First Time Solo

by Iain Maloney

  ‘He’s… I’m sorry, your brother’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Aye. Dead he is,’ Joe quietened down, taking from his pocket the scrap of flag he’d had in the Manifesto when he gave it to me. ‘Back in thirty-seven, martyred tae the cause, out in Spain.’ The scrap of red flag lay in his hand, tender.

  ‘I don’t suppose you knew much about it on the farm? A real revolution. Alec said everywhere you went there were red Communist flags and red and black Anarchist flags. In some places they got rid of money and returned tae barter. You know, I’ll give you twenty tatties for twenty carrots, that kind of thing.’

  ‘We do that at home,’ I said. ‘Trade milk for bread, cheese for whisky.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Joe. ‘Wouldnae work in Glasgow. All we had tae trade was our labour and once we’d built a ship, it wasnae ours anymore. If we owned the shipyard, the workers I mean, if we owned the means of production, when we’d finished building the ship, we’d own that and all.’

  ‘How many tatties would you trade for the Queen Elizabeth?’

  ‘The ship or the woman?’

  ‘Either.’

  We laughed.

  ‘Is this in there?’ I asked Joe. ‘What you’re talking about?’

  ‘It’s in the Manifesto,’ he said. ‘Gonnae read it, Jack?’

  ‘Aye. Yes.’ I said. ‘I will, sorry.’

  ‘’Lo, Jack,’ someone said. Nev and Clive. Nev went up to the bar, Clive stopped at the table.

  ‘Hi, Clive, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Just having a snifter before bed.’ He saw Joe’s book. ‘Reading Das Kapital? Heavy going. Enjoying it?’

  ‘Reading what?’

  ‘Das Kapital. Capital. Sorry, I was using the German.’

  ‘You’ve read it?’ said Joe, disbelieving. ‘I wouldnae have thought they’d teach this at your kind of school.’

  ‘You’re right, they don’t. But I read it in my own time, just like you. Have you read it, Jack?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘Joe’s rereading it.’

  Joe gave me a nasty look. ‘Rereading it? Brave man. I assume you’re a Communist then?’

  ‘Course. I assume you’re no.’

  ‘No. I mean, I dabbled when I was more… immature, but there’s a lot in Marx that is suspect, or just plain wrong.’

  Joe leaned forward. I leaned back. ‘Aye, well, you would say that. You’re a rich cunt.’

  ‘So? Engels was the son of a wealthy Capitalist. Are you saying rich people can’t be Communists?’

  I escaped to the bar to get a drink. It only took a bit of politics to ruin peace. Joe’s voice rising.

  ‘Course no. Daddy’s built up a fortune exploiting the working class, you’ve got all the benefits but now you’re gonnae pull the ladder out from under yourself, hand over the means of production and redistribute your wealth? My arse. You’re just a toff playing at being a radical.’

  ‘And you’re not playing? I don’t believe for a second you’re rereading that. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that someone from your background is trying to better himself, because surely that’s the point of Socialism: background shouldn’t matter. The Brotherhood of Man. Marx was from a well-off Jewish German family, Engels the son of a factory owner yet they could come together and write the Communist Manifesto. What my father does for a living shouldn’t be held against me. Sins of the father and all that.’

  Joe stood, fists clenched. ‘Background does matter,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘This is a class war. And you are no Engels.’

  ‘And who are you? Trotsky?’ Sneering. Joe lunged, knocked the table over, drinks everywhere. I was right to go to the bar. They’d have been all over me. But Clive was ready, side-stepped Joe who crashed into the table behind him. Joe got up, took a swing, right haymaker. Clive dodged him again, rabbit-punch to the side of the head as he went by. Joe hit the ground again. He got up, shattered bottom of his pint glass. Clive was faster, sucker punch to the nose. Joe went down. Didn’t get up.

  The MPs came in, carted them both off. We helped clean up the bar. Calm restored, I went back to the bar with Joe’s book. God knew what would happen to Joe. Could be a punishment, could be reposted. Permanently grounded. I shook my head. Would that fight have started if he’d been reading The Hound of the Baskervilles? I sipped my bitter. Terry came in.

  ‘Jack, there you are. Been looking around for you.’

  ‘Why? Has something happened?’

