Kerry Hudson has previously worked as an Ear Piercing Technician, Christmas Elf and Fluorescent Tubing
Sales Person. In 2005 she decided she should use her ear piercing, caroling and sales skills for the power of
good and has since worked in the Not for Profit sector -- she now organizes fundraising events for a works
charity which benefits those affected by HIV and AIDS in the UK and internationally. Kerry writes short stories
and has been published in a number of online and print literary journals. She is 28 and lives in North London
-- in a pile of books and shoes called home -- with her beautiful partner Susanna.
Sales Person. In 2005 she decided she should use her ear piercing, caroling and sales skills for the power of
good and has since worked in the Not for Profit sector -- she now organizes fundraising events for a works
charity which benefits those affected by HIV and AIDS in the UK and internationally. Kerry writes short stories
and has been published in a number of online and print literary journals. She is 28 and lives in North London
-- in a pile of books and shoes called home -- with her beautiful partner Susanna.
Workmen Welcome at Dixy Chicken
Sarah twisted her hair up into a band. Its soft, silky length folded around her fingers. I reached out for it.
"Just get off," she shrugged me away. "I don't know what you think this is but we're obviously under very different
impressions."
"Listen, Sarah I... "
"Forget it. I am too bloody tired. This isn't how I choose to live my life." She was pulling on her jeans, one leg in, one
leg out.
"If you want to that's fine, but I'm not." She turned and looked at me still wrapped in the duvet.
"I hope you find it's worth it." Then the door slammed and I was left with promises and protestations fermenting in my
mouth and the warmth of Sarah still on the sheets.
***
I can't say when I first found it difficult to find words when they were needed. My tongue stuck behind sharp teeth like
a hostage. Maybe while Ma and Dad argued. When I learned that a tongue, even one still coloured by orange squash,
could save or break precious things. Eventually, I used less and less until those important words died in my mouth
never seeing the light of day.
***
I sat in the cafe upstairs in the British Library and waited for the scrape of a zimmer-frame heralding four hours I would
never get back. Amid the well-bred murmurings and clank of teacups, I called Sarah's mobile for the fifth time. A small
bird beating against the cage of my ribs as I listened to the rings.
"Listen, I can't explain if you don't pick up. I'm sorry. It's not that I'm not serious. Please come over tonight Sarah.
Seven o'clock. We can talk. You should know you make me happy. In fact Sarah you should know that I think... "
"You must be Kathleen Muir from the University?" He wore a yellow short-sleeved shirt, khaki trousers and white, white
trainers. I flipped shut my phone.
"Alfred Barrows?" I reached out my hand. "Lovely to meet you. How did you guess it was me?"
"You have the look of a woman who's having to do something on a Saturday afternoon against her will."
I began to protest but he waved it away.
"Don't worry, at your age I had much better things to do too. And call me Archie, otherwise I feel like you're going to
charge me with something." Archie's voice was like coffee and tobacco, there was something rough beneath the
carefully clipped consonants, a Navvies voice in civvies.
"Cup of tea?" I asked nervous, ingratiating.
"I'd say so, yes. Best thing in this heat you know."
He settled on the chair straight backed and impassive. Hands folded over each other on the table. From my place in the
queue I looked at the impression of his elderly silhouette against the afternoon sun.
His head was the hand span of a shiny globe. It looked like it had been polished vigorously, to the bone. He had a
neatly trimmed "Abraham Lincoln" beard and shoulders that were still broad. They were nod to the strong man he
would have once been but now they cried out the vulnerability of the rest of his frame. Bones jutting, skin drooping. A
tissue and paper straw sculpture. Warning: do not leave this man out in rain. His round nose bloomed red at its tip. I
had read once that ears and noses start growing again in later life so couldn't be sure this was the man he was or the
spread of years plumping the skin.
"Sorry no scones, I got a biscuit. Is that ok?"
"That's perfect thank you. I brought something I thought might interest you." He pulled out a much creased
photograph. "I was 17 when that was taken at the Base." He sized up the sultana shortbread.
