Читать книгу The Songbird and the Soldier - Wendy Jones Lou - Страница 7

April arrived and with it, at last, a letter from Afghanistan. Sam got home from work and her mother greeted her, smiling from ear to ear. She pulled out a blue envelope from behind her back and Sam’s eyes lit up. “He wrote!”

Mrs Litton handed her the letter. “Go on. Go up and read it. I’ll have a cup of tea ready for when you get downstairs again.”

Sam hung her coat and helmet on the rack behind the door and skipped off upstairs, excited to finally be hearing news back from Dean. Humphrey followed her up the stairs, barking eagerly. He panted and wagged his tail at her feet as she sat on her bed carefully opening the folded envelope. He barked loudly and got the attention he desired. “Come up, Humph,” she said and patted the bed. Humphrey hopped up on to the bed beside her and rested his head on her lap. “It’s Dean,” she told him. “Let’s see what he has to say after all this time.”

Sam started to read and then checked the name at the bottom of the letter. She was confused. She checked a second time and then began to read again from the beginning. When she had finished she was at a loss as to what to make of it. She stared at the wall for a few minutes, trying to work through her thoughts. Eventually, she got up and took the letter downstairs. Humphrey seemed happier to stay where he was.

Sam found her mum in the living room, with the biscuit barrel open and a hot cup of tea waiting on the little table beside the settee. Sam walked over to her mother and handed her the letter. “What do you make of this?” she asked and took a seat by the cup of tea.

Mrs Litton’s brow furrowed in concern. She put down her cup of tea, reached for her glasses and started to read.

Dear Sam,

I know you will have been expecting a letter from Dean. Please do not concern yourself, he is quite well, but he has been moved with a small team of men to a rather remote checkpoint and therefore will unfortunately be unable to send or receive post for the duration of his time here. I know this must be hard for you and I wondered if you would care to write to me instead. I can keep you informed about how things are for us out here and maybe you would feel more connected in that way.

I will, of course, understand if you would rather not, but on my part, I would be honoured if you would write to me. It is always good to hear from home and how things are going back there. And to hear the song of a nightingale would be a cool relief in the blistering heat of an Afghan day.

Yours faithfully,

Andy Garrington

Mrs Litton looked down at the address on the back of the envelope. “Sergeant?” she said. She lay the letter down in her lap and looked at Sam. She took a deep breath and said nothing.

“I know,” Sam said. She had no idea what to think, or even how to feel. On the one hand she felt abandoned, foisted off onto the next available soldier as if one was just as good as the next. On the other hand, did that mean that Dean was in far more danger? He couldn’t write to her at all? Sam racked her brain for an explanation. Keeping in touch had never been Dean’s forte, it was true, but…

It occurred to her then that she may have just been dumped. Was this how soldiers did it? Passed you on to the next guy? How was she meant to feel about that? She liked Dean: he was charming and handsome and he made her laugh- but he was very unpredictable and definitely not reliable. But she did like him, a lot. If she’d known some of the other wives and girlfriends at the barracks, or The Patch, as they called it, she might be able to get some answers, but Dean never took her there, not once. Army life was still a foreign language to her. At least she could be pretty sure whatever he was doing, he wasn’t cheating on her.

“Do you know this Andy Garrington?” her mum asked.

“Sort of. I met him a couple of times with Dean.”

“What sort of chap is he? Is he nice?”

“Mum!”

“Not like that. I mean kind, considerate, that sort of thing, or was he, you know, laddish?”

“No, he seemed nice, quite quiet. Do you think he’s dumping me?”

“Who, Andy?”

“No, Dean.”

“I don’t think you could say that, not without something more… direct. But it’s strange, I’ll give you that. What are you going to do?”

Sam walked over and took back the letter. She shook her head. “I don’t know. It feels wrong to write to someone else, like I’m being unfaithful or something.”

“Yes, I can see that, but maybe it doesn’t have to be like that. This chap… Andy might not have anyone else to write to. You two could be like pen pals.”

“But what would I say to him?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Talk to him about your day, what the weather is doing, just pretend he’s another girl. It probably doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s the receiving of a letter, when somebody’s taken the time to write to you, that’s the special bit, not what they’ve actually written.”

“Mm, maybe.” Sam could see the sense in this, but it still felt very odd.

“Sleep on it. You don’t have to decide right now.”

Sam thanked her mum and went back upstairs, grabbing a couple of chocolate chip cookies from the biscuit barrel on the way. She still had plenty to do before school the next day.