  ‘Has something happened? Only great news, that’s all. You know St. Vincent’s Hotel?’

  ‘What about it?’ I said.

  ‘Requisitioned for military use.’

  ‘So? So is the Foxland, the Palermo, the Devonshire, just about all the hotels in town are full of recruits and officers, including this one. What’s all the fuss about?’

  ‘St. Vincent’s is different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It was requisitioned for WAAFs.’

  ‘Aye. And?’

  ‘A hotel, full, chock full of WAAF. Here in town.’

  ‘That’s good news for you.’

  ‘For me? For all of us. I haven’t forgotten your predicament, Jack.’

  ‘I don’t have a predicament.’

  ‘Fine, but you’ll come with us, yes?’

  ‘Yes, why not? Just as long as there are no surprises.’

  ‘Deal.’

  I took another drink.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What are we waiting here for?’

  ‘Now? No, not now. I’m knackered. Terry.’

  ‘Fine, tomorrow then.’

  ‘Tomorrow? I’ve got guard duty.’

  ‘Right, the weekend then. Bitter, please,’ he told the barman. ‘So the weekend. Can’t wait. Get Joe and Doug in as well. Where are they, anyway?’

  ‘Doug’s gone to bed. Joe’s banged up.’

  ‘Arrested? Politics?’

  ‘Yes. He was reading Marx. Clive tried to start a conversation.’

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘Clive? Or Joe?’

  ‘So, Joe’s still trying to read Capital? He’s been at that since we all met. Don’t let on I know, he’ll go crazy, but he’s been on the same page for at least two months now. Don’t know why he bothers.’

  ‘It’s good to push yourself.’

  ‘Not for politics.’

  Joe and Clive spent a night locked up. Joe was raging when he came out. Humiliated to lose both an argument and a fight to a public schoolboy. I’d no problem with Clive, but I warned him to watch his back. Everyone knew Joe, knew what he was capable of. A dark alley, an ambush and Clive might not walk away.

  It was my bet. I got a pair of tens, nothing else. Doug, ever gentle, bet two matches. Joe raised him five. Terry saw him. I folded. They might have been bluffing, but it was getting too expensive. I hadn’t been lucky so far. Doug saw the bet, raised another two. Joe bet ten. Terry paused. He knew Joe was full of bollocks and would bet ten on nothing but couldn’t be sure. He saw the bet. Doug shrugged and threw in the matches then, just as Joe moved his arm, chucked in another five. Joe hesitated briefly then saw him. Terry folded. Doug chucked in another five and absentmindedly scratched his ankle. His cards lay face down on the sand. He hadn’t touched them since he checked them after the last exchange. Joe had his tight in his grasp, close to his chest lest anyone saw them. He stared hard at Doug. The wind picked up. His matches followed Doug’s into the middle.

  ‘Call,’ he said. ‘Two pairs,’ said Doug.

  Joe laughed loud, a harsh Glasgow cackle. Laid his cards on the sand. ‘Full house. Threes and Jacks. Get that right roond ye.’

  He started picking up matches. ‘Hang on,’ said Doug. ‘I have two queens,’ he placed the queens of hearts and diamonds, ‘and two queens.’ The spade fell next to the club.

  We wanted to be face to face with Jerry. Well, we got our wish.

  They came one evening while it was still light. They knew where we were. The evening, those off duty swim
ming, relaxing in the water, sleeping on the beach, a hard day over. Soapy’s lot, Paddy and those boys at play. Jerry roaring in low, fast, no warning. Sudden burst of noise, the scream of planes shooting overhead, rounds fizzing up the water. The roar, the chatter. Rattle of bullets, bubbles. Soapy got it, riddled with the things, Micky, Nev, those two Geordies, couple of others. Out there, one minute they were letting the strain wash away, the next the Channel’s turning red. Chaos, people going in every direction. Couldn’t hide in the water, couldn’t escape. Some ran for shore, some swam the opposite way. Others tried to go down hoping distance would be enough. It wasn’t. You expect to die in war, but this was something else. Not combat. Some kind of circus. Jerry wasn’t done. He went and let the cliffs have both barrels, unloaded into them, brought the whole lot down on the beach, right on top of Johnny, Davey, more, stretched out, lying down. Been asleep, woken by gunfire and next thing there’s no next thing. Never had a chance. No way to fight a war. Shoot your opponent down in mid-air, best him in a dogfight, that’s the way. Paddy and Ted appeared naked, covered in dirt and blood and there was this fracture, before and after, but you ran, ran with everyone else because you had to dig the others out from under that cliff, from the landslide, like it was some natural disaster, some act of God.

