Searching for my dad. A story by Charles Roberts

          I was about four or five, if I remember correctly, when a man, strangely dressed in either green or brown, pressed a small key into my hand.  My mam told me to put it in the small box I kept in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet, that way I wouldn’t lose it.

I suppose it really started when I was seven or eight, possibly even nine, I know that the war was over and people said that we’d won, and there wouldn’t be any more wars.  I raced from the house and down the street to where Davy Hughes and Tommy Randle were messing about on the corner of Albert Street.  I strode up to Davy as mad as anything and slapped his face with one of my mam’s gloves.

          “What you do that for?” he asked, all surprised like.

          “I’m changing you to a duet and that’s what the Frenchie’s do.  I seen ‘em on the pictures.”

          “Why do you want a duet?  I thought we were mates?”

          “We are!” I said stalling for time while I thought of what to say.  “I just come from my house,” I said, “where I saw your dad and my mum with no clothes on.”

          “You don’t say!” Tommy said, “did you see anything?  You know!  Any naughty bits?”

          “And your dad was hitting my mum”, I said getting madderer and madderer.

          “What was they doing?” Davy said all shocked like.

          “Your dad was bouncing up and down on my mum and she was screaming her head off.  So I’m changing you to a duet.”

          “What’s one of them then?”

          “It’s where a man fights another man because his woman’s virtue has been threatened.”

          “What’s all that?  Do you know Tommy?”

          “I think it means that your dad was doing something to his mum what he shouldn’t be doing.”

          “Oh!  Right!  So you’re changing me to a duet are you?”

          “Well that’s what the Frenchie’s do.  I seen it at the pictures.” I said

          “I watched that an all.  Errol Flynn in The Three Musketeers, brilliant!”

          “Not seen that.  My da says that the pictures are a waste of money.  Says that he gets more enjoyment down the pub.”  Davy moaned

          “So I’m changing you to a duet,” I said hitting him about the head with the glove once more.

          “Stop doing that will you, that button hurts.”

          “Sorry!” I said.

          “What’s this duet them Tommy?”

          “You got to fight.”

          “What!  But we’re mates.  You don’t want to fight me do you?”

          “I don’t want to Davy, but I have to now that I’ve changed you to one.”

          “How do you fight a duet then?”

          “Well!” Tommy started, “you meet at dawn and then…”

          “When’s this dawn?  I thought it were name of that new lass in our class.”

          “Three o’clock I think”, Tommy laughed.

          “In the afternoon?” Davy asked.

          “No!” said Tommy, “in the morning”.

          “Does three o’clock come two times a day?”

          “Must do!” I said.

          “Then!” Tommy continued, “you choose your weapon.”

          “Weapon!  I thought you meant that we had to fight using fisticuffs.”

          “No!” Tommy said, “That’s for common people.  Posh people like the Frenchie’s use weapons.”

          “What sort of weapons do they use?” I asked.

          “Well they can use guns or swords, or anything really.”

          “But not fisticuffs.”

          “Not if you’re posh you don’t.”

          “What else Tommy?”

          “You have to find somewhere to have the duel.”

          “That’s easy,” I said, “Llanwonno slag heap.”

          “Yeh!  We’ll charge the fort on top and fight up there.”

          “Right!” I said, “tomorrow morning at three”.

          “Can’t make it tomorrow, me mums taking me to town for some new shoes.  Can we do it Sunday morning?” Davy asked.

          “I can’t do Sunday morning.  I’ve got the choir at chapel to do.” Tommy said down heartedly.

          “What about Saturday then?” I suggested.

          “All right!” they said together, “Saturday at three o’clock up the slag heap”.

          We all met at the top of the slagheap at three o’clock on Saturday morning.  Tommy carried a couple of sticks.

          “What’s them for?” I asked.

          “These are your weapons.  We haven’t got any guns.”

          We must have looked a little worried.

          “It’s all right”, Tommy assured us, “I picked them me self, from the elderberry bush down our back.  Now choose your weapon,” he said holding them out to us.  I let Davy pick first and we stood facing each other and, well I felt a bit awkward.

          “Stand back to back then take ten paces.”

          “What for?” Davy asked

          “Cause that’s what the Frenchie’s do in the pictures.”

          We stood back to back then, as we stepped forward, Tommy counted out the steps.

          “Nine.  Ten.  Now turn and start fighting.” He shouted.

          “How can I fight him”, Davy called, “He’s about a mile away.”

          “My arms aren’t that long Tommy.” I called.

