*****
A booming Scottish accent brought Sinclair back to reality.
‘Hello Sergeant Major, how are you?’ called the friendly voice of fellow Scot, Doctor Charles Beverly as he walked out of the building and lit up a cigarette. He blew a huge cloud of smoke over Sinclair as he held out a silver case and offered a cigarette.
‘Hello Charles,’ Sinclair replied. ‘Sorry I was miles away. I’m fine thanks, and no I don’t use them.’ He waved his hand in front of the case and held up his unlit clay pipe.
‘How is Josh doing?’ Sinclair enquired
‘I should be asking you that question, he doesn’t speak much to any of the staff,’ he laughed easily. ‘But to answer you seriously as his doctor, I can tell you that the boy is a lot more ill than he looks. Like so many of the boys who have returned from all our bloody killing fields around the empire, he has invented a room inside his head where only he can be in, he can lock out the rest of the world and feel safe. The only time he unlocks and steps outside that room is when you are with him, he feels protected by you.’
‘What caused it? The time we were in Africa?’
‘According to the Army Doctor, who got him admitted to Hanwell, he was diagnosed as suffering from deep melancholia, caused by a cruel act of war and excessive masturbation.’ Sinclair threw him a dirty look. Beverly laughed.
‘Yes I know it seems to be a standard Army excuse.’ Doctor Beverly was a man who never minced his words; he had no time for many of his fellow doctors and was one of the leading experts on stress caused by military conflicts.
‘It’s poppycock, Bill. He has post-traumatic stress.’
‘What does that mean? Battle fatigue?’
‘Yes, a sort of battle fatigue, I have seen it many times when young troops encounter situations that they could not even imagine in their worst nightmares.’
‘He watched a Zulu gut his best friend, like he was a pig.’
‘Yes, and the nightmares probably come back to him as clearly and in every detail as the day it happened. Although he seems completely normal to the rest of us, the slightest thing that reminds him of that ordeal causes him to run back inside the room in his head and slam the door shut.’
‘Will he ever recover?’ Sinclair asked.
‘I have seen others recover. But they were the ones that had the most support from their friends and family. The more times he feels brave enough to leave the room in his head and the longer he is out of it in the real world the better and sooner are his chance of recovery. How often do you visit him?’
Sinclair listened to him nodding in agreement, he held Beverly in high esteem. Charles was an ex naval doctor and he had seen as many horrors as the patients under his care, he was also a very vehement voice against the Government and often his fellow Military Doctors.
Sinclair sounded apologetic as he replied,
‘Not as often as I would like to but it’s difficult for me to get here, I can only manage once a week. I’m stationed at Whitechapel now.’
‘Well you probably don’t know Bill, but I am also on the board of governors at Bethnal Green Hospital. That is just around the corner from you, isn’t it? If you like, I could make some enquiries to transfer Josh to there?
‘I have heard of some real horror stories about Bethnal Green Charles, from some of the lads I work with, will he be safe in there?’
‘Yes, it was true that there was some ill treatment there, but that was years ago, Warburton has made terrific changes to the place and the patients are much better treated now.’
‘Well if you are sure Josh will be safe then I could visit him more often. I won’t have to travel half way across London every time.’
‘Look Bill, I will ask next time I visit, see you next week.’ Beverly stubbed out his cigarette and turned on his heel to re-enter the hospital almost bumping into Josh who was holding onto the door frame to steady himself down the steps. Beverly chuckled as he heard Sinclair’s voice boom out.
‘If only there were more like him.’ He thought.
‘About fucking time, Ab, fucking romo, fucking vich.’ Sinclair roared.
Josh laughed as he always did when Sinclair called him that. Walking slowly down the three steps he resembled an old man and Sinclair let his smile drop for a split second as we wondered how much paraldehyde the doctors were pumping into him to quiet him down, he could barely walk. Sinclair nodded his farewell to Beverly and holding Josh’s arm, the two walked unhurriedly for several yards towards the rose gardens. ‘Here you go Josh I got a fresh orange for you.’ Sinclair took a large orange out of a brown paper bag and held it up.
‘You didn’t steal that did you Sergeant Major?’ Josh laughed at his own humour.
‘Of course I didn’t nick it, I’m an officer of the law now you cheeky beggar, but the shopkeeper told me it was picked by a lovely naked black girl with the biggest tits you have ever seen.’ Josh laughed for the second time, he loved it when Sinclair visited him.
