R
Robert Harrison
Guest
TOM
The man looked gaunt, he had not eaten for two days, and things were getting a bit desperate. In his younger days, when he had a bit of meat on his body, two days was a pushover when not have anything to eat. Always on the move was Tom, no time to put down roots for long, except in bad weather, then he might find shelter in some kindly farmers hay barn, or some derelict house out in the back blocks where no one would bother him, except those who knew him. There were still the kindly folk who had known Tom for many years as he traveled the roads of Worcestershire and Warwickshire. They saw to it that Tom did not starve, and it was more than his usual bit of bread and cheese he was supplied with. Tom had nothing against a slice of bread and cheese; in fact, he was quite partial to it, but not every day.
He stood under the awning of the post office at Whitchurch, a nice little village just a few miles from Litchfield. Tom had been making his way to Tamworth to see and old army buddy of his. Both had been stationed at Whittington barracks before being shipped of overseas during the Second World War. Tom never considered it the Second World War, but a continuation of the First World War, with a breathing space between the two.
Not partial to Staffordshire he had consented to meet his friend at the Red Bull Inn at Tamworth, but as is want with gentleman of the road, village names had a nasty habit of drawing them away from their intended destination, and Whittington was no exception.
Tom was no stranger to the village, neither was his friend as both had been thrown out of the local Crown pub on a few occasions, not for any misbehavior on their part, but once they started singing the only way to shut them up was to throw them out.
In somewhat inebriated state they would walk, or stagger up the narrow lane leading to the back of the barracks singing to the annoyance of the sleeping birds. It was not unusual for them to tackle the assault coarse on the way to their barrack block. More often than not getting themselves caught on the barbed wire as they crawled upon their bellies under the barbed wire obstacle coarse. Unable to untangle them, mainly because the silly pair was laughing too much, that was where they would spend the rest of the night. The Red Caps were out early in the morning looking for them, and would find them dirty, and asleep with silly smiles on their grubby faces.
Seven days confined to barracks and the usual stopping of pay until they had paid for new battledress tunics, which had received some rather nasty tares, caused by the barbed wire? A pair of larrikins if ever there was. For all their shenanigans, they were a well-liked pair with the men and some of the officers.
The Post office stood next to the Crown pub, and as Tom looked at the familiar houses of the village, his tummy rumbling for the want of food. The village came alive with people he had known all those years ago, and he smiled to himself as old friends walked past him not seeing the gaunt figure standing there; ghosts of the past, alive and well in Toms eyes, not having aged at all in thirty years.
His vision of the past disappeared as if it had never been as the door to the Crown opened closing his mind to what had been. Stepping into the sunshine Bert Moorefield, the licensee of the Crown stood on the pavement and leaned on the yard broom he had brought with him. He surveyed his part of the village from the cross roads to the Post office. It was on his second look that he noticed the tall gaunt figure of Tom standing under the awning. Bert looked at the somewhat familiar face, the features were there of someone he thought he knew, but who was this tall man. Then he recognized who it was he was looking at.
“Tom” he said quietly at first. “Tom” he said louder and started to walk towards the man.
“My God, it is, its you Tom, where in heavens name did you come from?
Tom just smiled, then finally said “Hello Bert, how are you old friend, are you open yet?
“For you Tom, I am open any time, come in, come on in”
Bert leaned the broom up against the pub wall, took Toms arm and led him into the familiar Bar. “Mary” he shouted. “Mary come and see what the devil has brought us”.
He led Tom over to a table by the window and had him sit down. “Mary woman, where the dickens are you?
“I’m coming, I’m coming, what in heavens name is all the fuss about”
His wife stood in the doorway leading to the pubs lounge room. “Now what is it you want that has me worrying what the dickens is up?”
“Look who’s back from the dead?” he said with a smile upon his face.
