The New Samurai

  “Someone could be the referee, I guess,” said Paul, “unless you want to play, Helen?” He sounded doubtful.

  “Bloody hell!” she said, looking irritated. “I’m Welsh! We practically invented rugby!”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Game on!” shouted Yoshi excitedly.

  At first the game was good natured but it was clear that the Marines had expected a walkover. They had, however, severely underestimated their opponents. Of course, they had no clue that Sam had once played professionally, or that Tara’s ability in Aussie Rules made her a formidable player. Add to that Helen’s careful passes and Paul’s tenacity, and it was a real game with the outcome uncertain. Yoshi was the weak link but he was too drunk to notice, and charged around the field shouting happily and waving his hands.

  They soon had a small crowd of spectators, laughing at the funny gaijin and snickering behind their hands.

  Yoshi continued to run up and down, shouting bizarre instructions to his team, which they enthusiastically ignored.

  Helen had the ball and had just passed it to Sam, who was sprinting down the wing, when Mitch barrelled into her, knocking her to the ground.

  “Hey!” yelled Paul. “What’s the matter with you, buddy?!”

  Sam skidded to a stop and turned back to Helen. “Are you okay?”

  “Just… just a bit winded,” she gasped.

  “That was out of order!” said Paul, furious and dangerously red in the face.

  The other Marines looked uncomfortable, but Mitch just shrugged. “I thought we were playing football.”

  “Take it easy, mate,” said Tara, angrily.

  Sam helped Helen to her feet.

  “I… I think I’ll sit out for a minute,” she said, rather shakily.

  “Is the lady okay?” asked Sandy, the oldest of the Marines, the leader.

  Helen nodded, still rubbing her ribs. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said, curtly.

  “Maybe we should all take a time-out,” said Sam, softly.

  “You pussies!” scoffed Mitch, earning him a look of rebuke from Sandy.

  “It’s alright, Sam,” said Helen. “You carry on playing: show those Yankees what real rugby looks like.”

  Tara had a determined lift to her chin and directed a tiny nod at Sam. He winked back, knowing exactly what she wanted him to do.

  By now it was clear to the Marines that Sam was their biggest danger, so they formed a chain to try and stop him getting through their defence. But he sprinted easily past Al and Vince, weaved past Mitch, feinted left, and threw a neat pass to Tara. Sandy hurled himself towards Paul but instead of going for the obvious pass, Tara threw the ball to Yoshi, who redeemed himself by scoring a goal with a drop kick.

  “Yeah, man!” shouted Paul, a huge smile spread across his face.

  “Yatta!” shrieked Yoshi, punching the air, and running up the field with his T-shirt over his head.

  “Goddam slit-eye!” snarled Mitch.

  “You’re just a sore loser, man,” yelled Paul angrily. He marched over and whispered something to his fellow American: that’s when Mitch hit him.

  “Hey!” shouted Tara, running forwards – but Sam beat her to it. He caught Mitch’s fist as he swung it for a second time, then wrenched him round, pulling the heavy Marine away from Paul, who was prone on the grass.

  Vince and Al charged over, swearing loudly. Other visitors in the park turned to watch with horrified expressions.

  Al swung a punch which Sam blocked. Sam followed up with two solid punches before Vince caught him a sledgehammer on the cheek, knocking him sideways.

  Helen was screaming at them and Tara looked like she was about to launch herself at Vince, when Yoshi steamed over. Vince took a swing, but Yoshi neatly ducked out of the way, dropped to one knee and swept Vince’s legs from the ground. Then he launched a backwards kick into Al’s gut, his breath whooshing out loudly.

  “Marines!” shouted Sandy in a parade-ground, ear-shattering roar. “On your feet! Front and centre!”

  Reluctantly, the other four staggered to their feet, Al holding one hand to his bloody nose.

  “You will apologise!” he bellowed. “Marines are not sore losers!”

  “Sir! No, sir!” they shouted in unison.

  “My apologies, ladies, gents,” said Sandy. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

  Paul sat up, shaking his head slowly, blood dripping from a split lip. Sam was just pushing himself up from one knee and looked like he’d have a good bruise across his cheek.