"Never recovered from the wartime privations of sugar you know. Used to mix up my morning porridge and jam, wait
for it to set and then keep slices in my tunic pockets. Tasted bloody awful, pardon my French." His mouth was full of
half chewed biscuit. "But I always was a food panicker."
The photo lay on the table between us. A shy-looking, squint-eyed boy with the same impressive nose. I took my
Dictaphone and put it on the table.
"Very handsome photo. Do you mind me recording?"
"Not at all, love. As long as you don't mind if I have a nip with my tea." He pulled out a half bottle of Captain Morgan's.
"Another war habit I'm afraid. Never shook it."
"Oh, no, no problem at all." I gave my best Girl Guide smile. "Now, you'll be aware this is a community writing project
the idea behind it is seeing how younger people interpret veteran's stories. It's just a chat, so no need to be nervous,
but I do have some questions prepared."
He looked up from capping his Captain Morgan's.
"I'm sure there isn't any need to be nervous -- unless you are going to speak to me like a Sunday School Teacher for
the rest of the afternoon." Mortified, I opened my mouth to respond but for the second time that day words stayed in
my twisted, embarrassed abdomen. He smiled and put his big soft hand over mine.
"Fire away, love. I know you're just trying to do a good job."
"Sorry. Okay, so how old were you when you signed up and why?"
"I was sixteen and... "
"Sorry, I mean sorry to interrupt, but didn't you have to be eighteen to enlist?"
"Yes, but there was a war on, love. Checks weren't so good as to weed out lad with a bit about him. I forged my
fathers consent letter, got a lad in factory to do it. Easy enough, before I knew it I was at the Quartermaster Stores
being given half-mast trousers and the boots of a dead man."
I took a long breath.
"And at home? What did your family think?"
"Well you know, usual sort of thing. But I'd just gotten married to Elsie Burton when I'd turned sixteen. Early, even in
those days but I knew I was going to enlist."
"What was she like? I mean sixteen is young. Were you in love?"
"She was... handsome, that's what they'd call her back then, with a big warm heart and a big gaping trap she wasn't
afraid to use! Especially when she found out she was in the family way just before I was packed off."
He laughed and strip light reflected on his white dentures.
"And where were you stationed? What year was this?"
"1943, it was. I had been working in munitions factory in Ealing. Dull work -- I was ready for adventure. After I signed
up, I was trained to drive the B-Type busses; transporting troops to the Western Front. Sometimes I drove them back
and all, but not often."
"Sorry, B-Type busses?"
"Old, old omnibus double-deckers, that were shipped in when they ran out of proper military vehicles. They painted
them that grey green colour that everything was back then, no colour for almost 5 years it felt like during the war.
Bloody dangerous job driving one of them things I'll tell you. Stood out like a sore thumb. Double-decker busses!"
"Were you happy? I mean, I just mean, did you feel like you were having your adventure? Benefiting a noble cause."
"Kathleen -- do you mind if I call you Kathleen? I was sixteen. Truth is I didn't know what I was fighting for. It was grim
but it wasn't just me. You got through it. You lived or you died and didn't complain either way."
"I understand. It's not like there was post-traumatic stress back then."
"Exactly. What I did enjoy was... " He took a loose-lipped sip of tea and looked down at his hands.
"Go ahead."
"The other lads. Knowing you were you next meal away from being blown to smithereens was enough reason to be
good to each other. I mean you got the odd bully, higher rank usually, but mainly the mates I had there were the best I
ever found. True and decent, completely honest."
"A best friend?"
He looked up sharply, and his brown eyes, which had been years away until then, snapped against mine with a ferocity
that made me want to swallow back my words. He nodded and looked at his hands.
"Jimmy Dougan. He was twenty-one, so, older than me. Always a great laugh and pal. Looked out for me he did and
helped me write letters to Elsie; I wasn't one for reading and writing. We shared bunks at base for four months."
I knew the answer because I could see his expression reflected in his smooth, wide fingernails but somehow I found
myself asking the question regardless.
"Hit. Driving one of those flaming busses back. Bloody crime. It was only a week till he was going to be dispatched to
Paris -- it had just been liberated."
"I'm sorry." I said meaning it more than I could express.