‘Did she have tits as big as that orange?’
‘No much bigger than that, anyway, how bloody big do you want them?’
‘As big as I can get them Sergeant Major.’ Sinclair roared out laughing as they walked around the grounds for the next hour talking about the size of women’s breasts. The bell rang and the hour was over. Sinclair left.
Josh watched Sinclair as he walked out through the gates. The sadness and fear immediately returned like a heavy blanket stifling him and he had trouble breathing. He walked hurriedly up the stairs into the small room he shared and sat down in an old leather chair, his knees brought up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs.
4.2
‘Come on Taylor the show will be finished before we get there.’ Captain Trevor Walsh shouted up to the lodgings window without stepping out of the black hansom cab. He hated Whitechapel and refused to get his boots dirty stepping across the street through the puddles. The two young ladies sitting behind him held handkerchiefs in front of their faces to prevent breathing in the East End odour.
‘Why on earth does he choose to stay here, has he no money left?’ asked one.
‘No idea, he has been slumming it since he returned from the Zulu campaign,’ answered Walsh, ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to live amongst these villains and cut throats.’
‘I hope he tells us some good stories, I heard the Africans walk about naked.’ giggled one girl.
‘Don’t worry.’ said Walsh, once he has had a few drinks you won’t be able to stop him.’
Taylor appeared from his dwelling house slipping a hip flask into his inside pocket as he did. Throwing his cigarette into the gutter he hitched up his trousers took three steps through the puddles and up onto the step and into the carriage, swinging directly into the empty seat next to Walsh.
‘Hello ladies, Captain David Taylor at your service, pleased to meet you.’ The ladies looked at each other giggling, he was much more handsome than they were expecting. During the thirty minute ride Taylor had hardly glanced out of the carriage window, chatting happily to the two young ladies Walsh had invited out. They laughed all the way.
The carriage slowed and turned through a brick archway wide enough for two carriages to pass through at the same time. Then into well-kept grounds for another one hundred and fifty yards until they reached a large grey stone building, the driver pulled up the horses before the main doors. Taylor stepped out of the carriage and looked around at the grand structure and read the plaque above the doors of Hanwell Mental Institute.
‘Walsh, what on earth are we doing here?’
‘The ladies begged me to come, they heard about it from a friend.’ He whispered back.
‘Come Captain Taylor,’ Said the taller of the two women as she held her hand out for him to take. He held her fingers gently as she stepped down the step onto the ground and then immediately slipped her arm through his.
‘I feel safer already now I have one of
her Majesties officers to protect me.’ She giggled.
Taylor politely accepted her arm although he was unhappy with the location that Walsh had chosen for or his choice of entertainment.
The carriage pulled away from the door and the driver drove away and stopped next to several other carriages that were already parked some yards further from the main buildings. Most were hansom cabs from London. The driver jumped down and called out a greeting as he took a black nose bag from the back of the cab and hooked it over the horses halter, then taking his clay pipe out and lighting it he sat down with the other drivers. Another cab arrived and a foursome jumped out and walked excitedly towards the main entrance. The group of drivers watched as they walked towards the entrance. Shaking his head, the oldest man said to the rest of the group.
‘These ladies get younger each time I bring them. They call themselves gentry and then visit this freak show. If I caught my daughter coming here watching those mad bastards defecating all over the floor in public and performing sexual acts on each without shame I would take my belt to her backside till she couldn’t sit for a month.’
‘Freaks watching freaks, if you ask me.’ Said another. They all nodded in agreement.
Taylor, Walsh and the two ladies walked up the elegant curving staircase into the public gallery. The ladies took the lead walking for several yards before selecting the place they wished to view from and then stopped. Leaning forward over a brass rail that ran the entire length of the balcony they looked down at the inmates below. There were many people in evening dress making their way to various viewing positions, the ladies were the more curious leaning over the balcony, most of the men were more reserved and standing further away talking, smoking and laughing. Walsh accepted two drinks that were offered and handed them both to the ladies. He then took two more and gave one to Taylor.
‘I’m sorry old boy.’ said Walsh. ‘I know I should have told you but I needed another escort for these two and I didn’t think you would come if you knew where we were going.’
