Forever the Colours (15 page)

Thomas's mouth started to water at the sight of the meat and bread. Bread!

‘Maurice, it's fantastic but how did you manage to get,' he sniffed, ‘fresh bread out here?'

‘Well, the General likes his niceties, so he had a portable bread oven added to the baggage train. Not a crook idea, actually, especially when the likes of us can pilfer some of it, what.'

Tommy shook his head in wonder. ‘You, Maurice, me old mate, are a genius.'

They both tucked into the feast, and it
was
a feast after the meat and potato slop they had been eating. After twenty minutes or so of silent eating while the sounds of the camp washed over them, Tommy sat back and rubbed his stomach, belched and smiled at Maurice.

Maurice sat back too, raised his glass in a silent toast to Tommy and took a healthy gulp.

‘So, Thomas, now that we have gotten to know each other a little better and are now brothers in arms, will you not tell me what your future is like?'

‘All right, Maurice, what do you wanna know?'

‘Well, I don't know, why don't you tell me about yourself.'

Thomas took another gulp of whisky. ‘Not that interesting, really. There's me, Mum, Dad and my little sister. I still live at home when I'm on leave, that's if I'm not away on holiday somewhere. We live on the Isle of Wight, my Mum's a nurse at the local NHS hospital and my Dad's a retired chippy. I did my A levels, then a small stint doing bar work, then building work. Wasted my time, actually, should have gone to university. But instead I joined the army, infantry, and when I get back, I'm gonna go for a stripe.'

Maurice sat dumbfounded. Even if he thought Tommy was sick and that this was all his delusion, he was surprised at how Tommy managed to think up all that hogwash on the spot. After a few moments, he decided to delve deeper. ‘Thomas, what does NHS mean?'

‘National Health Service.'

‘And what is a National Health Service.'

Never having had to explain it before, Tommy paused for a moment. ‘Well, you sort of pay your national insurance out of your wages and salaries, and that covers you if you, I dunno, need an operation or something, or you wanna get something fixed, or, you know, you need to go in to hospital for anything, really. There's an NHS hospital in all our cities, and doctors' surgeries and dentists.'

‘Really?' Maurice said, not convinced. ‘And what did you mean by “should have gone to university”?'

‘Oh, well, I'd gotten all my GCSEs and A levels at school, so I was thinking of taking a History degree, or maybe Art, but you know how it is. I was a kid, I wanted money and holidays and a car, so I went and got work instead. Worst mistake ever, really.'

‘You were going to go to university where, Oxford or Cambridge?' Maurice said with a smirk.

‘Don't take the piss, Maurice, you said you wanted to hear about it.' Tommy took a swig of whisky. ‘Now I could be blowing your mind with tales of aeroplanes and motorcars, couldn't I? How we don't use horses to pull our carts around anymore, haven't for about a hundred years or so. They move themselves by an engine and nearly everyone has got one.' He took a sip of his drink, and was amused to find Maurice was sitting with his mouth agape.

‘Or planes, Maurice, huge metal birds with engines to power them. They can carry passengers across the Atlantic in a few hours, and some are used by the military, bombers, fighter planes. Submarines, they can travel under water and stay under for months on end. Do you see, Maurice, why I shouldn't tell you anything? We have even put men on the moon, Maurice.'

Tommy was thoroughly enjoying himself now, and he felt free talking about these things. ‘That's right, on the moon. Taken there by rockets, whopping great rockets. That's only ninety years from now, mate. And let's not talk about computers, oh no, they control just about everything, from the cars to planes to mobile phones. Oh, I haven't mentioned phones, have I? Well, it's sort of a telegraph, Maurice, but it fits in the palm of your hand and you can talk through it to anyone, anywhere in the world at any time. And finally, mate, the nuclear
bomb, a weapon so powerful that just one would level this area for a ten mile radius and kill every living thing.'

Tommy stopped, finished his drink and poured himself another.