Mary looked at Tom. “Well who is…Tom, is that you? Her hand went to her mouth as she looked at the gaunt looking man. “What have you done to yourself, you look dreadful. Bert go and get Tom something to eat for goodness sake, the poor man looks starved to death”.
“Hello to you Mary” said Tom.
“Oh I’m sorry Tom, but you did give me a turn you did. Here you are after all these years. Oh, my dear man the years seem to have been unkind to you, you are so thin. What have you been doing to get yourself into such a state?
“Mary, don’t worry about me I’m fine, just a bit hungry that is all, nothing that a good meal will not put right”.
“And a good meal is what you will get my lad, Bert what are you doing back there, Tom wants his dinner”.
Tom laughed. “Sorry Mary, but you called me lad, if my memory serves me well I am three years older than you”.
“Well that’s as may be, but you still need feeding up. Take your overcoat off and sit yourself down, I’ll get you something to drink what will you have Tom?”
“Just water Mary thank you, water will do me fine” said Tom as he took off he overcoat. He rarely took off his coat, winter and summer, he wore it all the time, but as Mary was giving the orders, he did as he was told.
Two men came into the Bar; Tom looked at them but did not recognize them. While Mary saw to their needs Tom looked about the familiar room, nothing had changed. The old piano stood in its usual corner, and though the sun was shining, there was the customary fire in the huge fireplace. Pictures of prizewinning cattle adorned the walls along side those of the village taken in the eighteen hundreds. A dartboard with the last score from the last match played. Shining horse brasses hanging on leather straps framed the fireplace and customers drinking cups and glasses hung from hooks above the bar. Great hooks were set into the black oak beams, for the Crown had once been used to kill sheep and cattle at the village cattle sales, and the Crown had the only beams that would take their weight when being cut up.
The ghosts came back to him and he could hear the singing of men’s voices and the piano playing an old George Formby number. A young Mary’s voice was telling someone to keep it down or clear off. He placed both hands upon the table to steady himself. “I must be hungrier than I thought,” He reasoned. The voices went and the piano was silent. He took a deep breath taking into his lungs the smells of the pub. He wanted to fill his whole body with what once was before his mind once again emptied itself.
He coughed as the stale cigarette smoke caught in his throat. “Alright Tom?” Asked Mary as she pulled another pint.
“Yes Mary, I’m fine, a bit of a cough that’s all”. Mary looked at him with a look of concern upon her face. “I bet it’s more than a cough,” she said to herself. “Poor devil, will you look at the state of him, he was a handsome lad when he was younger”.
“Ay up missus, I aint payin. for what’s in the tray”. Mary brought her mind back to the customer that was jokingly complaining. She must have wasted half a pint of best bitter.
Tom looked around the room with deep reverence as flashes of memories came back to him. “Oh my goodness” he said out loud, his eyes had wandered to a picture near the window where he was sitting. He got up to have a closer look. He was looking at a picture of a group of soldiers taken in this very room, and there in the middle of the group stood himself and his mate. “Mary” he said turning to the woman who was still serving the two men.
“Yes Tom, what is it?”
“The picture, you still have it’.
“And why not, did you think that we would throw it out just because you up and left us. No Tom, that picture holds to many memories for Bert and I.
Tom looked back at the picture. There were seven in the group and he remembered them all.
Mary came over to where Tom was looking at the picture and put her arm in his.
“A long time ago Tom”. She looked up into his face. You know that four never came back don’t you Tom.”
“Yes I had heard”.
“Poor lads, I dunno, war can be cruel.
“Yes war can be cruel Mary” He replied. “So very, very cruel”.
She led him back to his seat. “Oh Tom it is so good to see you again, Bert and I often thought about you after you left for the Middle East, What happened out there?”
“Oh, the war Mary, the war”. And that was all he said.
Bert came in carrying a plate and placed it before Tom. “Get that down you my old son, you look as if you haven’t had a decent meal in ages”.
Tom looked down at his plate “Bert I don’t think that I can manage all of that, you have given me enough for two men, but by golly I will give it a go”.