‘That’s right Walsh, I wouldn’t have come.’
‘Listen David, in London now gentlemen think nothing of taking their lady friends to these institutions, it’s just a bit of fun. I’ve been dozens of times, the ladies love it and it generates revenue for the institute and therefore the patients benefit.’
Walsh had a convincing argument, Taylor hadn’t thought about the financial implications, he grudgingly accepted his point of view.
‘Walsh, you will be a great politician one day.’
Walsh put his arm around Taylors shoulder and steered him to the rail. The balcony overlooked a grand hall where the non-dangerous inmates were encouraged to exercise each evening. The hall had several doors around it and Taylor watched as they were opened and unwilling patients were shoved roughly into the hall, the door closing as they stumbled forward. Both men and women wore long white knee length gowns, all were barefooted. Some patients walked directly to a wall and sat down as soon as they entered while others walked around arms outstretched trying to embrace and kiss other patients. He watched one man march twelve paces, mark time, execute a perfect about turn up and march back another twelve paces.
‘If he wasn’t a guardsman I will eat my hat.’ said Walsh.
‘Oh good God.’ said Taylors lady friend as she watched one woman urinating into her hand and then lifting it to her mouth to drink. Both girls held small fans in front of their faces in disgust but continued to watch.
There were more than fifty patients in the hall, most walking quietly, many just sitting. After fifteen minutes most of the watching crowd were becoming bored and had moved away from the rail. The door opened and a male nurse walked across to one patient who was standing to attention. He said something and the man stood at ease, he held out his hand and the nurse gave him a bugle then turned and left. Taylor watched as the man stood to attention again. He raised the bugle to his lips and blew a perfect infantry charge. There was an instant reaction to this sound.
At least half of the men, including the marching guardsman fell to the floor, curled up into a foetal position holding their arms over heads and covering their ears, crying, screaming, or both. Taylor was stunned at the amount of men that reacted. Both Naval and Army patients had been brought to Hanwell suffering from the trauma of battle. Walsh interrupted his thoughts, as though he was reading Taylors mind.
‘English shores have not been under attack for a hundred years but we can still turn our service men into cabbages. They are a bye product of England’s greed and the continual wars it wages just to fill our shops with goods and fill the pockets of men who already have too much.’
Taylor was surprised at the vehement outburst. He turned his gaze away from Walsh and looked at the pathetic shells of people below him. His eyes were drawn to a small figure that was sitting against a wall. He hadn’t taken any notice of him before. The youth was trembling so fiercely his entire body was shaking, underneath him a puddle of urine slowly spread around his bare feet. Then he turned his head in the direction of the balcony, his face terrified, he looked up pleading for help. Taylor let out a loud gasp of shock.
It was Josh.
Taylor looked around the balcony in disgust, the crowd were laughing and pointing at the poor wretches as they urinated and defecated themselves in abject fear. Josh, his own drummer boy was being ridiculed by the very people that Taylor called his peers. Angrily, without speaking he turned and walked away from the others, down the stairs and outside where he stood for several minutes, his hands on his hips, his fists clenched in anger. Reaching for his hip flask he walked away from the entrance towards the carriages, still shaking with rage.
‘Not to your liking Sir?’ asked a driver.
Taylor hadn’t seen the man when he walked across the yard, he shook his head without speaking.
‘Me neither. Are you cavalry, Sir? He asked. Taylor removed the top from the flask and took a long drink of the whiskey.
‘No Royal Engineers.’ Taylor replied. ‘Were you in the service?’ The driver took the question as an invitation to join Taylor, he sat down next to him and began his story.
‘Yes Sir, I took the Queens shilling when I was eighteen years of age Sir. We shipped out to Afghanistan with the Seventieth Surrey Regiment. That’s where I got my Gimpy leg. Good fighters them Arabs, they never give up, never. I can never forget the date I got shot, Christmas Eve it was. Mind you it didn’t feel like Christmas, it was so bloody hot all the time. We were patrolling through the mountains to look for brigands when we got ambushed. They came out of nowhere. Kept us pinned down in a gulley for two days. Stuck behind small rocks, only big enough to hide behind if you curled up a bit, no bigger than that, like rabbits hiding. Only had to put a hand out from a rock and they took it off, they were that good a shot. Got me in the knee when I got careless. I got cramp and stretched my leg out. We tried to get out during the first night but they could still pick us off then. You see Sir it was a full moon that night and bright as the day, but such an eerie silence, you could almost hear yourself breath.’