  “You lousy drongos!” said Tara, her fists raised. She looked like she was ready to start the fight all over again.

  “Leave it, Tara,” said Sam, grabbing her arm.

  “Wise words, my friend,” said Sandy, as the furious blonde Viking flailed against Sam’s grip.

  Tara whipped her arm free and stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes narrowed.

  Sandy seemed to be holding back a smile as he held out his hand. Sam shook it and so did Yoshi, but Paul ignored him.

  “Marines, we are leaving,” said Sandy, calmly.

  Paul scowled as his five countrymen strolled off through the park, Mitch throwing angry glances over his shoulder.

  There was a scattering of applause from the spectators and then they went back to their own entertainments, shaking their heads at the strange rituals of foreigners.

  “Let me have a look at that lip,” said Helen, breaking the sudden silence.

  “It’s nothing,” muttered Paul.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” said Helen. “Here, hold this paper napkin against it: it’s almost stopped bleeding.”

  Then she turned to Sam. “How are you?”

  He grinned. “No blood, no foul.”

  “Humph,” she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. “You’ll have a nasty bruise there in the morning and your knuckles look a bit sore. It’s a pity we haven’t got any ice.”

  “You could soak your hands in the lake,” said Taran thoughtfully. “That might help.”

  Sam shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Paul. “Maybe I can wash some of this goddam blood off my shirt.”

  In the end they all went, the party atmosphere having been rather dampened.

  “By the way,” said Tara to Yoshi, “you had some nice moves back there.”

  “Thank you, Tara-san!” said Yoshi, happily. “I was captain of my school’s judo team. I have always wanted to be in rumble – like James Dean!”

  Tara laughed. “Yeah! You’re cool, Yoshi-san!”

  “Cool!” he crowed. “Yoshi is cool guy!”

  It was pleasant lying by the lake watching the sun sink slowly behind the tree tops. Paul pulled off his shirt and managed to wash out the worst of the blood. Yoshi had been astonished by Paul’s hairiness, and Tara had teased him relentlessly about the probability of Neanderthal ancestors. Paul had enjoyed the attention, giving nearly as good as he got. Plus it gave him the chance to show off his chest to Tara, something he’d been wanting to find a reason to do since he’d seen her in Sam’s room that morning.

  Sam had smiled, listening to the relaxed banter while he soaked his hands in the cool water of the lake; he knew from experience that they’d be sore in the morning. Hitting Al’s jaw had been like trying to punch through a brick wall. He was probably lucky he hadn’t broken anything – or lost a finger.

  “Oh, look!” said Helen. “They’re lighting the lanterns. This is my favourite bit. Let’s go and see.”

  Yoshi looked as if he’d happily sleep the rest of the night in the park, but Tara and Paul pulled him to his feet and the three of them set off, arm in arm, strolling down the gravel path.

  Sam offered his hand to Helen and she climbed to her feet rather stiffly.

  “Are you okay?” he said, concern in his voice.

  She looked up, surprised. “I’m fine… oh, you mean from being bulldozed by the Hulk. No, no, this is just age, love.”


  “You’re not old,” said Sam, smiling.

  “Huh, try telling my knee joints that!” She paused, eyeing him steadily. “I hope you’re not trying to flirt with me, Sam!”

  He stared at her in horror, his face turning scarlet. “No… no!” he stuttered.

  Helen laughed. “You don’t have to look quite so terrified! Sorry if I scared you: I just wanted to make it quite clear. You don’t even know you’re doing it, do you?”

  Sam wasn’t entirely sure what she was talking about: everything about the conversation made him very uncomfortable. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet, feeling ridiculous.

  “Anyway,” continued Helen, still smiling to herself, “my old man is flying out next month. I haven’t seen him in over a year.” Her smile faded slightly. “It’ll be very strange.”

  “Why did you come out here in the first place?” asked Sam, relieved by the conversation’s new direction.