  The anger around the place. Impotence was the problem. A pilot could get back up there and let Jerry have it, payback. Nothing we could do but wait. One day. One day there’d be a 109 in the crosshairs, a city through the bombsight. You vowed that, out loud, quietly to yourself, because nothing that bad should go unanswered. The voice at the back of your mind said it wasn’t the worst that could happen, but that was just how you coped, it was how we all coped. You raised a glass. You cursed. You swore you wouldn’t forget and then you tried to, because they’d be back and it might be you next time and you can’t function with a thought like that slap bang centre in your life, so it was nothing personal, nothing you wouldn’t expect the others to do when it was your turn. You pushed it aside and you got on with things. We had to get our wings, get into the game and then, and only then, when we pulled the trigger, could we spare a thought for those two Geordies, Micky, Nev, Dod and the others.

  All the others.

  The summer went on but no-one noticed. Heads down, shoulders bent. The volume turned low. Letters home were shorter. No news we wanted to talk about. No-one went swimming any more. It didn’t seem right to lark around and though most wouldn’t admit it, we were terrified. We had a service. Silence. Salutes. More ghosts. Apologised to them, promised they hadn’t died in vain. The country was haunted. After the funerals everyone censored themselves: Not too loud, not too irreverent. Heads went into books and stayed there. No jokes. Few conversations that weren’t directly about the business at hand. We played a bit but no-one had a taste for it. Minor keys, low notes, slow tempos. We were going to offer our talents to ENSA but now we held back. In a world of ghosts we each retreated into ourselves. I sat alone in a tea shop, staring at the pot. Homesick. Thinking about those deaths. Thinking about Dod. Days. Wake, study, eat, sleep. Nights. Distraction, anything.

  Gradually we got back into playing, Joe taking his frustration out on the kit. Straighten up and fly right. I told the ENSA rep we existed, he promised an audition for the next show. Whether we’d ever get there was debatable. Joe seemed intent on causing trouble. He still wanted revenge on Clive, but no opportunity presented itself. Clive wasn’t daft. Then he managed to get between Terry and a hotel full of WAAFs. To practice Morse code we sat in separate huts and were given messages to send. They must’ve been extracts from poetry, some Shakespeare I recognised from school. If we’d been in the same hut, I could’ve asked Doug about the rest. All those thous and thines, we might as well be spelling out code as English, which was probably the point. Never send plain English, not in a war. The headaches it gave, the concentration. Felt like Glasgow-kissing brick walls, and that was just part of the day. That wasn’t even the Air Force Law. Joe and I were in one hut, Terry and Doug in the other. We’d been at it for thirty minutes, thirty more to go, taking turns to send, receive, swap over. Receive a paragraph then send it back for verification. Chinese whispers in dots and dashes. If there was one letter out of place in the reply we’d have to start again. Repeat. Always repeat. Repetition was the watch word of the military. ‘Message incoming,’ said Joe, transcribing. ‘‘F – U – C – K – I – N – G – Q – U – E – E – R – J – O – C – K – S.’ That Welsh bastard. Thinks he’s funny, does he? Right.’ Tapping. It was a long message but I could spot the repetition of certain letter combinations, F – U – C and K generally. I took a quick peek outside to make sure no-one was coming. If the Sergeant caught us, he’d rip our balls off for pissing around with RAF equipment on RAF time, pushing out his over-long neck to shout at us. Sergeant Cotters was nice enough, usually, but he had little time for anything out of line. We had to show our transcriptions to Cotters once the hour was up so he could check our progress. The reply came through. ‘W – H – A – T – I – S – A – W – O – N – K – E – R – ?’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Joe. Sent his message again.

  ‘Is this really a good idea?’

  ‘Not letting that fuck get away with that. Keep a watch though.’