“We will leave you to your meal Tom and then we can talk later” said Mary and they made their way to the bar where other customers were waiting to be served. Some thought that they knew the shabbily dressed man but couldn’t be sure, and rather than have Tom being pestered by well meaning folk they said nothing.
When Mary next looked in Tom’s direction he was writing something, occasionally he wetted the pencil end in his mouth and wrote some more, when he had finished he put the note on his pocket. Tom mopped up the last of the gravy with a piece of brown bread, pushed the plate away from him, and leaned back on his chair. He looked at the picture and then looked out of the window, interlocked his fingers across his full stomach and fell into a deep sleep.
Tom slept the sleep of the dead, even when Bert closed up for the afternoon break Tom slept on.
“Leave him Bert” Said Mary, “We can talk when he is rested up”.
When it was time to open up again for the evening drinkers Tom was gone, the note that he had written was on the table. “What does it say?” asked Mary.
Bert began to read the neat handwriting.
My dear friends,
I thank you most kindly for your hospitality, but I feel that my presence in your establishment would only inconvenience you. I am greatfull to you both for even remembering my friends, and me, but there is somewhere I have to be. I am not sure where that is, but it is important that I be there. I think that I am supposed to meet someone somewhere.
Tom
“Bert, have you noticed what Tom has written on?” asked Mary. Bert looked at the stiff paper, it wasn’t paper but an old coaster that the Crown used way back in nineteen forty-two. He looked at his wife. “Get me a drawing pin will you love”. When she had brought one to him, he went over to the picture and pinned the coaster underneath with Tom’s message facing out for all to read.
Well rested and his belly full Tom walked back up the lane, head held high, his arms swinging and his coat tails flapping in the afternoon breeze. Tom sang out loud his thoughts. “Where am I supposed to be, who knows the knowing? Where will I finish up at the suns going? Maybe to Worcestershire, maybe to Warwick…and as he sang cattle looked up and accompanied him with their mooing.
The man looked gaunt, he had not eaten for two days, and things were getting a bit desperate. In his younger days, when he had a bit of meat on his body, two days was a pushover when not have anything to eat. Always on the move was Tom, no time to put down roots for long, except in bad weather, then he might find shelter in some kindly farmers hay barn, or some derelict house out in the back blocks where no one would bother him, except those who knew him. There were still the kindly folk who had known Tom for many years as he traveled the roads of Worcestershire and Warwickshire. They saw to it that Tom did not starve, and it was more than his usual bit of bread and cheese he was supplied with. Tom had nothing against a slice of bread and cheese; in fact, he was quite partial to it, but not every day.
He stood under the awning of the post office at Whitchurch, a nice little village just a few miles from Litchfield. Tom had been making his way to Tamworth to see and old army buddy of his. Both had been stationed at Whittington barracks before being shipped of overseas during the Second World War. Tom never considered it the Second World War, but a continuation of the First World War, with a breathing space between the two.
Not partial to Staffordshire he had consented to meet his friend at the Red Bull Inn at Tamworth, but as is want with gentleman of the road, village names had a nasty habit of drawing them away from their intended destination, and Whittington was no exception.
Tom was no stranger to the village, neither was his friend as both had been thrown out of the local Crown pub on a few occasions, not for any misbehavior on their part, but once they started singing the only way to shut them up was to throw them out.
In somewhat inebriated state they would walk, or stagger up the narrow lane leading to the back of the barracks singing to the annoyance of the sleeping birds. It was not unusual for them to tackle the assault coarse on the way to their barrack block. More often than not getting themselves caught on the barbed wire as they crawled upon their bellies under the barbed wire obstacle coarse. Unable to untangle them, mainly because the silly pair was laughing too much, that was where they would spend the rest of the night. The Red Caps were out early in the morning looking for them, and would find them dirty, and asleep with silly smiles on their grubby faces.
