Paul McCartney's Coat Page 21

  “How did it happen?” I asked. It was the only thing I could think of to say.

  “Oh, pretty much the usual.” he said and he seemed to half drift away, as if he was daring himself to remember. “Bloody Germans. Three sodding months short of the end of the war. No VE parade for me. I was too busy pissing into a little tin bucket on a hospital ward up Durham way.” He chuckled. “Still. It was a very long time ago.”

  I nodded at him and he slumped slightly in his seat, staring at the floor, lost in his memories. I left him to it. Truth is I felt more than a little guilty. I had jumped the gun a bit. Mind you, that was typical of how I am these days. Always quick to take offence. The medical discharge unit said I needed to confront my anger issues. Cleaning up a bit what I actually said in reply, I can tell you that I told them that all I wanted was my leg back, and since that didn’t look very likely I was perfectly entitled to be angry. So they strapped this bloody metal thing to me. I wore it as if it was a flag. Or a warning. I don’t know. I just wore it, though sometimes in the early hours of the morning I thought that perhaps it wore me, and not the other way around.

  “It’s hard to come to terms with, isn’t it?” said John, and I nodded. “You don’t want it to define who you are, but somehow it does. I think if anything you have to let yourself come to terms with it, before it becomes who you are.” He frowned, almost apologetically. “If that makes sense?” he asked. I thought that it looked as if he was reading my mind, and that it was probably the most bloody sensible thing I’d heard in the last year, and told him so. He smiled at that and we both went silent for a time. The sun continued to stream through the dusty windows and I began to sip, rather than sup, my pint again.

  “Though if I were you I wouldn’t take to exposing it all the time like that.” he paused as he saw my face darkening a little once again. “Must be bloody freezing in the winter.” he finished and I almost went to remind him that it didn’t actually have any feeling at all before I noticed him laughing quietly. I felt like a fool then and joined in. It felt so good, did that.

  “I’ll have that pint now, if you’re still offering.” I said, draining my glass.

  “Billy!” shouted John who returned back to the bar relatively quickly this time. “A pint of bitter for my friend here.” he said, “And half of mild for me. Tell you what. To hell with it. Make it a pint.” The drinks were poured and John put mine on the table in front of me before returning to his bar stool.

  The next hour or so was spent covering the usual things that ex-army people would cover. The regiments, the postings, the food. All of the normal stuff. We were both sipping now, and for while I forgot all about the leg. That is how I referred to it in my mind. “The Leg.” As if that kind of bundled all of the issues I had with it into one unhappy little place. Slowly it wormed itself back into my mind, though. It always does.

  “How do you learn to cope with people looking at it?” I asked, and John nodded.

  “I was joking before, son.” he said, “But you’ve no need to wear it open like that. Cover it up for a start.”

  “People will still know, though.” I said. “Even with the stick it’s one hell of a limp!”

  “Exactly.” he said. “But people don’t stare at a limp. It’s not doing you any favours. Put the scissors away. It will help.”

  I nodded, unconvinced. “What do you think people think when they stare at you?” I asked. I, of course, already had my answer, but John wasn’t letting me off the hook so easily.

  “What do you think they think?” he asked, and his eyes widened slightly, eager for a response.

  “Uhm.” I pondered. “Disgust. Sympathy. Horror.” I spat each word out slowly, completing the same old mantra that seemed to have settled like a clot in my brain. John nodded at each word and we sat in silence for a moment. A car drove past the pub, its stereo playing loudly. The sound of guitars filled the air faintly as the car continued on its journey then faded.

  “Yes.” said John, nodding. “Anything else?”

  I searched for a plus point. “I think the kids think it’s pretty cool.” I said and John roared laughing.

  “They do, don’t they?” he coughed. “Little beggars. My grandkids used to ask if they could go and visit their robot granddad John.” We both laughed. John paused to consider. Finishing his pint he put his empty glass down on the bar.

  “Another?” I asked, and John shook his head.