Maurice was staring at him with what Tommy thought was scorn. Maurice coughed lightly and took a sip of his drink. Then he held it in his lap. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Thomas? I thought we were friends, yet you take me for a fool.'

‘What you on about, Maurice? You asked me to tell you, mate.'

‘You think me illiterate, Thomas. You think you are the only one to have perused
Voyages
Extraordinaires
, or other works of Mr Verne?'

‘Oh for Christ's sake,' Tommy said, leaning forward. ‘Maurice, do I or have I sounded like a common soldier from your time? Mate! I know maths, English, I'm not too shoddy at geography. I can speak basic French and German, and a little Spanish – well, I can ask for a pint of lager and a blow job, anyway. I know my history as well, though I'm a little rusty right now. I am a modern soldier, I can fight, read maps, do basic first aid. I know basic chemistry; give me the right household chemicals and I can make explosives. I can tell you scientific discoveries.' Maurice still looked unconvinced. Just then, Arun, who had been patiently waiting for Tommy to finish, stepped forward.

‘Private Sahib, I am locating sitar for you,' he said, and he bobbed his head.

Tommy thought for a moment. ‘Arun, can you tell whoever is playing that Lieutenant Rayner would like them to bring it to the hospital tent, and right now.'

Arun looked at Maurice, who rolled his eyes and nodded. ‘Yes please, Sahib,' he said, and hurried off.

Tommy sat back in his chair and supped some more of the whisky; he could start to feel its effect and he felt rather content. Saying all those things to Maurice had, in a way, put him back in touch with reality, and now, he thought, he would show them all.

A short time later, Arun returned with a somewhat surly looking private. And how he was still a private, Tommy could only guess. The man had to be forty years old.

He came to attention, well, nearly attention, in front of Maurice. ‘Ye wished to see me, Leftent Sar?' Maurice shook his head and then nodded to Tommy.

‘No, my dear man, but he did.'

The man turned toward Tommy and looked him up and down, then raised his eyebrows.

‘That's a lovely guitar mate, where'd you get it?' It wasn't lovely looking at all; it looked as if it was ready to fall apart.

‘Snot stolen, if what ye's thinkin. My old Granpa took it off a dead Frenchie officer when we wuz fightin old Bony, an' its past to me down the lines so's ter speak.'

‘Can I borrow it for a bit? I'll look after it, I promise,' Tommy said with a smile, though the soldier still looked dubious. ‘Tell you what, me old mate, you lend me your guitar and you can have this.' He passed him what was left of the pork and bread.

The soldier's eyes widened and he nodded quickly, taking the food and passing the guitar in the same instant. The food disappeared into his dirty tunic and he went off down the incline. ‘I be back fer it on the morn,' he said, and disappeared into the night.

Tommy turned to Arun. ‘Can you pass me the lamp from inside the tent, please, mate.'

‘Yes please, Sahib.' Thirty seconds later the lamp was on the table and Tommy was inspecting the guitar. Its neck was at an acute angle and the head was a funny rounded shape; he had no idea what the strings were made of and the saddle bridge looked broken. He strummed it to see if it was in tune. It sounded like a cat.

‘Well, this looks promising, I must say. I'm so glad we – sorry, you – gave our breakfast away. I can't wait to hear it. Tell me, what time do the rest of the orchestra get here? I might start selling tickets, what.'

Tommy ignored him and continued playing with the keys whilst plucking the strings. Arun sat on the floor humming and bobbing his head as though this was the main show.

As he was tuning, he spoke to Maurice. ‘When I was quite young, my old lady sent me to guitar practice. Hated it at first, until I was old enough to realise that girls love musicians. When I was a teenager, I started a band with my mates. Called ourselves Four Minute Warning. Crap, eh? It was a right laugh, though, and I honestly thought we were gonna be massive.'

‘Well, that's all very well, Thomas, but could you do something, because Arun's humming is starting to grate.'

‘Right, what would you like? I can do rock, jazz, anything. What do want? Actually, you know what, I don't think rock or jazz will be up your street. Luckily, though, I trained in classic.' And with that, he started to pluck the strings.