Seven days confined to barracks and the usual stopping of pay until they had paid for new battledress tunics, which had received some rather nasty tares, caused by the barbed wire? A pair of larrikins if ever there was. For all their shenanigans, they were a well-liked pair with the men and some of the officers.
The Post office stood next to the Crown pub, and as Tom looked at the familiar houses of the village, his tummy rumbling for the want of food. The village came alive with people he had known all those years ago, and he smiled to himself as old friends walked past him not seeing the gaunt figure standing there; ghosts of the past, alive and well in Toms eyes, not having aged at all in thirty years.
His vision of the past disappeared as if it had never been as the door to the Crown opened closing his mind to what had been. Stepping into the sunshine Bert Moorefield, the licensee of the Crown stood on the pavement and leaned on the yard broom he had brought with him. He surveyed his part of the village from the cross roads to the Post office. It was on his second look that he noticed the tall gaunt figure of Tom standing under the awning. Bert looked at the somewhat familiar face, the features were there of someone he thought he knew, but who was this tall man. Then he recognized who it was he was looking at.
“Tom” he said quietly at first. “Tom” he said louder and started to walk towards the man.
“My God, it is, its you Tom, where in heavens name did you come from?
Tom just smiled, then finally said “Hello Bert, how are you old friend, are you open yet?
“For you Tom, I am open any time, come in, come on in”
Bert leaned the broom up against the pub wall, took Toms arm and led him into the familiar Bar. “Mary” he shouted. “Mary come and see what the devil has brought us”.
He led Tom over to a table by the window and had him sit down. “Mary woman, where the dickens are you?
“I’m coming, I’m coming, what in heavens name is all the fuss about”
His wife stood in the doorway leading to the pubs lounge room. “Now what is it you want that has me worrying what the dickens is up?”
“Look who’s back from the dead?” he said with a smile upon his face.
Mary looked at Tom. “Well who is…Tom, is that you? Her hand went to her mouth as she looked at the gaunt looking man. “What have you done to yourself, you look dreadful. Bert go and get Tom something to eat for goodness sake, the poor man looks starved to death”.
“Hello to you Mary” said Tom.
“Oh I’m sorry Tom, but you did give me a turn you did. Here you are after all these years. Oh, my dear man the years seem to have been unkind to you, you are so thin. What have you been doing to get yourself into such a state?
“Mary, don’t worry about me I’m fine, just a bit hungry that is all, nothing that a good meal will not put right”.
“And a good meal is what you will get my lad, Bert what are you doing back there, Tom wants his dinner”.
Tom laughed. “Sorry Mary, but you called me lad, if my memory serves me well I am three years older than you”.
“Well that’s as may be, but you still need feeding up. Take your overcoat off and sit yourself down, I’ll get you something to drink what will you have Tom?”
“Just water Mary thank you, water will do me fine” said Tom as he took off he overcoat. He rarely took off his coat, winter and summer, he wore it all the time, but as Mary was giving the orders, he did as he was told.
Two men came into the Bar; Tom looked at them but did not recognize them. While Mary saw to their needs Tom looked about the familiar room, nothing had changed. The old piano stood in its usual corner, and though the sun was shining, there was the customary fire in the huge fireplace. Pictures of prizewinning cattle adorned the walls along side those of the village taken in the eighteen hundreds. A dartboard with the last score from the last match played. Shining horse brasses hanging on leather straps framed the fireplace and customers drinking cups and glasses hung from hooks above the bar. Great hooks were set into the black oak beams, for the Crown had once been used to kill sheep and cattle at the village cattle sales, and the Crown had the only beams that would take their weight when being cut up.
The ghosts came back to him and he could hear the singing of men’s voices and the piano playing an old George Formby number. A young Mary’s voice was telling someone to keep it down or clear off. He placed both hands upon the table to steady himself. “I must be hungrier than I thought,” He reasoned. The voices went and the piano was silent. He took a deep breath taking into his lungs the smells of the pub. He wanted to fill his whole body with what once was before his mind once again emptied itself.
