Rose is pushing me out the door. With my one good eye I see the wall clock: ‘5.50’. “Jees woman, unhand me! I’ve still got ten minutes.” I wriggle out of her clutches, the effort releasing a wet warmth, a seepage as I sink onto the green-tiled floor of my local, the Empress of India’s front bar. Darkness.
Dickie knows the drill, an almost nightly routine. He has a duplicate set of keys to our single-fronted ‘Workers’: gets me inside, onto the sofa, wet trousers off, and a blanket thrown roughly over my lifeless form.
I remember waking sometime during the night. I’d been back in the Somme: the shelling, the smoke, screaming, smells, slop, the wire still holding my mate’s ruptured body. There was a decent nip of Corio at the bottom of the bottle, enough to send me back into No-man’s Land.
I wake again as the early winter sun finds the pile of dirty dishes in the sink! I also find that I’ve wet meself again. The couch will survive; a bit ‘whiffy’, but just another layer of ‘shit’ in me life. I roll me first Capstan for the day: it gets me lungs goin’, coughin’ me guts up and getting’ me ready for a cuppa, and toast!
I’ve still got a few shillings left. I’ll be right. Another bit of toast and then I’ll nip down to the Empress for a couple of heart-starters. Pension Day, tomorrer. Cash it at the Post Office, and I’ll be as good as gold.
When Flo was still here, Pension Day was our big day out: down to the butchers for a large silverside, sometimes an impulsive splurge with neck chops and a pound of mince. At the fruit shop, a couple of pounds of spuds, onions, carrots, maybe seasonal fruit. Onto the grocers to get flour, butter, biscuits, real dunny paper, cordial, razors, soap, milk, bread, and the Argus.
Jees, in those days the veggie patch was me pride and joy. I grew most of the vegies – caulies, beans, peas, summer tomatoes, even a choko over the lavvy. Lemon and orange trees in the back, and a grafted Red Delicious in the middle of the front lawn. Yep, we sure had it all, in those days!
Flo had a wonderful show at the front. Roses, lavender, violets and she had planted hundreds of spring bulbs: daffs, glads, hyacinths. She entered, and won the Silver Cup for Best Spring Garden Display in our street, three years running! Ah Jees I miss ‘er!
Bloody ‘ell, these strides. They ’ll stand up by ‘emselves shortly! I’ll get the copper goin’ when I get back. Mmm, these blue ones don’t smell too bad!
Rose glares at me as I push open the door. No pleasantries, she just plonks the Pot down in front of me. I hand over the 6d.
She and Flo were mates from way back. Our shared grief – an unspoken bond! She keeps an eye on me, I reckon!