The Remnant
Slumped in the chair, she watched one programme on the television slip seamlessly into the next programme. She was sixty four and she felt old. Early retirement had advantages but she was tired, so very tired. .
The documentary on World War 1, photographed in black and white, depicted grim scenes of dismembered bodies. Sue stretched for the packet of biscuits as she idly watched a couple of ancient war veterans appear in front of the camera. Decked out in rows of medals from yesteryear, they described in detail the graphic horrors of the trenches. Sue munched through another biscuit. One old boy spoke with that ridiculous Hollywood accent that was so prevalent at the time. What made folk adopt such a fake accent, she wondered as she slowly drank her mug of coffee. With a sense of pride, the man announced that he was part of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, the only regiment that had made it out of the Gulag region. He opened a shabby photograph album and the camera zoomed in on a photograph of three young men. “My comrades, “he said. “Those that returned were usually crippled in one way or another. If it wasn’t the body, it was in the mind. Take that chap,” he said pointing to a skinny individual, “the best in the world. He returned home alive but shell-shocked. Don’t know what happened him”. The camera zoomed in on the features of the handsome soldier. Sue gazed absently at the face. Then she focused, “What was that hanging round his neck? It wasn't a button, was it?” She sat up and stared at the pendant. It was an exact replica of that strangely designed pendant up in her bedroom, the pendant given to her by her mother. It had the same incomplete sculptured curio at the base. In fact, the two interlocking curios would match each other perfectly. She froze.The camera moved on to other things and she sank back into her chair. She had seen a photograph of her father. She was absolutely certain of it; the father she had never met, the father who had been killed in the war…… She sat motionless for a long time. “If her father was alive, perhaps she could find him.” A strange excitement gripped her. If the man in the photograph was her father, it was possible that he was still alive. Stories of her father flashed before her. He had gone to war when he was seventeen leaving her mother pregnant and alone. News had filtered through that he had been killed in action but his body had never been recovered. It was possible, she reasoned, that her father; the man she had never known; the man her mother had loved until the day she died, was alive, an old shell shocked war veteran in some mouldering institution in England. Energised, she pulled out her laptop and googled. She'd find out who was on the“Register of British soldiers in 1914.” Months later, weeks of research later, days spent interviewing people in draughty corridors later, Sue eventually stood in front of the gates of the Cheshire Homes in Dolywern. The tiredness had returned but her heart was full. She had traced her father despite the numerous obstacles placed in her way. In her hand she held a letter written by her mother many years ago to her husband at the front. She rang the bell. A pleasant looking matron answered the door and ushered her into the waiting room. “You may wait here while I get Mr. Camden”, she said. Sue sat down on one of those old fashioned Victorian chairs and surveyed her surroundings. Nothing had changed much in this room for the last half century. Perhaps her father would be the same. She glossed through a few tattered magazines that were scattered on the small mahogany table. Out of date magazines for out of touch people, she thought. She looked out the window at the tree-lined drive, soldiers of a bygone era stationed in parallel regimented lines. They reminded her of the documentary that had initiated her voyage of discovery. In the distance she heard a bell ringing, probably some old boy looking for attention. Sue waited. Time passed. Footsteps pitter-pattering up the corridor were interspersed by the murmur of conversation. A trolley carrying a shrouded corpse to the morgue passed. She had come in time, she thought. Her father was alive. She allowed herself to bask in her achievement. Yes, her mother would be very pleased that her only daughter had finally met her lost father, who had never actually died, just lived forgetfully. She settled back in the chair as the wretched tiredness circled her. She blinked her eyes as her vision blurred. There was a sensation of floating, not being connected to her body, a numb feeling down her right hand side. She waited. Finally, the door opened and an old gentleman with a childlike smile entered. The matron led him to a chair and adjusted his tie. “Mr. Camden wanted to look his best for his visitor." The old man looked over at Sue,“Will she be my friend?” he asked, pointing in Sue's direction. “I’m sure she will, “the matron said,whispering in his ear, ”She’s come all the way from Ireland and she’s spent a lifetime waiting to see you. As she left, a quietness filled the space. Then Sue rose to her feet. She badly wanted to touch her dad. She tried to move towards him but she was overcome by an inability to move. She tried to reach out her hand, but her hand remained stubbornly at her side. A feeling of nausea washed over her. She strove to speak, but her speech came out slurred and incoherent. The words she longed to speak remained unspoken. She gasped for breath,but none came. Slowly, as she staggered forward, she slipped to the floor, her eyes fixed firmly on her dad. The old man looked at her strangely. Then, he bent over her and patted her arm. “I don’t think we’ll chat today,” he said, kindly. "Another day, perhaps." The grandfather clock in the corner chimed and time marched on. Just the remnant left. |
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