That night Sam lay in bed thinking about the letter. If Dean had been sent to a remote outpost, why hadn’t he sent word before he left, or called? She tossed and turned on this matter for an hour or more and in the early hours of the morning found herself at her desk. It was cold in the night. The heating had long since gone off and Sam wrapped her fluffy dressing gown around her and hugged her knees up to her chest. She had a pile of forces’ blueys in her desk drawer just waiting for an excuse to be used. She picked one out and began to write.

Dear Andy,

I am not sure how to respond to your request, but thank you for thinking of me and taking the time to write. It seems strange to be writing to someone I barely know. I don’t even know what to say. What could I tell you that you might be interested in? I’m afraid that us writing would never really work, but keep safe and thank you again.

Sam.

The next day she posted it and then worried that she had done the wrong thing. She had assumed it was all over but just under a week later Sam received a second envelope.

Dear Sam,

Thank you so much for writing back. I know you feel uneasy about this and I can understand that. I am glad, though, that you did. We know little about each other, it is true, but are we not all strangers when first we meet? As for what to say? Say anything. Just to hear a kind voice and to know that somebody is thinking about you matters so much out here. Tell me about your day. Tell me about things you like doing and things you don’t. Tell me about yourself and soon we will no longer be strangers. Shall I go first?

My name is Andy Garrington. I am 28 and a sergeant in B Company, 9 Rifles. I am not married and have no kids. I was born in Surrey, where my parents still live. I studied English at Bristol University, before joining the lower ranks of the army at 22, much to my father’s disappointment – he would have had me in officer training – but there we had to disagree.

Likes? – Fish and chips/ rock-climbing/ marmite/ kayaking/ loyalty and the colour red.

Dislikes? – Horoscopes/ dishonesty/ Facebook/ moaners/ gherkins and Sellotape.

So there you have it. Now you know everything there is to know about me. I doubt you have any bizarre idiosyncrasies that could compete with mine. You’re probably far more together and self-assured.

Yours,

Andy

Sam felt a quiver of excitement ripple through her, like a schoolgirl with a new boyfriend, a new boyfriend she couldn’t tell anyone about. She reminded herself that he was not actually her boyfriend, merely a pen pal that she was writing to while she waited to hear where she stood with Dean. She pulled out a fresh bluey from her drawer and poised over it for a minute, deciding what to say, and then she put pen to paper.

Dear Andy,

Thank you for your letter. It certainly made me smile. So you think I have no little foibles of my own, do you? Well, you’re in for a surprise. After this you may well decide to go and join Dean at his remote check post just to escape. I hope you’re sitting comfortably, because this may take some time!

You know my name – Samantha Litton – but the secret I have been burdened with all my life is a hideous middle name (Gayle!!!) Tell a soul and I will have you shot! This must never be referred to again. It’s an old family name and I hate it. I am 24 years old, 25 next week and as you probably know, a teacher. I teach six to seven year olds at a local school, which has its moments, I can tell you. You may do battle with the Taliban on a daily basis, but until you have faced-down a class full of riotous six year olds you know nothing of torture! (I’m joking. I can’t imagine what you are going through over there. If it is something you feel able to talk about I would like to try and understand if I can.)

Anyway. I’m currently back living with Mum and Dad, but am searching for a place of my own. One looked promising the other day, but when we went round to look at it, it was falling to bits. Oh well. Soon, maybe.

So, as for idiosyncrasies? Well it may be difficult to beat Sellotape - ??? You’re going to have to explain that one.

Likes? - Music - particularly Dido and Stevie Nicks (blame my Mum), singing in the shower, Humphrey (my wonderful little Westie), Marmite, of course, fresh linen and summer days.

Dislikes? – Drunk people (they scare me) and bagpipes – surely that has to count as bizarre?

Over here the days are getting warmer and the gardens and parks are looking lovely.

Are you still there, or have you run away? If I don’t hear back again I’ll know the verdict.

All the best,

Sam.

PS Do you have a middle name that can be spoken of?

Sam folded up the big blue page stuffed with writing and hurried off to the post box at the end of the road to send it.

On Sam’s birthday the girls met up at Kate’s house to go ice-skating. They packed into Chloe’s red Polo and drove off to the edge of town. Inside it was chilly. They strapped themselves into the uncomfortable boots and tottered over to the gate. At first they were all a bit unsteady. It had been a while since they had stepped out onto the ice. Sam and Kate held onto the edge on their first time round, but a few circuits in, they were finding their balance, some more than others, and they began to glide around with not too many bumps and scrapes.

After forty minutes they came sailing off for a drink at the side. They clomped across the rubber mats to the café at the end of the rink and sat down. Sam was enjoying herself immensely and had a big smile on her face.

“You seem unnaturally happy tonight,” Chloe said. “Have you won the lottery, or something?”