  Helen sighed. “I got married very young: by your age I already had my daughter, Penny, and I was pregnant with David. I brought up my children, then went straight back to teaching and I’ve done nothing else. I just felt I wanted… I don’t know, to see if I could do anything else… be anything else. And whether I could do it by myself; whether I was brave enough. It’s easy when you’re twenty to pick up and start somewhere new: but not so easy at my age. Besides,” she said, smiling happily at the glowing lanterns, “I’ve always been fascinated by the Orient, so when the opportunity to come here arose, I took it. Malcolm wasn’t very happy about it… well, why should he be? It turned his life upside-down, too.”

  “But you’re looking forward to seeing him?” said Sam, cautiously.

  She smiled more broadly and winked at him. “Oh yes! It’ll be like a second honeymoon. I hope. Or maybe it’ll be better than my first honeymoon – we went to Rhyl.”

  Sam laughed. “Very exotic!”

  Helen chuckled softly. “Well, we didn’t see much beyond the walls of the boarding house anyway.” She laughed at his expression. “Sex was invented before your generation, you know! But tell me, how did you end up here?”

  He shrugged. “I was doing supply and when the contract ended I saw this job advertised.” It was the same story that he’d already told everyone.

  “That’s all?” she asked. “I was sure there must have been a woman involved somewhere.”

  He grimaced. “Not really. I’d been with someone and… it didn’t work out.”

  “Sorry,” she said, squeezing his arm. “I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.”

  Sam forced out a smile. “No, it’s fine.”

  “Well,” said Helen, glancing ahead to where Tara was strolling with Paul and Yoshi, “plenty more fish in the sea.”

  Sam laughed. “My mum used to say that to my sister when she’d been dumped by her latest boyfriend. She said it to me once when I was 15 and had just got my heart trampled on.” He shook his head wryly at the memory. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m definitely not looking for any re-runs of that.”

  “Really?” said Helen, her voice intrigued.

  Sam was embarrassed: he’d ended up saying more than he’d meant to.

  “Go on,” she said, her voice encouraging.

  “Er…” he muttered.

  “Oh, it’s alright,” she said, divining his thoughts. “Never mind: none of my business.” She patted his arm again. “It’ll all work out… So… how are you getting on at your school?”

  Sam’s Blog

  Sakura, cherry blossom.

  What more do I need?

  Sushi, beer, sake.

  Hi everyone!

  So, Spring has officially arrived. It’s Hanami – cherry blossom season. If that sounds mellow, forget it! It’s a time for the locals to go crazy outdoors. It’s a bit like a Spurs/Arsenal derby – but with picnics. See attached photos for evidence!

  We even managed to get in a bit of rugby in the park before some goons from an American base crashed the party – and I have the bruises to prove it. (Don’t worry, sis, nothing broken, just my pride.)

  Anyway, my Japanese is getting better (that’ll be useful on a night out in Hackney – not). Two of the first Kanji I learned (that’s the Chinese writing system that is about 60% of written Japanese) are the ones for ‘man’ and ‘woman’ – essential if you want to avoid going in the wrong public convenience. The sign for a woman looks like she’s got her legs crossed, in case you ever need to know that.

  But these are not your average Soho pissoirs; these are temples to the noble art of public urination.

  There are two types: the traditional squatting bog, just like the ones on that French campsite, Keith; but the others – oh, man!

  You go in, and it’s like, what the hell? Is this a crapper or a spaceship? There are just so many buttons. First of all, you can choose what sort of music you want to accompany you on your travails (honestly, I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I did spot a volume control). Then sometimes the lids rise automatically when you enter, but others you have to press a button to lift the lid and another to lift the seat (working out which button to use is trial and error). There are two separate buttons for, er, number ones or number twos (I’ve got to learn the Kanji for those soon!), then there’s a separate set of controls for the bidet. Keith – I know how you love playing with things (!) but get this bit wrong and your eyes will be watering like a night out with Julian Clary.

  Then there’s another control panel for the, er, hairdryer; plus a seat warmer; and something that feels like a vibrator (I kid you not), but it’s actually a device that washes the seat after use. More buttons for the handwashing water (and temperature) and another for the hand drier. And that’s one of the simpler ones. Some of them you have to push a button for the seat to appear in the first place. And if you push the wrong button at the end, the seat disappears while you’re still in business.