Taylor was used to the cockneys and their habit of launching into a story uninvited but he didn’t mind, it took his mind off of the scene he had walked away from and he always had time and patience for men who had seen the same horrors of battle as he had experienced.
The driver continued talking,
‘I remember sitting with my back against a small rock with my life blood spilling out through the hole in my knee. It was painful at first but as I become more lightheaded, the pain disappeared. I remember looking up at the stars thinking how beautiful they were, I had never noticed them before. It was so peaceful I forgot where I was. Just sat there thinking that if dying was this peaceful then maybe death wasn’t so bad after all.’
Taylor nodded, only another soldier could understood exactly what he meant. The driver continued.
‘Just as I started to pass out, two of the tiniest little clouds
crossed the moon and it went pitch black. I looked up at them and when they passed and it was bright again, I looked down again and Taffy, our medic was grinning at me. I remember thinking what a smashing set of white teeth he had, no wonder all the girls fell for him. Blimey I thought, my last minutes alive and I’ve turned into a poof.’
Taylor laughed at his humour. The driver continued.
‘Taffy had been waiting ages for the clouds and as soon as it went dark he crawled across the open ground to me, unseen by the Afghans. He poured something in the wound and bandaged me leg to stop the bleeding. Then he stuck a needle in both our arms and gave me some of his blood. Told me it was his Christmas present to me. He sat with me the whole night making sure I didn’t keel over and get my head blown off. We sat together like two little kids cuddled up, but he saved my life Sir.
The next morning we were relieved by the rest of the regiment, but my leg was done for and I got sent home. We left a lot of our boys buried under Afghanistan dirt, but that Christmas, the good Lord sent me two small clouds and a bloody handsome Welshman or I would have been buried there with them.’
‘Taffy was a brave man, I have known many like him, all good men, did you ever see him again?’ Taylor asked
‘Oh yes Sir, and so did you. You just watched him run around inside there shitting himself when they blow that bloody bugle each night, he is the one with his nose missing, got it blown off trying to help one of the boys and it sent him mad. The girls won’t come near him now, his face scares them. He is now paraded nightly for the amusements of toffs from London who bring their ladies to come and laugh at him and the other poor bastards running around pissing on themselves, no offense meant to you Sir.’
‘None was taken,’ said Taylor offering the driver the whiskey flask. The driver accepted it and took a drink, wiping the top he handed it back to Taylor as he did so. Then he leant forward and lowered his voice.
‘That is just the public show that you witnessed Sir. Some of these gentlemen and their ladies come here for a different type of entertainment, that’s where the real show is Sir.’ Taylor shook his head and lit a cigarette. Walsh escorted the ladies down the stairs and asked them to wait for a moment. He walked outside and spoke with Taylor for several minutes. Then re-entered the building and went back to the ladies.
‘Isn’t the captain joining us?’ one asked.
‘No, he is not feeling too well, he is enjoying some fresh air,’ replied Walsh. ‘Shall we go?’The three walked slowly to the start of the corridor where a male nurse was waiting for them. Walsh slipped two shillings into his hand. He opened a door and they followed him down several corridors before stopping before a room. The nurse opened it and they all stepped inside. The ladies gasped in shock at the sight of a male patient who was lying back on the bed completely naked. He was erect and playing with his penis.
‘Most of the ladies like to see this one, if you want me to bring another one in for him to play with or do more than watch then it will be another shilling.’ Said the nurse to Walsh in a bored tone.
Taylor had finished his cigarettes and took out his clay pipe, which he packed for the third time. He smoked it lazily while he waited for Walsh and the ladies, his thoughts on Josh. Realising his pipe had gone out, he didn’t bother relighting it, just tapped it against the heel of his shoe and replaced it in his pocket. The carriage driver had left him and returned to his companions. Taylor reflected about what had happened. Just as he finished his flask of Whiskey, Walsh and the ladies re-joined him asking sheepishly if he felt better. They all entered the carriage and returned to London, three chattering and laughing, Taylor quiet and sombre.
‘Where shall we go now?’ Walsh asked.
‘If you don’t mind I have some urgent business, could you drop me off at Whitechapel police station please, I need to see an old friend.’ Taylor replied.
