Rose is pushing me out the door. Me one good eye notes the wall clock – ‘5.50’. “Jees woman, unhand me! I’ve still got ten minutes.” I wriggle out of her clutches, but the effort releases a wet warmth. I sink onto the green-tiled floor at me local, the Empress of India’s front bar. Darkness.
Me mate Dickie knows the drill. An almost nightly routine, he has a key to our single-fronted ‘Workers’, just down the laneway: gets me inside, onto the sofa, wet trousers off, and a blanket thrown roughly over me lifeless form.
Sometime during the night, I’m back in the Somme. Shells screech overhead, smoky mist floats, deadening the screams, the putrid smells, the distant wire still holding me mate’s ruptured body. There was a decent nip of Corio at the bottom of the bottle, enough to take me back into No-man’s Land.
I wake again as the early winter sun spotlights the pile of dirty dishes in the sink! I also find that I’ve pissed meself again. The couch will survive; a bit ‘whiffy’, but just another layer of crap in me life. The first ‘rollie for the day gets the 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 right as rain.
Pension Day was me and Flo’s big day out. We’d be off to the butchers for a large silverside, sometimes an impulsive splurge with neck chops, lamb’s fry, and a pound of mince. At the fruit shop, a couple of pounds of spuds, onions, carrots, maybe seasonal fruit; at the grocer’s we’d buy flour, butter, biscuits, real dunny paper, cordial, soap, milk, bread, and the Argus.
Jees, in those days the veggie patch was me pride and joy. I grew a lot of the vegies – caulies, beans, peas, summer toms, 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 Flo, I miss ya!
Bloody ‘ell, these strides are on the nose. 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, just plonks the Pot down. I pay six pence.
She and Flo were mates from way back. Our shared grief – an unspoken bond! She keeps an eye on me, I reckon!