So with all this, I wouldn't be at all surprised if it wasn't Dad who had encouraged the invitation to Bob. At the very least he would never have raised any objection. And Bob has played his part, being courteous, agreeable, grateful and also generous by bringing such treasures as tinned fruit for the family and tubes of sweets - Tootsie Froots, I think they're called – for me. And Wrigleys, of which I have a supply without having to go up to an American soldier in the street - as my friends do - and say "Got any gum, chum?" I get almost as much pleasure from looking at the the colourful Tootsie wrappers as I do from munching the candy - as Bob calls it.
I look across the table at Bob. He sits there, smiling and appreciative, whatever he is thinking at that moment about Brussels sprouts. As ever I admire his uniform. It's a sort of brown and the cloth looks lovely and smooth. It's so, so different from the scratchy khaki material which I know my brother is wearing at this moment, or Dad's Home Guard uniform which was put away for the last time three weeks ago. Bob looks so smart. Like an officer. But I don't think he is one. And of course he is eating as usual in a way which fascinates me. After he has taken his plate off Dad and put his veg. on, he cuts up all his meat into smaller pieces, lays his knife on the far edge of the plate, moves his fork to his right hand and eats the whole meal with that alone. I'm dying to try that for myself. But I'm always told that while it's OK for an American to do it, it's not OK for me. So of course I don't. But one of these days, when there's no one else in the room...... And of course, if my great-grandfather had not decided to come home in 1859, I might have been eating like that all my life, and never known the difference.
I don't know a lot about Bob. He's probably about twenty. He lives at an American base at Pheasey which isn't very far away. He was injured in Normandy during the summer and was sent here to recover. He looks OK to me. He comes from a place in America called the Midwest. He's not allowed to write home to tell his mum and dad any details about his injury and so my own dad has written to them on his behalf. I expect they will be very happy to hear that their son is OK. It will take ages for Dad's letter to get there and even longer to see a reply, if we get one. Bob is such a nice and gentle lad, or so my father says. Dad is a veteran of the last war and still has the scar of his own injury. So he knows a bit about fighting. He always jokes that he cannot see Bob rushing towards the German lines, weapon raised and with murder in his eyes - he's just too nice a bloke. But Bob probably had to do it, even so. And now, after all that, he's here, with us, laughing and joking and joining in the fun.
The meal is cleared away and the Christmas pudding is brought in. I'm told that in peace time people pour brandy over this and set it on fire. This seems a strange thing to do but I'll believe it - half the things that people are supposed to do seem very peculiar to me. No question of that now of course. Dad certainly wouldn't waste precious booze in that way. You just can't get it, even if you can afford it. But whether it's on fire or not I don't have any Christmas pudding. Don't like it. I help Mum to make it and the Christmas cake and am allowed to lick the spoon. But whilst I like the cake, I hate the pudding. Sheila tells me that's daft. It's all the same stuff, she says. But I think it's different. And so I have a mince pie instead. Home made as well. I love them. Bob manfully devours the pudding and says he likes it. He's a very polite man.
The meal is coming to an end. I look over at Bob. Here he is miles away from his home and family, making the very best of things at a time when he is no doubt thinking of everybody back there. And he's sitting exactly where my brother normally sits and HE is miles away from home and family as well. And making the best of things, just like Bob and millions of other men and their families who are separated. All this is quite normal to me. I can hardly remember anything different. But for grown-ups it's probably been a rotten year for everyone and that followed a rotten year the previous year and it was a rotten year the year before that. Here at least we don't have to worry about the bombing any more but all the poor people in London now have the doodlebugs to worry about. It must seem to them that it'll never end.
Perhaps at some time in this coming year, 1945, all those millions of men and women, including Bob and Graham, and Mr. B. from next door at no. 103, and Mr. W. over the road and Mr. P. at no. 89 will be able to sit once again at their own table amongst those most dear to them. And all the world will slowly, ever so slowly, get back to normal. (Whatever normal is – I certainly don't know what that will be). But not just yet .....and goodness knows how long it still will be.
I look across the table at Bob. He sits there, smiling and appreciative, whatever he is thinking at that moment about Brussels sprouts. As ever I admire his uniform. It's a sort of brown and the cloth looks lovely and smooth. It's so, so different from the scratchy khaki material which I know my brother is wearing at this moment, or Dad's Home Guard uniform which was put away for the last time three weeks ago. Bob looks so smart. Like an officer. But I don't think he is one. And of course he is eating as usual in a way which fascinates me. After he has taken his plate off Dad and put his veg. on, he cuts up all his meat into smaller pieces, lays his knife on the far edge of the plate, moves his fork to his right hand and eats the whole meal with that alone. I'm dying to try that for myself. But I'm always told that while it's OK for an American to do it, it's not OK for me. So of course I don't. But one of these days, when there's no one else in the room...... And of course, if my great-grandfather had not decided to come home in 1859, I might have been eating like that all my life, and never known the difference.
I don't know a lot about Bob. He's probably about twenty. He lives at an American base at Pheasey which isn't very far away. He was injured in Normandy during the summer and was sent here to recover. He looks OK to me. He comes from a place in America called the Midwest. He's not allowed to write home to tell his mum and dad any details about his injury and so my own dad has written to them on his behalf. I expect they will be very happy to hear that their son is OK. It will take ages for Dad's letter to get there and even longer to see a reply, if we get one. Bob is such a nice and gentle lad, or so my father says. Dad is a veteran of the last war and still has the scar of his own injury. So he knows a bit about fighting. He always jokes that he cannot see Bob rushing towards the German lines, weapon raised and with murder in his eyes - he's just too nice a bloke. But Bob probably had to do it, even so. And now, after all that, he's here, with us, laughing and joking and joining in the fun.
The meal is cleared away and the Christmas pudding is brought in. I'm told that in peace time people pour brandy over this and set it on fire. This seems a strange thing to do but I'll believe it - half the things that people are supposed to do seem very peculiar to me. No question of that now of course. Dad certainly wouldn't waste precious booze in that way. You just can't get it, even if you can afford it. But whether it's on fire or not I don't have any Christmas pudding. Don't like it. I help Mum to make it and the Christmas cake and am allowed to lick the spoon. But whilst I like the cake, I hate the pudding. Sheila tells me that's daft. It's all the same stuff, she says. But I think it's different. And so I have a mince pie instead. Home made as well. I love them. Bob manfully devours the pudding and says he likes it. He's a very polite man.
The meal is coming to an end. I look over at Bob. Here he is miles away from his home and family, making the very best of things at a time when he is no doubt thinking of everybody back there. And he's sitting exactly where my brother normally sits and HE is miles away from home and family as well. And making the best of things, just like Bob and millions of other men and their families who are separated. All this is quite normal to me. I can hardly remember anything different. But for grown-ups it's probably been a rotten year for everyone and that followed a rotten year the previous year and it was a rotten year the year before that. Here at least we don't have to worry about the bombing any more but all the poor people in London now have the doodlebugs to worry about. It must seem to them that it'll never end.
Perhaps at some time in this coming year, 1945, all those millions of men and women, including Bob and Graham, and Mr. B. from next door at no. 103, and Mr. W. over the road and Mr. P. at no. 89 will be able to sit once again at their own table amongst those most dear to them. And all the world will slowly, ever so slowly, get back to normal. (Whatever normal is – I certainly don't know what that will be). But not just yet .....and goodness knows how long it still will be.