Taylor bade them goodnight as he stepped out of the carriage, walked up four steps and entered the police station.
‘Is Bill Sinclair here.’ He asked the young officer behind the desk.
‘He is on his tea break Sir I will send someone to fetch him, can anyone else help you?’
‘No only Bill thank you.’ After a few minutes the door opened and Bill popped his head around the door,
‘Hello Captain, come this way Sir.’ Taylor turned down the offer of a cup of tea and waited for Bill to pour himself one, adding the milk slowly.
He stood in his shirtsleeves, his police jacket hanging on the back of a chair. A small iron was heating up in the fire and Taylor knew exactly what Sinclair was going to do with it.
‘A good cup of tea is all about the colour Sir. I learnt that from an Army cook in India, he told me that if you get that right you always got a good cup of tea. He was a tough bloke Sir, Scottish lad. Best scrapper I ever met, which was just as well as he was a fucking terrible cook.’ Taylor smiled, even though he had heard Sinclair’s tell the story many times.
‘I saw Josh tonight, Bill.’ Sinclair was shocked, he assumed Taylor meant he had seen Josh in London.
‘Where on earth was he, Sir?’
‘He is in Hanwell mental Institute Bill.’ Sinclair returned to his tea. ‘Oh yes I know that, Sir.’
‘I didn’t know he was in that dreadful place Bill, I thought he had been sent home.’
‘I try to get up to visit him a couple of times a month when I’m on the night shift, but I can’t get there when I have day shift, it’s too far by public transport, plus I can’t afford it. But I spoke with Doctor Beverly last week and he suggested moving Josh to Bethnal Green Asylum. It’s just around the corner from here so I could visit him two or three times a week then and without it costing me a penny in tram fares.’
‘So Josh didn’t mention the evening show?’
‘What evening show?’ Sinclair tipped some of the tea from the cup into his saucer, lifting it to his lips he sipped it noisily. He then did it again. Taylor could never understand why he preferred to drink from the saucer or where the habit came from, he had asked him once a long time ago but Sinclair just shrugged and said the tea was too hot in the cup.
Sinclair wrapped a wet cloth around the iron handle and picked it up. He turned it upside down and spat on the surface. His spit hissed and flew off into the fire. He listened to Taylor as he dipped his white removable shirt collar into a bowl of starch and then pressed the iron gently onto the material, steam hissed as the iron made contact with the wet material.
‘That smell always reminds me of Sandhurst.’ Taylor joked. Sinclair laughed.
‘Me too Sir, well not Sandhurst of course, but I only have to close my eyes and smell the starch and I am back in the Regiment.’
Taylor felt a twinge of regret when he heard Sinclair speak. He wished he hadn’t opened his mouth, Bill obviously missed the military life. His term of engagement was ending at exactly the same time that his wife became terminally ill. He had to make a choice, sign on for six more years or leave. Taylor had fought with the high Command to let Bill stay on stationed in England so he could be with his wife. His requests fell on deaf ears, they refused. If Sinclair had signed on again, he would have been shipped backed to India within the month, leaving his wife to die alone. He left the regiment he loved..
‘Any regrets?’ Taylor asked.
‘No regrets. Not one.’
‘You made the right decision Bill.’
‘Of course I did Sir, I left her alone for so many years, buggering off around the empire, how could I leave her to die alone?’
‘You made the right choice, Bill.’ Sinclair dipped his collar in the starch again, as the iron hissed for a second time Taylor spoke.
‘Bill, I will ask my father to speak with Dr. Beverly, I am sure they are both members of the same bridge club.’
Two weeks later a male nurse entered the room Josh shared with seven others and threw a bag onto his bed. ‘Get dressed, I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ he said harshly
. Josh looked at the bag, it was his army kit bag, the one he brought with him when he was admitted to Hanwell. He opened the bag and removed his clothes from it, placing them on the bed. Pulling the hospital gown over his head he stood naked for several seconds and then pulled a shirt over his head, followed by trousers and his shoes. The nurse put his head into the room.
‘Come on you.’ He called to Josh.
