The Angel of Mons - Chapter twenty-one

Twenty-one

George looked at the picture of Liz and Peter every night and smiled. He felt as though he were nearing the end of a long enforced journey. He looked forward to when they were to be reunited and knew then that he would be at peace. Still burning inside him though was a sense of something undone. A task nagging in his mind, haunting almost.
Two days earlier George had driven through the cold silver grey fog to the town. He parked had the car by the market and watched the seemingly trouble free crowd as they bustled around. Young women with their children. He wondered what lay ahead for them. Would they live in carefree peace, be allowed to mix their cultures with other nations. Would they become a generation of poets and artists concerned with the trivia of love, or like him would they be cogs in a machine capable of anything.
He tugged gently on Bully’s lead and they crossed the busy London road and stepped into a brightly lit office reception area that smelt of paper, polish and cigarette smoke. George announced his arrival to a young woman at the desk, who looked down her pointed nose at him. “You will have to leave,” she paused for effect and shook her head, “that,” she said looking at Bully, “outside.”
“I will leave him in here, and you will lump it,” said George quietly.
Bully sat nonchalantly in the corner of the reception area, whimpering slightly as George was ushered into a wood panelled room. A young woman with a slim figure and a tight skirt brought him a cup of weak tea with milk, and in the company of Mr Brown a bald man of no emotion, no expression and no humour, George dedicated all that remained of his worldly goods to Joseph.
George struggled not to laugh when he noticed a rather large but none the less perfectly sculptured turd next to a brightly coloured flower pot in the corner of the reception. “Good boy Bulls-eye,” he said as they stepped back onto the busy street, “good boy.”
It had been a struggle, but his neighbours had managed to exchange contracts and complete within three weeks. And as a result of their efforts, it looked like they would be able to move before Christmas.
George had spent as much time as he could with Joseph. He had helped him draw and to make jigsaws, he had played him ‘The Planets,’ and records of classical guitar music, he had shown him the photographs of Peter and Liz and one of himself in his uniform. And he had watched him. He had sat for hours watching as the child chuffed his toy train, knocked down a wooden castle or stuck out his tongue as he concentrated on a simple sketch. George watched him as an art lover would examine a masterpiece, as a musician would wonder and the playing of a prodigy, as a father would his only child. And inside he felt a thick tingling weeping joy. Joy for the child and sadness for himself. He wondered if this was how a condemned man might feel. Knowing that soon the end would come, that there would be no reprieve, knowing that there was no future.
George had tried to prepare himself for the day, but it still came too soon, and he woke with a feeling of grief, almost betrayal. “Why couldn’t they have waited until I had gone,” he thought.
His hand trembled as pulled the curtain back in his room to unveil the dark December morning, the driving heavy rain and the grey removals van blocking what little light may otherwise have entered his life.
George dressed and spent the rest of the morning moving from his seat by the fire to the kitchen window. In his mind he could see the furniture being stripped away from the house, its life being drained and taken, its warmth allowed to escape into the cold winter day.
At two, the sound he had feared overwhelmed him. The bang and clatter of the tall metal doors of the truck as they were first closed and then secured. George stared into the flames of the fire but felt no warmth. His head was heavy on his shoulders and he subconsciously curled his grey hair around an extended index finger, his eyes were empty, his skin pale and his breathing was heavy and laboured.
At first, when there was a knock at the door, he simply ignored it. It was as if he had not heard it at all in spite of Bully jumping up and barking loudly. And then when he did react, his face remained empty. He looked bemused, almost as if he were drunk or somehow stunned. He limped slowly across the living room into the kitchen and swung the door open.
He looked down at, Joseph who stood in his school coat, his large dark eyes peering up from under the peak of his grey cap.
“We’re off now George. As soon as we have the phone installed, I will call you and let you know the number,” said Terri who spoke with an exaggerated tone like a poor actress struggling to overcome stage fright. George knelt and Joseph threw his arms around his neck. He could smell the child’s youth just as the boy could smell his old age.
George took a deep breath and gently unravelled the boy’s arms; he stood awkwardly and stretched his back. “I have something for you,” he said to Terri, looking deep into her eyes and smiling. Her shoulders lowered and she smiled back at him.
He led them into the living room and across to the desk. George handed Terri a leather bound book. “I wanted you to have this. It has no great value, but it is a first edition.” He smiled as she raised the book closed her eyes and gently subconsciously sniffed its old musty pages. She looked at the cover and her head turned slightly, she smiled and squinted, and looked at George. He smiled back at her, “I hope you don’t mind, but I signed it for you,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t know you were a writer,” she said as she gently flicked through the pages. “I will read it,” she whispered. “”The Angel of Mons,”” is that you George?” she asked, her tone seemed almost flirtatious, playful thought George.
“No,” he replied smiling and looking to the ceiling, “just someone I used to know,” he continued, as he gently placed his hand on Joseph’s head.