Sam shook her head. “No. I’m just having fun. It is my birthday.”

Kate looked at Sam. “No. She’s right. There’s something else. You’re not normally this chirpy.”

“Are you saying I’m normally a miserable cow? Thanks very much, guys.”

Kate licked her lips and looked at Sam. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”

Sam didn’t say a word.

“You haven’t finally heard from Dean, have you?”

Sam shook her head. “No.”

The girls waited to see if Sam would spill. They watched her face in silence.

Sam felt the weight of expectation on her. She was desperate to tell them all about Andy, but what would they think? Surely she was being a complete bitch? Or was she doing the right thing? She hesitated on the brink of speaking for many moments and then she cracked. She pulled a pained face. “There is somebody.”

“Go girl! I never thought you had it in you.” Kate said, loudly.

“What about Dean?” Chloe asked.

“Oh bugger Dean,” Kate shot in, “he’s been crap anyway. Tell me everything.” Her eyes shone with excitement.

Sam took a deep breath and told them about the letter. Both girls agreed it was odd, but after a quick recap through Dean’s lack of boyfriend-like communication even before he left, they quickly lost interest in the moral dilemma and wanted to know about Sam’s new man.

When Sam told them the name of the other guy Kate sat back in her chair. She nodded in understanding. “Yep,” she said.

“What do you mean, ‘yep’?” Sam asked.

“Oh you have to have seen that coming? Not the disappearance of Dean, I mean, but Andy.”

Sam and Chloe looked puzzled.

Kate sighed and leaned forward on the table.

“Why did I say I walked out of the date we had a few months back?”

Sam wracked her brains. “It was something to do with your mum, wasn’t it? No, wait, you thought he liked me more than you, didn’t you? But-”

Kate was shaking her head impatiently. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you. I told you. Andy, that is. I might as well have turned up butt-naked with ‘shag me witless’ tattooed across my arse. He wouldn’t have noticed.”

Sam was stunned. Her mouth fell open. “Do you think I should stop writing to him?”

“Hell no! He’s a hot guy who’s actually paying some attention to you, instead of leading you a merry dance. Don’t you dare stop writing to him.”

“But what about Dean? He is still my boyfriend, technically. And what if he is stuck out somewhere where he can’t write to me?”

“He may not be able to get online, but I seriously doubt he can’t do anything.”

“What’s he like then, this new chap?” Chloe asked.

Sam’s heart fluttered and her eyes lit up. “I don’t know. But I get this feeling about him that I can’t explain. He’s nice.” She smiled despite herself.

“Nice is good. It makes a change for you.”

Sam gave Chloe an offended look. “Yeah, all right. I know. I’m rubbish when it comes to men.”

The girls nodded. “But this one is nice?” Chloe asked, “and hot?”

Kate nodded. “Oh yeah.”

“So? What else?”

Sam told them most of what she knew about Andy from the two letters she had received and the girls did their best to allay the guilt she was harbouring about the way she was feeling about him.

“My mum said that in other wars, girls wrote to soldiers on the front line as a sort of morale thing” Sam said.

Kate grinned. “You don’t want to ask your fella to get me a hunky soldier to write to, do you, Sam?”

“And me,” said Chloe. “Ooh, you could be the forces matchmaker.”

“Tell you what Chlo’, let’s go back to my place and take some fab pictures of us and then Sam can send them out to her fella and get us a couple of gorgeous guys to write to.” She turned to Sam. “We don’t have to actually physically write to them, do we?”

“No. I think you can do it online. I looked into it when Dean first went out there.”

“What do you think, Chlo? Are you up for it?”

“Absolutely! Right, I think that’s enough exercise for me for one week.”

The girls clambered their way down to the boot kiosk and released their aching feet. With their faces rosy from exercise and their eyes bright with excitement, the girls laughed and joked as they walked back to the car and, picking up a burger on the way, they hurried home to get the ball rolling.

Sam sat on Kate’s bed while the other two got ready. She wondered how their plan was going to work. “You know he may not know any single guys for you to write to,” she warned them.

“Course he will,” Kate said. “Who wouldn’t want a bit of this?” She pulled a sexy pose. Sam rolled her eyes. “Just tell him to get me one with big muscles, all right? And preferably, this time, someone who’s not madly in love with you.”

“He is not!” Sam protested.

“Yeah? Well, we’ll see. Muscles, remember.”

“I’m not guaranteeing anything,” Sam said, amused at the silly way her two friends were acting that night. “Smile.” Sam took some shots. “You’re both barking mad. You’re loons.”

