As no one at Eastern Radar seemed to be interested in my
return, I took my time coming back from Mervyns’. I got back to Watton in the late afternoon
and organised myself. I spent far too
long in the shower but believed that I should reward myself with a little
luxury. Chunkie lived up to his name in
the mess, and at tea time I had a feed fit for a King, which of course at that
time I didn’t know that I was. After tea
I went back to my room, I stretched out on my bed and just relaxed. I must have dosed off, for when I realised
the time I saw that the bar would be open.
I grabbed my last bottle of grappa and went to the bar. I was pleased to see that there was only one
other person in the bar. I sat down with
Rick Stocks and enjoyed a beer or two.
Rick was the most wonderful chap.
He spoke with a received pronunciation accent. He told wonderful stories of life in Peru and
I think Brazil, where he grew up. His father
was an engineer, but a very important fellow.
In fact I think Rick’s dad held some strange title like Knight of the Outstretched
Lily and Guardian of The Fish.
Rick would tell tales of how he and his brother, at the age
of seven or eight would drive a car while sitting on the roof. He told wonderful tales of long empty roads
and a childhood that was thoroughly enjoyed.
We finished the grappa thus ensuring we would both have a decent night’s
sleep. I remembered a statement above a door, in a remote bar high in the Dolomite
mountains, where Marissa had taken me.
It was something along the lines of
‘Drink makes you sleep, sleep
encourages dreams, in dreams we meet angels, so drink your fill and cheers to
the angels’.
I reported for duty the following morning and was surprised
that no one actually cared that I was a few days late. Most bizarre, but I wasn’t going to complain. Not many of the chaps at Eastern enjoyed going
to work, and I was no exception. However
many thought it strange that for a good number of days, on entering Eastern, I
would have a huge smile on my face. I
never told anyone why, but they all knew that something was up. The reason?
The guard post at Eastern Radar was almost exactly the same as my superb
accommodations at Venice airport, namely the ticket collectors office at the
car park.
I checked my post and saw that there was a letter from Carol. I wondered why on earth she would be writing to
me. I couldn’t believe that she might
have cared about what had happened to me, although as I read it realised that I
should have known better. My first memory
of Carol was one Christmas when we had both gone home from boarding school to
our house in Belfast. It may have been
my first year at Violent Hell. It was Christmas
Day and we were both outside. I think I
was trying out my new shoes and not at all interested in the other children who
were whizzing around on bikes and scooters.
Carol asked me if I had learned any swear words at school and
I proudly admitted that I had. She asked
me what words I had learned so I told her.
What I hadn’t expected was that she would run into the house screaming ‘Mummy,
mummy, he’s swearing at me!’ She then
repeated the words to mum and dad and I got another thrashing. So I never really trusted her since then. I had expected that she would have told the parents
every slight detail of my time in Italy and I’m sure she embellished her
version of the story too. Now she had
written to me and was asking for fifteen pounds to cover the cost of the electricity
that we had used while in her flat.
I had put my films in to get developed and was happy to find
that Irene was pleased to have me back.
I couldn’t of course show her any of the movies as Images of Karen and Marissa
might be hard to explain away. Even
though they were silent movies I didn’t think I could cover that one up at
all. I seemed to be spending a lot of
time with Irene so my social life changed.
I still played rugby and socialised with the guys, luckily for me Irene liked
rugby, not the game; she liked the fact that the bar opened on kick off, so
would quite often be squiffy by the end of the game.
Irene, along with the other wives and girlfriends certainly
knew how to have a good time. However
once, after quite a rough and brutal encounter, I found myself prostrate on the
ground, unable to move. The medics attended
and declared that I had ripped all the muscles along the left side of my chest
and suggested that I should be stretchered off.
I was quite surprised to hear Irene, along with the other girls, have
massive fun remonstrating me and suggesting that I ‘man up’ and get back on the
field of play. I would have been happy enough
getting back on my feet never mind the field.
Martyn Bennet and I were on the same shift pattern so one day
Martyn approached me and suggested that we both apply for a part time job at an
onion factory. They were quite happy for
us to work, as and when we could, so the flexibility appealed to us. Martyn and I pitched up and were surprised to
discover that we were the only men in the factory, well on the factory floor.
Small onions were peeled at the factory so we were shown our work
station, presented with a huge crate of onions, given a knife and told to
peel. I was standing opposite Martyn and
we set off. The ladies around us were whizzing
through their onions while Martyn and I were proving to be quite the ham fisted
pair. I can remember thinking that I
would never succeed at this and I glanced over at Martyn who was standing,
peeling onions, with tears streaming down his face. It was so funny and most of the women were
having a fine old laugh at the pair of us, who were, when it came to peeling onions
quite useless.
The manager came around and had pity on us so he suggested that
we decant the onions from the trailer into the crate, weighing out equal
amounts and deliver the crates to the women at the work stations. We accepted this task and told ourselves that
we were weight training for rugby. It
was such a relief to spend a day lifting heavy things rather than crying your
eyes out.
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