Three Days

Len opens his eyes and passes instantly from sleep to wakefulness.  He lifts his head and swivels it warily; he’s in his own bedroom with the striped wallpaper and his collection of Boy’s Own annuals on the shelf.  The bed he’s lying in is clean, and his pajamas are crisp and fresh.  Yet moments ago, in his dream, Len was still in France, surrounded by mud and noise.  And now he’s here, in his safe blue bedroom, which seems so oddly alien and irrelevant.

Life – his real life – seems to have taken on the qualities of a bizarre and sweaty dream.  Two days ago – or was it three? – Len was talking to his friend, Tom Redding, who couldn’t decide whether or not to ask his girl to get engaged. 

“The thing is, Len,” Tom said ponderously, “the thing is –" he noticed their empty cups.  “More tea?”  He stood, and was promptly hit in the head by a sniper.  There was a short gasp, the clatter of Tom falling, blood and bits all over Len’s boots.

From downstairs Len can hear his mum singing happily as she fries his breakfast.  The smell of bacon and eggs drift upwards, teasing his nose, and still he doesn’t move.  He feels like an imposter, with no right at all to be lying here in Len Spicer’s pajamas.  If he gets up and goes downstairs, the woman in the kitchen will see straight through him.

Ridiculous, of course.  Mum’s all pink and flushed with joy as she slides a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him, then sits to pour tea from the big brown teapot.  For a moment, all Len can do is stare at his plate.  It’s like dream food; two succulent eggs with golden yolks, rosy grilled tomatoes, three rashers of juicy pink bacon.  The rich smell makes him feel almost faint.

“I’m sorry, son,” mum says, pushing his tea forward.  “We’ve had trouble getting hold of sugar.”

“It’s alright, Mum.  I do without now anyway,” Len says, his mouth full.  Blissfully, his mum watches him eat.

He has three days.

***

Later in the afternoon, he’s in the garden, which mum has just let go since dad died a couple of years before the war.  The grass has gone to seed, the roses are unruly and wild, and the hollyhocks lurch against the fence like drunken tarts.   Len is shocked when he peers inside the shed.  It’s crammed full of various odds and ends of rusting junk – buckets, a baby carriage oozing springs, an old mangle.  It was always dad’s job to take care of the garden and the shed.  Len starts hauling out the junk.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Len Spicer?”  Mum suddenly demands, coming outside with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Just thought I’d give this a bit of a sort.”   He sees what she’ll look like when she’s old, sees exactly how she’ll wither and fade.

“You are not going to spend your leave clearing out the shed,” she scolds.

“I want to though – I don’t mind,” Len protests.  He wants very much to immerse himself in the ordinary, to lose himself in the humdrum.  He will go for walks, eat mum’s food, get plenty of rest and clean out the shed.

“Well, if you’re quite sure….”  She’s clearly doubtful.  “I do need to pop out for a bit.”

“Righto!”  Len agrees cheerfully.  She’s being mysterious, and he prays she’s not planning a party.  For one thing, there’s the expense to consider.  Secondly, he doesn’t want his various relatives – Uncle Jim and Auntie Louie in Kent, Aunt Peggy in Harrow – traipsing all the way into London just to see him.  He doesn’t want the bother of their pity, approval and affection.  It’s so noisy in France.  He just wants some peace and quiet.

The next day his brother arrives.  At twenty-four, Harry is the older by two years and growing up reveled in his position as the oldest and brightest.  Then, when they both went to enlist, Harry was discovered to have a heart murmur.  The Army’s rejection has depressed Harry.  He’s ashamed of himself, of his civilian clothes and pathetic heart that prevents him from serving his country.

“Well,"  Harry blusters, pumping Len’s hand up and down.  “Well, well.  Good to see you.”  There’s an awkward, shuffling kind of hug.  Harry’s eyes linger jealously on Len’s uniform.

“I’d have been here earlier, only I couldn’t get away from the factory.”  He shakes his head grimly, trying to convey that even though he does not wear a uniform, his work is vitally important.

Mum fetches them both cups of tea and urges scones upon them.  She’s so happy that at times it feels too much for Len.  He wants to turn away from all the love and hope in her eyes, it breaks his heart.  Then, to his relief, she pops out on another of her mysterious errands.  Harry sits on a lawn chair watching as Len sorts through the pile of junk he’s pulled from the shed.  The sun has gone in and the light is queer and yellow, as if a storm is brewing.

“Remember these?’  Len holds aloft a pair of rotting, laceless boots.

“Dad’s,” Harry says.

There’s quiet while they both look at the boots their dad used to pull on for outdoor work.

“Might as well get rid of them, Len,” Harry says heavily.  “Don’t want Mum seeing them.  It’s been hard for her since Dad died.  Probably just as well I’m stuck here.”

“Do you manage to get over and see her much?”  Len slides a dead sparrow into a paper bag.

Harry nods morosely.  “What’s it like?’  He blurts suddenly, leaning forward avidly.

