaughtered them, cooked and served the meat. And it can’t be easy, can it? Butchering an elephant. That kind of entrepreneurial spirit shouldn’t go unrewarded. I mean, while people were dying because they had no food, some clever soul obviously thought “hang on, there’s a zoo full of animals, why don’t we eat those.” Now if you just give it away, what reward does the clever soul get?’
‘Keeping his fellow man alive,’ said Joe.
‘Not a very good reward that, is it? I mean, okay you get a nice warm glow for a few minutes, but you can’t put that in a bank, can you?’
‘You think money is more important than your fellow man?’ said Joe.
‘Not necessarily, but one thing I know is that I can’t hang around hoping my fellow man is going to get round to helping me, so I’m going to go out and help myself in the meantime.’
‘That’s how they win,’ said Joe. ‘Money is a tool tae better society, no a tool tae better only yourself.’
‘Well, I’ve got to start somewhere,’ said Terry.
‘You bourgeois—’
‘Hey, Jock, don’t start that with me. I come from a family of miners, all of us were involved in the strikes, trade unionists to a man, but so far it’s got us nowhere. Now if you want to go the Soviet route then fine, good on you, a lot of my friends feel the same, but—’
‘Hadn’t we better get going?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘It’s nearly one. We’ve got to get back.’
We finished up. As we were leaving the mess, Joe could hold it in no longer.
‘Listen, first thing’s first, if you ever call me “Jock” again, I’ll—’
‘Attention!’
We stopped dead, the training kicking in.
‘What do you two think you are doing?’ It was Hawkins. He’d been waiting just outside the mess. He was talking to Joe and Terry.
‘Sir?’
‘I said, what do you two think you’re doing?’
‘We’re returning as ordered, sir.’
‘Like that?’
I realised what he was referring to and was glad I’d done it without thinking. Terry and Joe both had their forage caps in their hands. Doug and I were wearing ours. ‘You two, off you go,’ Hawkins said. ‘You two, come with me.’
Doug and I marched quick time, making sure we didn’t break any of the regulations we’d only just begun to memorise. Joe and Terry would get a punishment drill. Joe was already beginning to rack them up.
It was non-stop. We took to testing each other, reviewing together, sharing out the pressure, the knowledge. We had a swimming test. Growing up next to the slow moving river Don, I’d had plenty of practice, but many couldn’t manage more than a splash. We were separated, and the doggy-paddlers thrown in the deep end. While Terry and Joe were doing impressions of the Bismarck, we got survival training. Since Britain is an island, any offensive sortie involved crossing water. The chances of a dip in the North Sea or the Channel were high, and we had to know what to do when our kite crashed into the water with us still onboard. This was replicated by jumping off the top diving board beside an upturned bomber dingy, righting the dingy and getting in. In the dark. Fully clothed.
Instructors took every opportunity to scare the crap out of us. Stories of crashes in sea, on land or in air, being shot down, captured, having legs blown off, arms blown off, being blinded, deafened. By the end of one lecture I thought that, when it came down to it, I might be better off dying outright than surviving as a cripple behind enemy lines. Dreams of floundering in the North Sea, burning in wreckage, riddled with ack ack. ‘I tell you,’ said Terry that night. We were on the roof doing our stint of fire watching. ‘After this, being captured is going to seem like a holiday.’
‘I don’t think the Gestapo’s idea of torture is to push you in a swimming pool,’ I said. ‘They don’t want to know about wind flow over curved surfaces.’
‘I just mean,’ said Terry, rubbing his aching legs, ‘that the Gestapo are bound by the Geneva Conventions. This lot aren’t, not when it comes to how they treat us.’
The next evening was free. I dozed a bit, read the newspaper. Sfax, some Tunisian port, had fallen. The North Africa campaign was going well. I wondered where Willie was. His regiment had gone to Africa. I got a letter or two from him but they were so heavily censored all I could tell was he had pencil and paper. There’d been nothing since Christmas. Terry disappeared with his black market goods, God knows where, leaving me at a loose end. When Joe invited me out for a pint, I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. He’d found a pub to his liking. Our first weekend was approaching, and we’d have some time to ourselves. None of us could wait. Time to consolidate, review, sleep. I needed time off. I was planning to visit the record shop in Soho, try and find out about any gigs. I’d asked a few of the lads around Abbey Road and in our flight, but none of them really cared much about music. Joe returned with a round, sat back down. ‘What are you going to do this weekend?’ I asked him.
‘Are you kidding?’ he said. ‘Saturday night in London? I’m gonnae find a boozer, find a wench.’
Find a fight? ‘Aye? Where about?’ Make sure I’m not in the same area.
‘Dunno. You any ideas? I’d ask the cockneys but they’re no talking tae me.’
‘No, I’ve no ideas. Sleep would be nice. A lie in. Go over everything we’ve learned this week.’
‘You’re gonnae use your weekend tae study?’
Joe never complained about the training, about being tired. Maybe he really didn’t mind it, but Terry reckoned it was a Communist thing: he couldn’t be seen complaining about a little hard work. I didn’t really understand what a Communist was. What was the point? Politics was in London and no-one in the north could do anything about that, especially out on the farms. The only political person I’d encountered was Duncan Collins, who had gone to prison as a conscientious objector. I didn’t really know him myself, but Dod had been one of the group who gave Duncan a real kicking outside The Clansman just after war was declared. It seemed to me back then that if political beliefs could leave you with a buckled nose and a permanent limp, they were probably worth avoiding. Joe himself looked like he’d handed out a few kickings in his time and maybe taken a fair share. ‘So you up for it?’ Joe said.
‘Up for it?’
‘The weekend. Out on the randan, lads’ night out.’
‘Could do.’ Non-committal. ‘But not a big night. We’ve got church first thing Sunday for a start.’
‘Church? The fuck are you on about?’
‘Compulsory church parade, Sunday morning.’
‘No way am I going tae that.’
‘It’s compulsory,’ I said.
‘Aye, well, we’ll fucking see about that.’
‘Don’t you go to church?’ I asked him.
‘Course no. Don’t tell me you do?’
‘We went sometimes, like at Christmas and Easter, but there’s always work to do on a farm. You can’t take a day of rest when the cows need milked or the field needs ploughed or the harvest taken in. Ma and Lizzie used to go. Lizzie hated it.’
‘And you believe that shite?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it.’
‘I had tae go when I was wee,’ said Joe. ‘Ma made us, Alec and me. Da didnae give a flying one, but Ma made us go. Christ, I hated it. All that gold and nice clothes and the collection plate. I couldnae ever work out how we had tae give money for the poor of the area when we were the poor of the area. We’d put some coins in like Ma’d told us cause if we didnae the Priest would tell her, and then we’d get no lunch. Then when Alec was about ten we just stopped going. We’d take the collection money Ma’d given us and go get a pie, something like that. Best meal of the week, that one.’
