The Bitter End Page 4
and gripped the cup with both hands, blowing the steam gently from the top.
“But it couldn't have been Cyril, no, Cyril died on the beach didn't he.”
I tried to resist the urge to engage him, but soon my curiosity got the better of me.
“What are you talking about Dad?”
“Sword Beach. June '44. Cyril took a bullet. Bloody Panzers hiding in the long grass they were. I gave them what for though.”
He chuckled and placed his cup on the ground, before turning to look at me.
“We grew up together me and Cyril Wesbter. It was us, Bobby Russell, Frankie Molloy. See I do remember. They think I don't remember anything. But I remember them. We all signed up at the same time you see. All got on that damn boat together.”
“June 1944?” I asked, trying to remember why that date sounded familiar. “Normandy? Are you talking about D-Day?”
“Normandy, yes! You remember it don’t you? Oh the weather was awful wasn't it? I hated that boat ride.”
I placed my cup down beside his. I knew from photos that he'd been in the army, but he'd never spoken a word of it.
“It was horrible,” he said. “I still dream about it, son. We were all singing when we set off.' I stared in bemusement as he sung 'Maybe it's Because I'm a Londoner' barely above a whisper, his eyes closed, ticking his finger in time.
“Then everyone started getting seasick. Frankie lost his lunch, and that got us all feeling worse. I didn't really care if I got shot after that, I just wanted to get off that bloody boat.”
He let out a laugh, and picked up his sandwich, taking another bite and staring off into space.
“There were bodies everywhere when we got off the boat; Bobby Russell didn't even make it ten yards. Chaos it was. Mines going off left, right and centre, machine gun fire raining down on us. I never found out what happened to Frankie, but sitting on that boat was the last anyone ever saw of him.”
A cold wind swept across us, blowing the tin foil from his lap. His voice turned sombre.
“It all felt a bit... surreal. Caen was the key, that's what they told us. But the Jerries weren't going to give up without a fight, bloody Panzers ready to die for Hitler. They got their wish that day. It's funny when you think about it; I'd never really touched the booze before then.”
I watched as the tears welled up in his eyes, and we sat there in silence. I rested my hand on his shoulder. After a few minutes he looked around at me.
“It's been a while since I saw Cyril, I wonder what he’s up to these days.”
I sense my breathing become shallower as I pull into the hospital car park. The white glow of the early morning sun causes my eyes to water as I drive around, looking for an empty space. I park the car, apply the handbreak and switch off the engine. Still buckled in I rest my head upon the steering wheel. I know I should be feeling something; sadness, apprehension, optimism? But instead, there's an emptiness inside me. I'm devoid of all emotion. I glance at the hospital entrance. It was not that long ago that I would have greeted my father's death with little more than indifference. After all the man was absent from my life for so long, and when he was present seemed to cause such misery and suffering. And yet this was the man who always brought a smile to my mothers face. If I close my eyes I can still picture them dancing in the front room. I think about that Christmas together, our family holiday. I think of the man I thought I knew, but then my mind drifts to that bench at Pevensey Castle, and I wonder if I ever really knew my father at all. So close to death, in a state of mental incapability, and I finally felt as though a door was opening to help me understand why he was the way he was. Do I really want that to be taken away from me? Perhaps there's still a chance that moments like that will come again, perhaps it's not too late for me to build the bond that deep down I always hoped for. Or maybe that was it. His last moment of cognitive cohesion. Maybe his life would be nothing more than a slow, scary, painful descent into the grave. He had suffered through this life, fighting a war that never ended. I feel a wrenching in the pit of my stomach. Maybe his suffering is now over, maybe he really would be better off dead. I take a deep breath, unbuckle my seat belt, and climb out of the car. The door shuts with a thud. I lock the car and tuck my keys inside my pocket. My legs feel weak, as though they could collapse from under me at any moment. Slowly I begin the short walk to the hospital entrance, my journey almost complete.
You've heard of Schrodinger's cat right? You must have seen that show Deal or No Deal? It really is a gripping show, but what makes it fascinating is that providing the boxes aren't switched and the individual plays it through to the end, you could simply open the box straight away and save an hour of tension. The outcome is predetermined. You hope for the best and you fear the worst. Before the phone awoke me this morning it was certain that my father was either alive or dead, but whether it’s today, tomorrow, months or years away, the reality is that life has no destination but death, it’s inevitable. But that's what life is all about I suppose, it's not the destination that matters, but the journey. The light flickers above my head as I'm guided down an empty corridor, my heart pulsating wildly with trepidation. With each footstep my chest becomes tighter, my breathing heavier. I linger momentarily looking over my shoulder, my eyes fixed upon the exit, but I’ve come too far to turn back.
Right now there is a body laying beneath a sheet in a hospital mortuary, and as I stand by the table, my palms sweating, my hands trembling I take a deep breath. Slowly the nurse pulls back the sheet, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
- END -
About the Author
Les Rolt was born in London in 1985. He was inspired to start writing short-stories in 2005 whilst drinking free coffee refills and smoking Camels in a Village Inn in La Junta, Colorado. Indie darling, cynic, short story writer and impending novelist, Les is instantly recognisable by his stylish hair and stream of consciousness style of writing. If you enjoyed The Bitter End, you can find more words strung together by Les, along with updates on forthcoming projects, by following these links:
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