Mrs French and I had a quiet moment together before I left. I was dressed for war. We stood facing one another in our humble kitchen, my wife twisting the dish cloth in her hands tighter and tighter.
“I have never left for war before,” I told her directly, looking her in the eyes. “I’m sure what to do except to tell you I will be brave and I will fight to defend our home against Brussels.”
She gave the cloth another twist. Water was starting to pool at her feet.
“Do you want to kiss me goodbye?” she asked and we both blushed.
I thought she might cry so I tried to take the dish cloth but she held on for dear life.
“Give it to me,” I ordered, but she shook her head.
“I’m not going to do the dishes you silly old thing. That’s your job.”
She relented. I took the cloth and dabbed at a fat tear on her cheek.
“Don’t cry.”
“Oh Mark, I may not have much choice on that.”
I was not going to cry. I was convinced of it. But suddenly a giant blub exploded from me and I snorted a snot bubble out trying to hold it in.
“You’ve set me off!” I said. She took the cloth back and wiped my nose.
Our Churchill started up. It was a recording of a man singing “It’s A Long Way To Tipperary”.
We stood for a while, each sobbing away. Then we embraced as John McCormack was joined by the backing singers. How could we lose with songs like this to sing as we marched?
“You will send me back food? From the front? When you write to me,” my wife asked.
That sounded like treason. To even suggest the good women of patriotic English towns would not receive their rations? It must have been the anxiety of my leaving. I decided to let it slide.
“Victory will see us feast!” I said. I stepped back and stiffened my lip.
“I’ll starve myself so that you may eat!” she sobbed, which was much more like it.
“Now I must be off. The men will be waiting on the high road for me.”
“Take care of them. Most of them don’t even have bum fluff on their top lip yet.”
I had to leave. Anymore of this and I would not be able to walk without a second breakfast to regain my strength.
“Don’t forget your rifle,” she said, pointing to the stout stick resting by the back door.
I collected it and opened the door, pausing to look back one last time.
“Don’t cook a breakfast for another man while I’m away.”
She nodded. Shaking the dish cloth at me and shaking her head.
“Don’t prepare a lunch for another man while I’m at war.”
She shook her head in wonder. She looked a little cranky.
“Don’t even think about inviting a stray chap to dinner.”
She turned the dish cloth in her hands so tightly the final drops of water wrung out. Then she whipped me with it hard and fast across my butt cheeks.
“That’s more like it! Now come and wave goodbye.”
“It’s wave goodbye or wring your neck!”
I put my rifle on my shoulder and stepped outside. My devoted wife followed behind me.
It was a glorious day. Churchills were playing stirring anthems all up and down the street. A patriotic day. I marched out of our yard sure the plastic buttons on my uniform were gleaming.
“We will meet again,” I reassured my wife, as we followed me to the High Road. “I don’t know where. I don’t know when. But we’ll meet again some sunny day. And when we do I will be covered in medals!”
“Get War Done,” she shouted.
“Control British Fish!”
“British fish are sovereign fish!”
That’s the spirit!
“Don’t beg me to stay. I have to fight.”
“I won’t,” she replied, her voice cracking. “You have to face the enemies of the people.”
“It’s my duty.”
“Go faster,” she urged suddenly. “Please go faster. You don’t want to be left behind.”
We walked along a row of houses with large hedges lining the pavement and just at that moment a dark shape burst from the hedges and ran at me.
I was not alarmed. I immediately lay down and covered my head with my hands.
“Private French! Private French!”
I remained motionless. Perfectly demonstrating the art of battlefield camouflage.
“Mark French!”
“What do you want to be bothering my Mark for now Cyclops?” my wife demanded. “You can see he’s off to war.”
“I can see he’s still got a stick and no rifle,” Cyclops said, and giggled. Little traitor.
He grabbed my elbow and shook it.
“Private French? Get up. It’s me Cyclops. Why don’t you talk to me? Why are you shivering?”
“I’m not shivering Cyclops,” I said as I sat up. “I am perfectly mimicking the vibrations of hundreds of marching feet as I disguise myself as the pavement.”
My wife burst out laughing. The tears now banished. But I was too focused on Cyclops to see what it was that amused her.
“Gosh. Did you learn that in basic training?”
“He learned how to tremble like a leaf all on his own,” my wife declared. Was she losing her wits in the emotion of it all?
In the distance we heard a bugle sound. Or was it a cat howling? The bugler was new to the instrument.
“You’ve got to move it Mr French or you’ll miss the war,” Cyclops, the little idiot.
“Come on then. Let’s get a wriggle on,” my wife offered me a hand up and Cyclops handed me my rifle.
“You look smashing Mrs French,” Cyclops said to my wife. “Why so many Union Flags in one dress.”
She hid her face in her dish cloth and sobbed in heaves.
“Now you’ve set her off again Cyclops!” I chided him. Little rat. “I will prove myself dear. I will uphold the will of the people. I was born under a blazing star.”
“Oh Mark, you fool.”
“Shush now. Only speak in three word sentences while I am away,” I ordered her. I moved in close and went to hold her hands, but she retreated. She would crumble to dust at my touch. As it was her heel caught in the pavement and she would have fallen over backwards if Cyclops hadn’t grabbed her.
“I am going to fulfil the will of the people.” I saluted her.
“Don’t miss me,” she muttered, hugging Cyclops to her waist.
“I won’t! I will look after myself.”
I was following my destiny.
Destiny is all.
With courage and Union Flag branded munitions I could not fail.
It was the perfect moment to march away, just the right beat, but Cyclops buggered it up by snapping to attention and saluting me.
“Private Mark Aurelius French,” he said solemnly. “I want you to take my lucky potato with you to war. It was given me by my godmother on the day of my birth and we have kept it frozen all these years. But today it defrosts in your honour. May it bring you luck as it has done for me.”
He thrust the cold vegetable at me.
“But what will you do without it?” my wife asked. Who cared?
“I will wait for the new potatoes to arrive,” he replied. “I heard on the radio this morning that Field Marshall Wetherspoons has sent to Jersey for a convoy of potatoes. They will arrive any day now. No blockade can keep a potato from the chosen land. If we just believe hard enough. I we ignore the gloomsters. That’s what our Churchill said.”
I took the potato. The bugle sounded again, although I was certain it was a cat this time. I forgot myself and ruffled Cyclop’s hair. Tucked the potato inside my coat and marched onwards.
“Crush a fifth columnist, liberal elite, snowflake saboteur for me!” Cyclops shouted.
“What happened to your tooth?” I could hear my wife ask him as I joined the growing stream of men heading up the road.
“I lost it fighting the big boys for my chocolate.”
“Well, we’ll go directly to mine and get my rolling pin and then we’ll go see those big boys. Would you like that?”
“Are you going to thrash six types of shit out of them?”
“It will be my pleasure.”
It was clear they weren’t watching me anymore. For Heaven’s Sake! Anyone would think we had adopted the boy.
“Get War Done!” I bellowed, as a chap fell into step beside me. He was wearing a Scout’s uniform, badges and all and he carried what looked like an actual rifle. The big show off! The uniform was so tight I’d wager it was a child’s.
“Believe In Great British Potatoes!” he replied. I decided to ignore his attempt to upstage me. He could tell I had a full lucky potato in my pocket. I was certain. I wasn’t go mad in the emotion of the moment.
And we marched on together. Brothers in arms with a war to win.