  “I’ve had more than enough for today already. Anymore and I’d be unsteady on my legs!” he finished and tapped his artificial leg comically. “Or leg, that is.” we both laughed and John stood from his bar stool and came to sit on the stool across the table from me.

  “What about respect?” he said. “Do you think they think of respect?” I laughed.

  “Respect?” I snorted. “I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone looks at what is left of my leg and thinks of respect. No way. Hang on a minute.” I paused, making a show of looking up in the air as if thinking. “There you go. I’ve just thought of another one. Pity.” I slammed my open palm on the table. I was getting annoyed again.

  “I mean it.” said John. “Respect is a funny thing. It’s something that you don’t go looking for but it can arrive from almost anywhere completely unexpected.” He noticed the look of anger on my face. “You can’t buy respect. You earn it.” he paused as I sat there seething. “It’s not easy to spot either. Look at it this way.” he said, turning slightly so he was completely facing me. “Happy.” he said and gave a big stupid grin. Involuntarily I grinned right back at him. “Sad.” he said and the corners of his mouth turned downwards as if he was a clown. I smiled. “But what does respect look like?” he asked. He pulled a few faces. I made out the mime for “thinking” and “angry” and maybe “drunk” but that was all.

  “Did you spot it?” said the old soldier. I had to admit I hadn’t. “Well, that’s my point.” he finished. “Respect is so hard to spot. I just think you’re not recognising it. That’s your problem. Not that.” he said, and pointed to my leg.

  I bowed my head. Then he surprised me. ”I know what respect looks like, son. I’ve known what it looks like for a long time. Probably longer than you’ve been born. And it can come from the most unlikely place, that’s for sure.” he paused, and I leaned in closer to him, waiting.

  “That’s what respect looks like, son.” he said, and he tapped my foot lightly once.

  I felt a tear form at the corner of my eye and mumbled something about needing the toilet. Rushing in I took a few minutes to gather myself before I could face him once more. After a while I felt up to it and re-entered the bar.

  Which was empty.

  A great feeling of disappointment overcame me and I half limped, half ran to the door that led outside to the pavement and yanked it open, looking both ways up and down the street. Nothing. Feeling a strange mixture of both loss and frustration I returned to the last dregs of my pint. I was not ready to go home just yet. I had a lot of hard thinking to do. I’d have another half. Maybe a pint. So I crossed the room once again and was about to yell for Billy when I noticed John’s newspaper still on the bar where he had left it. Glancing casually at it I could see that it was not open at a crossword page as I had first thought at all, but was instead open at a small news article which had been ringed hastily but carefully in Biro. The crossword on the page was actually completely untouched.

  Picking the paper up I read what had been circled. “World war two veteran auctions medals” was the headline. “World War Two veteran John Stanley auctioned his Victoria Cross medal today.” it continued. I felt my heart sink. I sat down on the bar stool as I read. “Mr Stanley won the medal for exceptional valour on the field of battle in the closing months of the second world war. Events took a mysterious turn during the auction however when the winning bidder, paying some fifty four thousand pounds for the medal put one simple condition on the winning bid. The contractual clause was that the medals were to remain with John; despite t
he bidder paying over fifty thousand pounds for them. The anonymous buyer communicated via the auction house a simple message that stated that the bid was made as a sign of respect for all soldiers who had fought in the war. John is quoted as saying that he was absolutely astounded at the generosity of the purchaser and felt that...

  I stopped reading there. Respect. Such a strange thing. Easily defined but difficult to spot, and so I sat there in the bright sunlight shining through the windows, yet again a tear in my eye. It’s funny how life is isn’t it? Something can happen for absolutely no reason at all. Something that changes your life, and for once I’m not on about my leg. Well, not directly. Perhaps, for once, I was thinking about the future.

  "Nec Aspera Terrent" I whispered to the empty bar. "Nec Aspera Terrent.”.

  Author’s Note

  Having merged from several regiments in 2006, both the King’s Regiment and the Duke of Lancashire’s Regiment share the same regimental motto, "Nec Aspera Terrent”. Although the Latin is difficult to translate exactly, the common meaning is universally referred to as, “By difficulties undaunted” or more popularly, “Difficulties be damned”.

