Homecoming

 

Corporal Simpson stared out of the window at the passing greenery and smiled. After six months dodging rocket fire and bullets from Taliban Insurgents, he was looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet. He had three weeks leave and he intended to spend it in the quiet English countryside with his family. Nothing ever happened in the small town of Bowersfield where his parents a sister lived and that suited him just fine.

Lazy mornings spent in bed and then breakfast supplied by a doting mum. Long afternoon walks over the rolling downs, revelling in the feeling of freedom from the rules and regulations of military life. Back home in time for a home cooked evening meal, followed a little later by couple of pints of Tetley’s best in the Black Bull. Sunday cricket on the sports field, with another couple of pints after, and then a stroll back home for Sunday lunch. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, carrots and lashings of gravy. Mmm, he could taste it now. His mum was an excellent cook and made the best gravy in the world.

It was his idea of being in Heaven and best of all he would be spending it in the company of those he loved most, His Mum and dad, his sister Carol and her husband Will.

A station flashed by breaking him out of his reverie and he panicked for a moment, thinking he had missed his stop. Then he remembered that the 3.15 didn’t stop at Chulford, and that the next station was his.

As the train drew to a stop he stepped onto platform, slung his rucksack over his shoulder and headed for the stairs leading up to the footbridge. Reaching the top he spotted a familiar figure coming towards him across the bridge. It was old Mr Green who lived two streets over from mums. As the old man drew near the corporal called out ’Good afternoon, Mr Green.’

The old man stopped, squinted through rheumy eyes and said sadly , ’Oh, it’s you son. It’s a bad business.’

‘What is?’ the corporal asked.

‘Your house burning down.’

‘Our house has burnt down!’ The corporal cried. ‘How?’

‘The candle must have fallen over and set light to the curtains.’

‘ What candle?’

‘The one at the end of your dad's coffin.’

‘My dad’s dead?’

‘Aye, died of a heart attack when your mum was knock down and killed by the bus.’

‘Oh, my God, Mum’s dead too!’ the corporal cried, staggering against the wall of the bridge. ‘How did it happen?’

‘She must have been distraught after your sister passed away. She stepped into the road without looking,’

‘My dad’s dead, my mum’s dead and now you’re telling me my sister is dead too!’

‘Aye, she took a fatal overdose when her husband ran off with the barmaid.’

The corporal, with tears streaming down his cheeks, clambered up onto the wall of the bridge saying, ‘With all my family dead, I’ve got nothing to live for.’

‘Don’t do it Charley!’ the old man cried.

The corporal, from his precarious position on the wall turned to the old man with a puzzled expression and said, My name’s not Charley, it’s Tom.’

The words had barely passed his lips when he lost his footing and fell. As he plummeted down towards the track he screamed, ‘You should have gone to Specmakers, you daft old bat!’