8 That's Veterans for You

I looked into a cab-fare all the way to the South Coast. I could have bought a car for the money they wanted just for one way. I can't drive. Well, I used to be able to, but not any more. The coach trips to Eastbourne and Hove didn't start until May, besides who wanted to be stopping at the service station every two hours? And I'd have been the youngest tripper on board.

The next day, I sent a text to the number he'd called from, his answer was 'OK'. Two days after the 'phone call, I went down to Sussex on the train. At least some of the time. There was a five mile bus-ride at the start and a bus-replacement service between Newark and Peterborough, which somehow made unscheduled stops that the train it replaced wouldn't have done. It wasn't too bad after that. The walk from King's Cross to St Pancras International took a bit longer through that day's demo, whatever it was about. Seven-and-a-half hours after leaving home, at five in the evening, I was ringing the bell at Satis House.

To no answer.

It was an Edwardian building, sandstone, situated in its own grounds. A drive led to the rear of the property. If there was as much space behind as there was at the front, there would be around 2 acres. There were benches sited at various junctions of tired looking tarmacadam paths between shrubs and greenery and the odd flower bed. All of these looked as though the gardener was on annual leave and no one was filling in while they were away.

I took a walk around to the back. There had been a lot of unsympathetic extension-building and it was clear the building wasn't listed. Nor was there another acre. Two people – a woman around 40 and a man still just about young enough to be her son – were standing outside, smoking beside a sand-filled bucket. It was a faded red colour and the grey-black shapes painted on it had once read 'FIRE'.

'I'm here to visit someone. There's no answer round the front.'

The man looked to the woman and shrugged.

'My fault. I should be inside where I can hear the bell.' She was wearing rubber gloves and a cleaner's overall.

'They let you wear those on the desk?' I tried not to sound too surprised.

'I take them off when I'm not cleaning toilets. Staff shortages. Who are you here to see?'

'WO2 Dee, retired.'

'They're all retired here, aren't they?'

'I suppose,' I said.
She flicked her cigarette butt into the fire-bucket, jerked her head at her colleague and said 'C'mon, Shkodran.'

'You too.' she added, after waiting just long enough to make sure I knew I was being done a favour.
We walked through the kitchen. It was probably big enough for a small seaside hotel, maybe that's what the building had been, once upon a time. The receptionist gave Shkodron her rubber gloves and he headed for the industrial-sized dishwasher. Then she took a badge out of her pocket and pinned it to the nylon overall's lapel. It read Margarita Gegprifti. We walked past a dining room and a corridor with further doors leading off it, most likely to rooms for those residents no longer capable of living above the ground floor.

Reception looked like it hadn't changed much since the building's hotel days. There was a rack for pigeon-holing residents' mail. It didn't look like they got much but circulars and other bumph, but then who did? An ancient PC with a cuboid monitor was emitting a dynamo hum that was more than drowned out by the hard drive's noise the minute Margarita moved the mouse.
'So what is your name?'

I told her.

Despite the PC, she held a BiC biro and a notepad. 'I'll put it in later, when this thing finally wakes up.' She wrote down my name. 'Address?' I gave her the address of an agent who'd once told me I'd never get published, not if she could help it anyway.
'Mr Dee hasn't been here long, but he's on the ground floor. So he might not be staying very long either… Do you have identification? I know you British are funny about carrying it, but anything will do. Even a library card. I just have to check all visitors.' She rolled her eyes.

I showed her my veteran's ID card. That and knowing a restaurant's owner might get you a discount on the last remaining portion of the daily special, but she was happy enough.

'Mr Dee is in room 13, it's the first on the right off the corridor. Will you be long?' The computer made the despairing sound of an involuntary reboot.
'I'm not sure.'

'He hasn't had any visitors, not since he's been here. Unusual not to get family. At least at first.'

She looked down at the notepad. 'I finish at 9.'

'That's nice.' I said, and headed off to Room 13.

I couldn't remember if he had been married or not, when I knew him. Most likely he had been - and divorced - since. Maybe more than once. I knew next to nothing about him. It was the same for all of us, during my time at Garats Hay. It was, then, a leafy outpost in the Leicestershire countryside; mostly dedicated to Y services training. Languages and Wireless Operation. Tri-Services under instruction, run by the Army. It was tiny. The Officers' Mess had been, like many old country houses, a Wireless Intercept Station during WWII. I was there for just over a year. As long as he wasn't ga-ga, Dave would still remember me, as I would him. That's veterans for you.