          “Well the Frenchie’s manage it”, he called looking from me to Davy and back.  “You’d best come back here and we’ll start again.”

          “Right!” I said looking round.  “Hurry up there’s the night watchman coming.” 

          We dropped the sticks and ran down the slagheap and onto the lane back to the village.

          “Why ain’t you got a dad then?” Davy asked.

          “Don’t know!” I replied.

          “Did he get killed in the war?”

          “Don’t know.  Me mam never talks about him.”

          “If he were killed in the war you could look on that stone cross in the high street.”

          “What good would that do?” I asked.

          “If he’s dead then his name’ll be on that.” Tommy said.

          “But I don’t know his name.”

          “Same as yours, barn pot.” Davy said.

          “I know that!” I said a bit putout, “his first name”.

          “Oh!  Right.”

          “Well,” Tommy said, “you could look for your last name and if there’s only one on there then that must be your dad”.

          “Yeah!  But there’s a big fence round it, you can’t get close enough to read the names.”

          “Look!” Tommy started, “I have to stand there with the choir tomorrow, I’ll try to have a look for you”.

          “What you singing there for Tommy?” Davy quizzed.

          “It’s a new service they come up with to remember the dead of the war.”

          When I got home me mam was stood in the kitchen, hands on hips, I knew that I was for it now.

          “Where do you think you’ve been at this time in the morning young man?”

          “I been up the slag heap with Davy and Tommy.”

          “What on earth were you doing up there at this time in the morning?”

          “Well…...”

          “I don’t want to know.  Sit down I’ve something to tell you.”  I sat at the table and mam sat opposite me, putting her hands on the table she started.

          “Do you remember your dad?”

          “No mam I don’t, that’s why I keep…”

          “I know you keep asking about him.  Well I’m going to tell you about him.  Do you remember anything from before the war; I know you were very young.”

          “I remember a man in green, or it might have been brown putting a small key into my hand, but I can’t remember who he was.”

          “The little key you have in that box in your top drawer?”

          “That’s the one.  What’s it for mam?  And who was it what gave it me?”

          “The man who gave it to you was your father.  He gave it to you just before he went away to fight in the war.”

          “Will his name be on that new stone cross down the High Street?  Tommy Randle says that everyone who died in the war is on that cross.”

          “No,” she said tenderly and with tears in her eyes, “your father isn’t dead love.  I received a letter yesterday from the war department saying that we can go and collect him.”

          “Where is he mam?”

          “He’s in a hospital in Edinburg.”

          “Where’s that?”

          “It’s in Scotland.  They even put the train tickets in for us,” she stood up and came round the table to put her arms round me, “your dad is coming home at last.”

          “Why’s he been up there mam the war’s been over for three years?”

          “He’s been in this special hospital for men who… well for men who aren’t very well.”

          “Has he lost an arm like Mr Jenkins?”

          “No darling, he’s not lost an arm.”

          “What about a leg then like that chap who lives near the school?”

          “No dear!  This is a different kind of illness.”

          “What kind mam?”

          “I’ll find out more when I get up there.”

          “Aren’t I going with you then mam?”

          “I haven’t decided yet love.”

          She didn’t take me with her, she thought that it would be better, and easier if I stayed with my nana for the week it would take to bring my dad back home.  When he did arrive, he wasn’t in uniform, and didn’t have a chest full of medals, like I thought he would have.  Instead, he was in a suit and was very quiet.  Mam told me not to make any sudden loud noises and play quietly if he was around.  When I asked why, she took me into the parlour, a room we never used, and sat me down.

          “Look”, she started, “in 1917 your dad was at a place called Passchendaele.  The shells and bombs were going off all round them and your dad had a breakdown.  They found him curled up in the mud at the bottom of the trench crying like a baby.  They had to carry him to the nearest hospital and then sent him to Edinburg.”

          “So he’s a coward?” I said without thinking.

          “No!” she said emphatically, “he is a hero.  He went into the army as a common soldier but he was promoted to Captain because of his bravery.  Don’t forget that he’d been in the war since the start in 1914.  Your dad is a very brave man love and don’t you let them tell you otherwise.”

          My dad lived only a few short years after that, his heart gave out in 1929.  It was only after his death that I found out what had really happened and exactly what he had been through.  He had never talked about it, and I had never pushed him on the subject.  I suppose my proudest moment was when he was given his medals in the town hall.  He never wore them, but kept them in a drawer.

          I never learnt what that key he gave me before he went to war was for, so I keep it still, in that little box in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet along with his medals.