  Yoshi says that you can study for degrees in lavatorial practices. A new career option for you, Wayne?

  That’s all the news from the land of a thousand autumns.

  Sylvie – when is Bella’s christening? Let me know.

  Sayonara!

  PS Julie – you’re not going to win that bet!

  It was late when Sam finished work the next day. Although he’d had the morning off, after lunch he’d had his two hour Japanese lesson, which was draining enough, followed by teaching two night school classes. He still hadn’t had time to eat the onigiri rice balls he’d taken to have for his supper.

  Even though he wasn’t allowed to socialise with his adult pupils, they all enjoyed crowding around his desk and asking questions, eager to learn more about life in England. Sam quite enjoyed this interaction, but it was tiring and meant he didn’t get a break between classes.

  It was after ten o’clock by the time he trudged back to the hostel. All the language teachers had hectic schedules. In some schools they taught six days a week every weekend, not just alternate weeks.

  All he wanted to do was stand under a hot shower and pass out on his futon.

  Instead he saw that Paul was waiting for him at the hostel’s entrance. He looked tense.

  “What’s up?” said Sam.

  “Have you been up to your room yet?” said Paul.

  Sam shook his head. “Nope. Just got back. Why?”

  “I was wondering if you’d had one of these,” said Paul, holding up a letter.

  “What is it?”

  “An appointment to see Frau Brandt tomorrow morning.”

  Sam shrugged. “So?”

  “Well,” said Paul, slowly, “my school made a complaint against me for turning up to work with this cut.” He pointed to his lip that was still slightly swollen and obviously suffering from the effects of Mitch’s punch the previous day. “They said it was ‘inappropriate’.”

  A cold feeling washed through Sam; he knew his bruised cheek was obvious because several of his students had asked him about it, although they’d all acc
epted that ‘football’ was a reasonable explanation.

  “I’ll go and see,” said Sam.

  He ran up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time, Paul trailing behind him. An envelope was taped to his door. He tore it open and scanned the contents: it was indeed a message requiring him to see Frau Brandt in the morning.

  Paul looked morose. “What time is your meeting scheduled for?”

  “Ten. You, too?”

  Paul sighed. “At least she’s seeing us together.”

  “Has anyone else had a letter?” said Sam.

  “Naw. The ladies are fine. I asked Tara. It’s just us, buddy.”

  Sam dropped his backpack on the floor and tugged off his tie, balling it up to throw in a heap his desk.

  Paul hesitated in the doorway.

  “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered.

  Sam turned round and grinned at him. “Don’t worry about it: I’ve had worse.” He looked at his wristwatch. “You know what, I think it’s beer o’clock.”

  “You’re sure speaking my language!” said Paul.

  The next morning Sam and Paul presented themselves at Frau Brandt’s office. Both wore their formal work clothes: white shirts and dark ties, and Paul had dredged up a suit jacket from somewhere. It made him look like a Mafiosi; all he needed was a pair of Aviator sunglasses and a stick of gum.

  Sam looked at Paul and took a deep breath. He knocked on the office door.

  “Come!”

  Frau Brandt barked out the order. Sam opened the door and walked in, Paul hot on his heels.

  “Gentlemen,” said Frau Brandt, peering over her half-moon glasses at them. She didn’t offer them chairs. “I have had complaints from both of your employers. From looking at you it is apparent that you turned up for work with facial bruising, indicating that you have been in a fight. Is this correct?”

  “No!” said Paul, lying blandly. “We just went to Ueno to see the cherry blossom and we were playing football. We just… er… collided. That’s all.”

  He smiled hopefully but she glared back.

  “Hmm. I do not like receiving complaints. Mr Martelli: you will not return to work for the rest of the week, until your injury is healed. I will dock your pay, plus an additional day as a fine for bringing the school’s name into disrepute. Mr Patterson: I will also be docking you a day’s pay as a fine – and you will take steps to cover up that bruise before you go to work this evening.”