A couple of days later the welcome blue post dropped onto the mat again after Sam had arrived home from a stressful day at school. Parents’ evening was coming up and there was a lot of paperwork to see to before she was ready. She had spent half the afternoon trying to get the classroom in order, but what with Jimmy’s gluing calamity and Rochelle, the new girl in class, in a state over wetting herself on her first day in school it was a bit of an uphill struggle. It was almost five o’clock before she got home. As soon as she took off her bike helmet she saw it there. It was lying on the dresser, just inside the kitchen door. Sam smiled. She hurried inside and grabbed the letter, calling out a greeting to her mum as she swept in and out again and off up to her room. She ignored the whimpering of Humphrey at the bottom of the stairs, wanting to be carried up, and raced up the stairs to open the letter. It was long.

Dear Sam,

Happy Birthday!

I hope you have a wonderful day. It was so good to hear from you. Life here is pretty basic. I seem to spend half my time out and about getting covered in mud and dirt and the other half trying to wash it off again. Why is there never a Hotpoint around when you need one? I tell you, you wouldn’t want to sing in our showers – you wouldn’t reach the end of the first chorus and the water would have run out. Although I have no objection to you trying if you should feel so inclined.

What do we do out here? Well much of our task these days is diplomacy. We still have to patrol contentious areas like schools and clinics and keep roads clear for safe access, but more and more there is a limit on what we can actually do and more emphasis on assisting the local forces. Which I guess is how it will have to be if we are ever going to get out of here, but it’s a little frustrating for the men. There has been far less contact with the Taliban than the last time I was out here, which has its pros and cons. At least in a face-to-face fight you know who your enemy is.

Try not to worry; we don’t have it too bad out here. We have a laugh when we can. Anyway, enough seriousness. Back to those peculiar foibles of yours!!! I’m shocked. I thought you were a normal girl!?!

I promise never ever to mention the middle name (although I fail to see why it’s so bad?) and in compensation for this spectacular show of faith I will also admit to one thing the guys must never, EVER find out about me: I am a big fan of bird watching. There, I’ve said it, I’m a twitcher, but if you speak a word of this to anyone else, I will have to shoot you!

So, bagpipes, huh? We’ll get back to that one later.

Sam turned over the page.

Okay… the Sellotape… I was badly traumatised as a child by a mother who wrapped every exciting present I ever had with rolls and rolls of Sellotape, leaving not a single edge to help me in my quest to get to the prize beneath. I’m still having counselling about that one. As for middle names? No. Not one that can be mentioned.

Write soon, with photos.

Andy

Sam picked up the photos that had dropped out of the letter. She looked at them. The first one was of Andy with the lads standing in T-shirts and combats, posing in front of a mud wall and the other was of Andy by himself. Sam gazed at the photo. Yes, that’s what he looked like. He was gorgeous. Why hadn’t she noticed before? He was lean, his arms were well muscled, his hair was dark, almost black and his eyes were…she couldn’t tell what colour, and he had a kind smile. She gently stroked the picture and bit her bottom lip. He reminded her a little of someone, but she couldn’t think who.

Sam placed the photo at the back of her desk, facing her and looked at the other. She flipped it over. ‘The lads,’ it said. Underneath, in small writing, Andy had written the names of all the soldiers in the picture. ‘Spike, Miller, Harding, Lofty, Zippo, Baker, Evans and Me. And the one in the background unaware he was being photographed is Lt Durbin’. Sam looked closely and noticed the tiny figure at the back that looked like he was picking his nose. She laughed and placed the second picture alongside the first.

She wrote straight back.

Dear Andy,

I was so sad to hear about your tragic childhood. I hope the therapy is doing some good. Sorry to disappoint on the ‘normal’ front, but at least we will always have Marmite! As for our feathered friends? Your secret is safe with me.

I am enclosing photos of two of my best friends. Kate is the blonde one. She is also 24. She’s bubbly and always popular with the boys. Chloe is the one with dark hair. She’s 21 and the more reserved of the two, although the photos may suggest otherwise. The point is they are currently without boyfriends and were wondering if there were any nice single guys out there who would like to write to them. Oh yes, and Kate requested someone with big muscles. I’m sorry, you can’t take her anywhere. Do you think you could help?

Surely any middle name you could come up with couldn’t be worse than mine? I’m intrigued. What are we talking about here? Bartholomew? Alfred? Lesley?

Thank you for your photos. They are up on my desk, looking at me as I write.

What are the children like out there? Are they very different from over here?

What do you miss when you are away?

Write soon,

Love, Sam

Sam looked at the ending: Love Sam. Should she have put that? Was that too much? He might just see it as friendly. She drummed her fingers on the desk. Her stomach tightened and she folded up the letter and walked it down to the post box already anxious about the reply.