  The Strange Case of the Toff’s Policeman

  And the Curious Elm.

  “...And the police officers who were members of the Parks Police were often referred to as, “The Toff’s Police” because of the beautiful surroundings that was their beat.” I paused for a moment, letting this piece of trivia sink in before bringing the talk to a close. I could see that some of the younger children at the back of the group were getting fidgety now, eager to be off playing across the fields and in the trees. Who could blame them?

  “And so ladies and gentlemen that concludes our talk in the park for the day. Thank you for attending and if you have any questions please feel free to ask. I will be available for a few minutes in the visitors centre if you need anything. Thank you once again.”

  With this the crowd began to disperse and I dutifully answered several questions about the park and then I was done. As it was a bright summer’s day I decided to stroll through the trees on my way back to the car, passing the Palm House on my way. I must say that as a part-time tourist guide for the council I wasn’t the highest paid member of staff, but on the other hand I found the surroundings and the history to more than compensate for that! Add to that the fact that this park ran in the family, as it were. My great great grandfather was one of the Park Policemen here, in Sefton Park, though of course things have changed with the times quite a bit. No Park police now, not since 1972. No, all security is down to the private sector, and times have most definitely moved on. You can even get married in the Palm House! Still, at least this beautiful building is no longer derelict, as it was until relatively recently. Even the statue of Peter Pan has been back for a few years now

  I got in the car and returned home. It was by now late afternoon and I took the opportunity to settle in the garden under the shade of the beech tree there and brought out my ancestors journal to look through again. I had found it to be quite quaint when it had been passed down to me by my mother upon her death as I swear that I had never seen it before then. As far I was aware it had not even been mentioned. Here it was though, the old battered hardback cover revealing just one faded word, “Journal” upon the front in thin, spidery letters. The writing inside was equally ornate, and I had found it to be almost entirely undecipherable at first, though I was much better at reading it now, becoming stuck only every now and then on a certain word or phrase.

  The hand writing seemed to vary from entry to entry as well, as if some notes had been hastily written, whilst others were more flowing and obviously jotted down with more leisure. Although ostensibly a diary it detailed the day to day life of my great grandfather’s job as a Park Policeman in Sefton Park. There were very few dates in the journal surprisingly, as it seemed to span several years. “Journal” therefore would seem a much more accurate description of the book than a diary. The first page however did reveal a date that may or may not have had August as the month, but the year was indistinct and faded. After that no dates were entered at all, most new underlined sections just showing a particular day of the week. I had read parts of it before, of course, but never all of it. I had recently resolved to rectify this and was now concentrating on getting further into it than I had on previous occasions.

  I found it quite funny as well, the formal, well written script, the rough but well-made paper, even the binding on the book, which contrasted completely with some of my great great grandfather’s turns of phrase that could be... let us say, most definitely written by the hand of a serving police officer, as well as being not terribly politically correct, and leave it at that. Taking a sip of my drink I settled down to read.

  ***

  “Tuesday.

  This is a big, big park.

  There’s nobody more aware of that than I am. Although there are more or less sixty constables in the Liverpool Parks Police force, there are more parks than Sefton to look after. We cover the bloody lot! At any one time there are probably about twenty of us in Sefton Park to watch over two hundred and bloody fifty four acres or so I’m told, though don’t get me wrong, I’ve never actually counted them! Not that I am complaining, of course. Not at all. I know a bit of luck when I see it, for sure. When most of my mates are off getting in the pen for work on the dock I am strolling around these open fields, keeping an eye on things, doffing my cap to all the nannies as they push their perambulators around the lake, taking in the fresh air. I am a lucky man! There isn’t a day goes by when I don’t count my blessings. So not a word in complaint from me. Nope, I am a proper Toff’s policeman. Well, that’s what the “real” police call us, but our jobs can be just as bleak and dangerous. Especially if you find yourself on a night shift. All of the first aid training comes in handy, too. There’s a lot of water and trees in the parks, you see, and plenty of children to fall foul of them too!