He coughed as the stale cigarette smoke caught in his throat. “Alright Tom?” Asked Mary as she pulled another pint.
“Yes Mary, I’m fine, a bit of a cough that’s all”. Mary looked at him with a look of concern upon her face. “I bet it’s more than a cough,” she said to herself. “Poor devil, will you look at the state of him, he was a handsome lad when he was younger”.
“Ay up missus, I aint payin. for what’s in the tray”. Mary brought her mind back to the customer that was jokingly complaining. She must have wasted half a pint of best bitter.
Tom looked around the room with deep reverence as flashes of memories came back to him. “Oh my goodness” he said out loud, his eyes had wandered to a picture near the window where he was sitting. He got up to have a closer look. He was looking at a picture of a group of soldiers taken in this very room, and there in the middle of the group stood himself and his mate. “Mary” he said turning to the woman who was still serving the two men.
“Yes Tom, what is it?”
“The picture, you still have it’.
“And why not, did you think that we would throw it out just because you up and left us. No Tom, that picture holds to many memories for Bert and I.
Tom looked back at the picture. There were seven in the group and he remembered them all.
Mary came over to where Tom was looking at the picture and put her arm in his.
“A long time ago Tom”. She looked up into his face. You know that four never came back don’t you Tom.”
“Yes I had heard”.
“Poor lads, I dunno, war can be cruel.
“Yes war can be cruel Mary” He replied. “So very, very cruel”.
She led him back to his seat. “Oh Tom it is so good to see you again, Bert and I often thought about you after you left for the Middle East, What happened out there?”
“Oh, the war Mary, the war”. And that was all he said.
Bert came in carrying a plate and placed it before Tom. “Get that down you my old son, you look as if you haven’t had a decent meal in ages”.
Tom looked down at his plate “Bert I don’t think that I can manage all of that, you have given me enough for two men, but by golly I will give it a go”.
“We will leave you to your meal Tom and then we can talk later” said Mary and they made their way to the bar where other customers were waiting to be served. Some thought that they knew the shabbily dressed man but couldn’t be sure, and rather than have Tom being pestered by well meaning folk they said nothing.
When Mary next looked in Tom’s direction he was writing something, occasionally he wetted the pencil end in his mouth and wrote some more, when he had finished he put the note on his pocket. Tom mopped up the last of the gravy with a piece of brown bread, pushed the plate away from him, and leaned back on his chair. He looked at the picture and then looked out of the window, interlocked his fingers across his full stomach and fell into a deep sleep.
Tom slept the sleep of the dead, even when Bert closed up for the afternoon break Tom slept on.
“Leave him Bert” Said Mary, “We can talk when he is rested up”.
When it was time to open up again for the evening drinkers Tom was gone, the note that he had written was on the table. “What does it say?” asked Mary.
Bert began to read the neat handwriting.
My dear friends,
I thank you most kindly for your hospitality, but I feel that my presence in your establishment would only inconvenience you. I am greatfull to you both for even remembering my friends, and me, but there is somewhere I have to be. I am not sure where that is, but it is important that I be there. I think that I am supposed to meet someone somewhere.
Tom
“Bert, have you noticed what Tom has written on?” asked Mary. Bert looked at the stiff paper, it wasn’t paper but an old coaster that the Crown used way back in nineteen forty-two. He looked at his wife. “Get me a drawing pin will you love”. When she had brought one to him, he went over to the picture and pinned the coaster underneath with Tom’s message facing out for all to read.
Well rested and his belly full Tom walked back up the lane, head held high, his arms swinging and his coat tails flapping in the afternoon breeze. Tom sang out loud his thoughts. “Where am I supposed to be, who knows the knowing? Where will I finish up at the suns going? Maybe to Worcestershire, maybe to Warwick…and as he sang cattle looked up and accompanied him with their mooing.