Josh walked behind him, the shoes hurting his feet as they rubbed his bare heel, it had been a long time since he had worn shoes. He stepped out into the bright sunshine and the nurse took his arm and told him to get into the enclosed carriage. Josh did so and looked at the man sitting opposite him. He had a bandage across his face covering what used to be his nose. Josh sat down staring at him. He hoped someone friendlier would join them. Nobody else did and as the back door was slammed shut and locked he started to become apprehensive. The carriage pulled forward and he moved to look out of the grilled window, although not a prisoner the bars and locks were there to prevent him from jumping out and running off around London. He calmed down after some time and even started to feel sleepy, the gentle rocking of the carriage soothing him. Then the carriage stopped and he heard the door being unlocked. As it swung open he peered out not daring to leave.
‘Come on, fucking Ab, fucking romo, fucking vich, I haven’t got all day.’ Josh’s face lit up. He stepped out of the carriage onto the ground. There standing before him was Taylor, Sinclair and a male nurse, all smiling at Josh.
‘Hello Josh, I’m Nurse Davey O’Kane, you can call me Davey.’ said the nurse in a broad Northern Irish accent. ‘Welcome to Bethnal Green White house. No Army bugles played here son.’ Taylor stepped forward and held his hand out to the second man who stepped slowly out of the carriage looking around at the new surroundings.
‘Hello Corporal Jones,’ Said Taylor. ‘Or may I call you Taffy?’
4.3
Sinclair awoke with a start and looked around his sparse room. He was sat in a rocking chair, an empty glass in his left hand. He shivered and stood up. Placing the glass on the table he took the poker and pushed it through the iron fire grate wiggling it up and down and then to the left and right. He repeated that several times until the old smaller coals had dropped out underneath and the new ones had fell into their place. Satisfied the fire still had signs of life in it, he added several more black coals on top with his fingers. He picked up a pot and urinated into it, passing wind several times as he did,
‘Excuse me.’ He said to himself. He thought of his wife Beth, she had always giggled when he passed wind, he could hear her voice as if she was still in the room.
‘William don’t you fart so close to that fire you will blow us up.’ Sinclair chuckled as he thought about her. Setting the pot back down, he covered it with a cloth. It was too cold to use the toilet outside and he would only go outside and empty the pot when it was full. He refilled his glass with cheap Scottish whiskey and sat back down in the rocker readjusting the position to place his feet closer to the fire. He warmed up and looked at the rain pattering gently on his dirty back window. He always sat at the back of the house, the front room was only for Christmas and special occasions. He hadn’t been in there since his wife Beth had passed away two months earlier, her body had been laid in a coffin in the middle of the room and he had sat alone with her body every night playing gramophone records and talking to her, drinking beer and then whiskey until he passed out in the chair. The night before she was due to be buried he sat in a chair next to her all night, drinking whiskey and singing her favourite songs. He woke early on the morning of the funeral, stiff from the position he fell asleep in the hard chair. The neighbour was standing in front of him with a cup and a plate in her hands, as she had every morning since Beth had died.
‘Thank you Mrs Rosen, bless you love.’ He said accepting the tea and sandwich she had made him.
‘Tadmans will be here at nine, William.’
He drank the tea and left the sandwich. Then he went upstairs, shaved and dressed then returned and sat holding his wife’s hand for the last time. There was a tap on the door. He stood up, leant into the coffin and kissed her forehead, whispering quietly to her.
‘Well that’s it love time to go.’ Opening the front door, a young man stood there dressed completely in black with a top hat that was too big for him. He introduced himself.
‘Tadman’s Sir, funeral directors, we have come to collect Mrs Sinclair? ‘Yes replied Sinclair.’ The man nodded to three other similarly dressed men and they stepped inside each one removing his hat and paying his condolences to Sinclair. They manoeuvred the coffin skilfully outside and into a black hearse. A horse stood waiting patiently, its shiny black flanks shivering in the cold morning air. Bill nodded to the handful of neighbours who had joined him to walk behind the hearse and they left for the church. Every door in Jubilee Street was open and Bill was touched to see each family standing there, the men with caps in their hand. His shoulders went back and he led the cortege proudly along, marching as if he was leading his regiment. He glanced at the small boys watching him, eyes and mouths open at the sight of this gigantic man, his red Regimental Uniform still perfectly fitting him.
‘Look at all of them medals dad.’ he heard one small boy say. ‘Is he a war hero?’
‘Yes son, he is a real one.’ his dad replied.