  I watched. Suddenly from behind me:

  ‘Bastard! Fucking Welsh cunting bastard!’ Joe dove out the door, belted across the parade ground. I turned back to the table and looked at the notepad. ‘H – A – V – E – Y – O – U – R – E – A – D – C – A – P – I – T – A – L – Y – E – T – ?’

  ‘Oh shit.’ I considered briefly sending Terry a warning but Joe would be there by now. Anyway, Terry wouldn’t have sent a firework like that and not then been looking out the window. I went to the door. Beyond the hut I could see Joe chasing Terry between the buildings of the camp and across the parade ground while Cotters stood shouting at the pair of them, his neck arcing out from his rotund body, a look that earned him the nickname ‘Turtle.’ Most of us liked him, but a Sergeant was a Sergeant, and their job was to keep us in check. Why could Joe not control his temper? Why did Terry have to wind him up? I went back to the table and ripped the top page off the notebook, quickly rewrote the messages we had legitimately sent, shoved the incriminating paper into my pocket. A final check to make sure there was no evidence of mucking about and I walked slowly over to where the Turtle had finally got Joe and Terry to stop. Doug saw me from the other hut and did the same. I didn’t know what Turtle would do, but I had a feeling we wouldn’t have a free weekend.

  I was right. Saturday and Sunday were taken up with menial tasks and extended periods of guard duty. Joe and Terry, as the main culprits, were cleaning the latrines, cleaning the trucks, cleaning the classrooms. Doug and I, complicit but not actually guilty of fighting and swearing in front of Turtle, were ordered to cut the grass throughout the camp. I didn’t mind this so much: It reminded me of home, of harvest, but with the added benefit that grass an inch or two long was easier than acres and acres of wheat. Doug didn’t mind either. He generally didn’t mind anything as long as he was outside. It was early summer on the South coast. There were worse places to cut the grass. ‘What would you be doing if it wasn’t for the war?’ Doug asked me.

  I paused, straightened up, wiped the sweat from my forehead. ‘This, pretty much.’

  ‘Was the farm your future?’

  ‘It wasn’t. But then Dod bought it.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Aye, he was five years older than me. In it from the start. Dunkirk.’

  ‘There was just the two of you?’

  ‘A sister as well. Lizzie.’

  ‘So you’re the man now.’

  ‘I’m the man, now. If I survive all this, I’ll have to take over the farm.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘No choice. No point in feeling anything about it.’

  ‘If your brother hadn’t… what would you have do
ne?’

  ‘You know what? I really don’t know. By the time it started to become real, it was ’39 and the war was on. Since then there hasn’t seemed much point in planning. And then Dod died and that was that.’

  ‘No point planning,’ Doug said. ‘That’s a good way of putting it. There’s no point in mapping out a future when you could be dead by Christmas. Not that it stopped me.’

  ‘What did you want to do?’

  ‘Cambridge. University. A future in the quads surrounded by books and scholars. Maybe a thin poetry collection.’

  ‘Well, we might make it through. Someone has to.’

  ‘Do you know Wilfred Owen? He was a poet who fought in the First War. He died a week before Armistice. Yes, we might make it. But the war isn’t the only reason I won’t be going to Cambridge. You need money for that and we don’t have any of that anymore. Too old for a scholarship. No, my chance disappeared when the mill went under. My brother, Edward, was the last in our family to enjoy the privilege of doing what he wanted.’

  We lapsed into silence, thoughts on impossible futures, bodies getting on with the job at hand. ‘I suppose I’ll go home though,’ Doug said at length. ‘If I get through the war. It’s only been a couple of months and already I’m getting homesick. What I’ll do there is another thing. It will just be nice to get out of this uniform and back into some comfortable clothes. Do you get homesick?’

  I thought about it. ‘No, not really. I mean, I miss my folks, and a couple of pals, but since Dod died, and everyone disappeared into the forces, it’s like the place became a ghost town. I was there for a year after signing up. It was empty.’

  ‘A town of old people and women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was the same for me. So, what would you do, if you had the option?’

  ‘A job? The future? I don’t know.’

  I imagined I was on the farm, lost myself in the familiarity. Doug recited poetry to himself, body moving in poetic lines, work and words, movement and rhythm, the sounds of existence.