A Story a Week

  ********************************************************

  Kev was in uniform by the time I got out of the shower. Tropical KD, long slacks. Obviously not an entirely formal do. Sharon, his wife, had been down to the Novotel to pick up ours. She gave a loud blast on the horn of the Lada Jeep and we followed them to the High Commission in a Toyota. Two very smart and tall Gambian soldiers wearing metal and feathers atop something resembling a Grenadier Guardsman's uniform waved us in. It was a big place, mock Grecian colonnades and huge verandahs to the front and rear. It had certainly been built when Banjul was still called Bathurst. Achilles' Captain and his officers monopolised the High Commissioner. I'd expected that. Giles looked a bit put out, as he was clearly the kind of person he'd been to school with. I talked bollocks with Kev, gave him a totally invented history of my military career. He probably didn't even know the RAF had a base in West Berlin.

  One of the navy Chiefs, my oppo on the pitch in fact, drew me aside. His face was hard.

  'Not even the bloody Major!' He spat the phrase out.

  'What?' I said.

  'Do you see any black faces not carrying a tray?'

  Of course, there weren't any. I couldn't believe he had been so naïve.

  I like to think he was the one to leave the odoriferous little gift in the sink in the High Commissioner's en-suite bathroom.

  25. A Bent Nail

  It was at eye level in the peeling door. If you were sitting down that was. A bent nail that wouldn't hold a coat. A shred of an old newspaper fluttered in the draught coming under the door. George liked the outhouse. A quiet place most of the time. Long as his Pa was in town at the package store or Jiminy's or staying at her place. He was out now, had been since Tuesday last. Ma was in bed. Louisa and Henry were running round the corn-field, trampling Farmer Bruin's best. He closed the book. Better go out and see what was to be done. He sighed and dog-eared the page, then slid the book into the pocket of the heavy overcoat. It was damn' cold for October. Lou and Henry probably weren't doing much more harm to Bruin's crop.

  The door slammed behind George. He'd take a walk over to Bruin's place, ask if he had any chores. Some days the old fool let George chop wood, or feed his mules. Didn't pay much, some beans and biscuits for a half-day. Better some food than none, 'sides, Lou had been 'sicker than a drunk dawg' that morning. The 'drunk dawg' was something Pa said. Could be he knew more about being a 'drunk dawg' than most. A wind blew up, George looked to the sky, half expecting the black dust. There was none, of course. The blackened winds had chased the five – no six, until Grandma died in a ditch by the side of Route 169 outside of Fort Dodge – of them all the way from Oklahoma to Iowa. The Iowa farmers said they had just blown in like dust themselves. They said worse things about the Okies who'd come north, that was a fact.