  On this day the work boys were planting some new flowers down by the Palm House. Bright purples and reds they were. Quite glorious. I stopped to have a chat with them for a while, getting all the news and stories of what they and their mates were up to. Just before lunch there was a bit of commotion as one of the nannies had misplaced a child’s shoe. Re-tracing her steps we were glad to find that someone had kindly laced it on a branch hanging over the path. So all ended well there and I was off on my rounds again once lunch was over. It was egg on a sandwich today. Very tasty. By mid-afternoon the only incident brought to my attention was when I had to discipline a few young lads who had taken it upon themselves to go climbing up one of the trees. A quick cuff across the back of their heads and they were gone, though I did hear them calling names to me once they were a safe distance away. Cheeky beggars!

  With all of this out of the way I set off towards the lake. I thought that I would cast my eyes over any anglers that might be there and make sure all of their permits were up to date. As it turned out however, as I approached the lake I could only make out three of them there today, with one of them placed on the opposite bank. It would take a bit of a walk to get all of the way round, but I carried on. After my checks I found that all of the permits were in order, even if they were turned over in a somewhat reluctant manner. Moving on I approached the Livingstone entrance where it leads out on to Aigburth road. Noting nothing out of the ordinary I circumnavigated the sports field and decided to head back towards the Palm House to see how the lads were getting on with the planting of the flower beds. Off to one side of the path I could see the autumn leaves falling from the trees massed across that way.

  Autumn really is a most spectacularly melancholic time, is it not? The leaves were like a carpet on the grass. Reds, yellows and gold, and all of the colours in between. For autumn it really was a quite mild day, but as I stopped to take in this marvellous sight a cold breeze blew across the park and rattled through the trees. A cascade of leaves fell from the partially barren branches and fell to the ground. A wea
k shiver rose across my back. It would be time for a sturdier coat soon! You most certainly would not want to get caught in inadequate clothing with a full day’s work ahead of you in the middle of the park. I paused to adjust my helmet and continued on my way. Already it was beginning to get dark. I cursed under my breath. The shorter days of winter were fast approaching, and I rued the cold and rain that were surely soon to arrive.

  The last duty of the day was to ensure that all of the sheds, buildings and out-houses were locked up and secured for the night. This took some time and a fair old bit of walking too! Still, I got about it and was soon heading away from the Palm House towards the lake once again, though this time I would not be going around it, but leaving past the wooded area off to my left. The lads had of course finished up by now and I checked the locks on the sheds where their tools were stashed, and made off to follow the route homeward. As sunset approached the park gates were, as usual, to be locked and my duty on this particular day was at the Lodge Lane end. I particularly enjoyed locking up these large ornate gates. It was quite a show! Not everyone knew it of course, but the large columns of the gates were actually from Saint George’s Hall in the town centre. They had been removed when they put the organ in and somehow or another they had ended up here. Anyway, the circumference of the park was of course far too large for one man to lock up on his own and so each of us would take turns to lock up a particular gate. We would sometimes swap though, if one gate was nearer to one man’s route home than another. The Lodge Lane end was therefore usually “my” gate to lock.

  I find it a strange place to be at sunset. Any person hurrying to the park exits before the gates were locked would find themselves sometimes straying from the path and cutting across the fields and even through the woods to avoid getting locked in. The park was surrounded by railings and although some of them, but not all, would not be too difficult to scale, it would be a matter of some inconvenience, no doubt. Of course the park did have officers on duty during the night to prevent mischief if nothing else, though it would usually appear to be the case that escorting courting couples out of the park was as bad as it would get. Several of the wealthier families in houses that surrounded the park did of course have access to the park after sunset, for which they paid an annual bursary. This would provide them with a special key that would open any of the park gates. It was not often needed for, as I have said, usually their houses backed on to the park anyway. Nevertheless from time to time we had to discretely lock the gates that one of the toffs had forgotten to close behind them.