Len stops brushing at the cobwebs and desiccated flies and spiders that lie in soft furry piles on the shed floor.  He doesn’t have enough words, he thinks, to talk about what he has seen.  Perhaps the words don’t even exist.  There are hours of boredom spent drinking tea, reading and rereading letters, evicting lice from your uniform.  Rats slink past, plump and smug, not even afraid.  There is barbed wire and mud, decorated with bits of what used to be men.

Harry is waiting.

“Well, it’s a war, isn’t it?  They shoot at us, we shoot at them,” Len says.

“I think you’re bloody lucky – wish I could have a go.”  Harry’s voice is fervent with envy.

“It’s not all fun and games, Harry, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” Len says in a heartfelt way, and immediately, Harry’s face clouds with embarrassment.

Then mum is home, calling out, “boys!”  She beams at them as if they are a pair of miracles.  The three of them eat kippers for tea, while Harry regales them with tales from the munitions factory he supervises.  It’s pouring down outside, so mum lights the fire and several times, Len almost dozes off.

By mid-morning the following day, the shed is a monument to cleanliness and order.  Jam jars of nails and screws sparkle proudly.  Len has derusted and oiled all the gardening tools and after one last satisfied look he picks up the shears and begins to prune the roses.

It’s amazing what he can achieve if he sets his mind to it, he thinks.  Mum is pleased too.  “It hasn’t looked this smart out here for years!”  She exclaims, unable to bring herself to say ‘not since your dad died.’

Len mows the patchy lawn and sets off on his daily walk, heading for the park, where he sits and lights a cigarette, looking out over the calm expanse of green.  Children used to gather here.  Then when war was declared the area was taken over, and the children watched men lunging at sacks of straw with sticks and brooms.  Len smiles, remembering the cheers, the laughter.  It was a festive time, as if a huge party was about to be thrown.  Now the few mothers and children wondering the park have a grey look of despondency.

He lingers, enjoying the taste of tobacco, the solid earth beneath his boots, the warm breeze touching the side of his face.  He closes his eyes and listens to the chirruping of birds and the faint rustle of trees.

All Len’s suspicions are proved correct when he returns to the house; mum has indeed been up to something.  No sooner is he through the door when three aunties swoop down on him like hungry birds of prey.

“Len!”

“Come here!”

He is hugged, kissed, inspected and admired.  Len blushes as he shakes his Uncle Jim’s hand.  Harry is there too, and Mrs. Corbett from down the road, resplendent in a huge lilac evening dress.

“Anyone hungry?”  Mum calls from the living room, and they all squeeze into the front room with its cabbage rose wallpaper and china dogs guarding the fireplace.  It really is a squeeze; Harry and mum have dragged the table in from the kitchen and extended it.  Mismatched chars have been placed all around.

“Mum, you must have knocked yourself out doing all this,” Len chides.  He looks pleased, but the truth is, he would have preferred a much quieter dinner on his last day of leave.  Just him and mum in the kitchen, a nice bit of chicken or tongue.  As it is, mum has outdone herself.  The table is laid with a snowy cloth and there are two huge pies, a dish of potatoes, and buttered vegetables.  In the centre of the feast an enormous sherry trifle waits grandly in a cut glass bowl.

The sight of all the food, his relatives in their best clothes and the atmosphere of brave cheer reminds Len of something.  A funeral, he thinks suddenly.  This is a bit like a funeral. 

After everyone is seated, Uncle Jim unfolds himself into a standing position and taps on his sherry glass with a spoon, even though everyone is already silent and looking at him expectantly.

“I just have a few words I’d like to say,” he announces importantly.  “Len, my boy, your dear father can’t be here to see you today, but one thing I do know is that he would be damn proud of you if he could.”

There are nods of agreement from around the table.

“We’re proud of you, Len.  Proud of all our boys who go off to fight so that we can remain safe.  I want you to know that you are never truly alone.  All our prayers are with you, lad.  We hold you in our hearts.”

The words wash over Len, soothing and meaningless.

Auntie Louie sniffs loudly.  Mum’s eyes fill with tears.  Harry is expressionless.

Len smiles.  “Mum – I want to thank you for going to all this trouble.  Harry – I hope you didn’t put your back out getting the table in here.  Mrs. Corbett – thanks for being mum’s partner in crime secretly preparing this lovely spread on my behalf.  Aunties, Uncle Jim, thank you for coming all this way.  Now, I don’t know about you lot, but I’m hungry, so let’s tuck in!”

There’s a ripple of fond laughter.

Len feels a sudden, enormous tenderness for them all in their innocence.  They don’t know, and never will, how exquisitely fragile bones and flesh are.  They will never see the oddly beautiful purple tubes and blossoms of men’s innards.

As he tucks into a large slice of pie, and then a generous helping of trifle, Len laughs and talks.  But he is thinking of the others in his battalion, alive and dead, and he feels a terrible loneliness.

All the faces around him seem to recede; the voices fade, as Len feels a great gulf opening between him and everyone else, miles wider than no man’s land.  Len smiles, and scrapes out the last smidgeon of sherry trifle from his bowl, and he’s already gone.  

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