‘This is “Capricho Arabe” by Tarrega,' said Tommy, as a tune started to emanate from the body of the guitar. ‘This is one of the first pieces I tried to master when I was a kid, before I wanted to become a rock star, that is.'

As the classic guitar piece went on, so Maurice's mouth got wider. The sound was beautiful; not note-perfect because the guitar had seen better days, but still beautiful. The tune flowed out as Tommy's fingers flicked and plucked up and down the frets.

Arun had stopped humming and sat perfectly still, staring at the guitar as though it were alive. Maurice too had assumed the look of a sculpture. As the piece was coming to an end, Arun adopted a stupid, docile look.

Tommy finished. He leaned over and picked up his drink, took a sip and looked up at Maurice. There was a single tear running down his right cheek and an unbelievable look of sorrow on his face.

‘Maurice, are you all right, mate?' asked Tommy, concerned.

‘That was wonderful.'

‘Cheers, pal,' he said. ‘Do you wanna hear another one? Err, let's see, ah, got one. It's a bit quicker, this one, so I might make a few mistakes.' He started again. ‘This is “Asturias”. I can't remember who it's by, though.'

Tommy had to use all his concentration, as he hadn't played this piece for years, and he had to ad-lib a little, but seeing that they would never have heard it, he thought,
What
the
hell.

His fingers were a blur, up and down the neck again, and as he was playing, he didn't notice Major Preston slide up out of the night and stand just behind the gawping Arun. He was soon joined by Captains Garratt and McMath, who also stood in amazement at the tune Tommy was creating.

He finished again and reached for his glass.

‘Well, you are full of surprises, are you not, Mr Evans.'

Tommy choked on his mouthful of scotch and jumped to his feet, coughing. He stood to attention.

‘I apologise for making you jump. Please, remain seated.'

‘Major Preston, sir, would you care for a tipple? And who have you there in the shadows? Ah, Ernest, William, a pleasant evening to you both,' intoned Maurice smoothly.

‘Well, it seems to me that you have been having the better evening listening to this fine musician. That was a fair bit of playing, sir, if I do say so myself.' The Captain walked forward and held out his hand; Tommy stood and grasped it. ‘Captain William McMath, and this fellow officer is Captain Ernest Garratt.' The man who was clearly an Irishman stood aside to let Garratt shake Tommy's hand.

‘Private Thomas Evans,' said Tommy formally.

‘Well, don't let us ruin your playing. Please continue,' said Garratt.

‘Would you look, Ernest, on the table. A bottle of whisky, by the looks of it,' said McMath with a smile.

‘Sit, gentleman. I shall have Arun fetch us three more chairs,' chimed Maurice. ‘Major, that drink?'

‘I won't, thank you. The dinner with the General has sapped my strength somewhat, so I shall retire, a good evening to you gentlemen.' And Preston once again melted off into the night.

Arun returned with two more chairs and the Captains sat with a smile, while McMath produced two tumblers.

‘So, Thomas,' said Garratt. ‘You have a skill with that instrument. Tell me where you learnt it so well.'

Tommy glanced at Maurice, looking for some intervention, but none was forthcoming. ‘My local vicar taught me, sir, from an early age. I picked it up quite fast. I seemed to have an ear for it.'

‘Would you know any Irish tunes, Mr Evans?' asked McMath.

‘Err.'

‘Anything at all?'

‘Well, all right, it's called “Sligo Creek”. You probably won't know it. It's just something I picked up years ago.'

McMath nodded and sipped his drink.

Tommy played and the tune had all three officers tapping their feet to the fast Irish melody. As the three had been enthusiastic with that piece, Tommy decided to play more, using his best DADGAD, the famed Celtic method of guitar tuning, and he plucked away into the night. What neither Tommy nor the others realised, though, was that a crowd had gathered while he was playing, just out of the lamp light, in the shadows. And along with some tears of yearning for home, there were also a lot more feet tapping away to the music.