He cleared his throat and then coughed, hacking in the way old men do into a grey handkerchief.
"Kathleen, it was the biggest tragedy of my war that a wonderful fella like Jimmy could be taken. For no reason at all
but he drove a bus that Tuesday, not someone else." His breathing was laboured and I tried hard to place his inference
but my mind was full, there was too much to untangle.
I picked up my teaspoon and stirred my cold coffee. I should have known this would happen, that my words would fall
short of what was needed. Still, I sat mutely cursing myself, watching his chest rise and fall. I am meant to be better
than this. Though the words had battered against my front teeth, they got no further.
Archie looked me over kindly, "Don't worry lovely. Lots of people don't know how to react. Back then you didn't. Full
stop. You just got on with it."
His kindness unstopped my words.
"Did you know many people who died?"
"Not including the poor saps who came in Omnibus to the front? I knew over twenty. Some factory lads, people from
Lambeth who you'd see about, like. Tony from the base and of course my pal, Jimmy."
I tried to imagine that much grief but Archie broke through my thoughts.
"Listen, I'm parched. My tea is cold. Is it breaking the rules to wet our whistle's?"
It took me a moment to realise what he meant. He flashed his dentures, grinned like a kid suggesting we skip school.
Fuck it. I needed a drink badly.
We went to a place around the corner, full of UCL sweatshirts drinking pints of snakebite bought with student loan
checks. Mine had just come through too but Archie waved me away from the bar and sent me to a sticky table in the
corner. If he felt uncomfortable with loud music, shrieking girls or pool table machismo he didn't show it. He made a
joke with the barmaid and gave a garrulous laugh. He looked more at home than me.
Drinks on the table, a pint of Guinness for him and half for me, blackcurrant sweetened with creamy foam the colour of
candyfloss.
"Is that ok? I know some women drink pints these day but... "
"No, no, it's grand. I haven't had Guinness and black since I was their age." I jerked my head over to the denim-skirted
students eye-linered to within an inch of their lives.
"Now let me just get my... " I rummaged in my bag.
"Hold on, hold on! I thought you said this was a chat? Nothing to be nervous about. Don't I get a go?" He pursed his
lips and nodded his head in parody.
"I do have some prepared questions." I laughed and wondered how it was possible to be so sharp at -- I did the maths
-- eighty-seven. Christ.
"Now how old are you Kathleen?"
"Me? Twenty-seven, this is my second time around degree."
"And you live in London?"
"Holloway Road, a house full of international students, it's like the United Nations if we have a party."
"Anyone special?"
I felt pink heat creeping up my neck.
"What? Oh, I see. There's something, but you know. It's unresolved."
He nodded. "Well, careful. They don't come along too often. Look at Jimmy."
That statement rolled around my mind, a heavy unruly ball bearing. When it came to a stop I knew I did not want to
deal with the implications and I took my Dictaphone out, smiling, nervous.
"Seriously Archie, I'll need more stories for the report. You'll get me shot by my tutor." Too late I realised my
insensitivity and felt my stomach plunge like a faulty lift.
"Oh my God, I'm so... " Archie put down his pint and howled his teeth clicking in a hazardous manner. He mimicked my
Scottish brogue.
"Oh, Archie tell me more about the war, or you'll get me shot!" I laughed, shame faced. Archie's laugh spurred me on
and we roared, heads bent to the table, tears seeping, Guinness' ignored.
***
Later, on the streets of Kings Cross, full of the rough smoky smell of a hot city, I laced my arm through Archie's, afraid
for his fragile frame on the busy streets.
"Over there." He pointed to a Dixy Fried Chicken shop.
"You want some chicken?" Christ, it was just like a student pub-crawl.
"No, that's where I came after the war. It's why I suggested we meet here. Third floor I was, but the whole place was
filled. We were squatters. Happened a lot after the war you know." I looked at the peeling white paint. Tried to imagine
the debris of war around it.
"You, Elsie and the baby? Lived there?"
He let out a deep breath, another of those hacking coughs shook his body, its sound stolen by the cars and busses.
He looked at the grey net curtained windows of the upper floors.
"I couldn't get on you see, Kathleen. It didn't make sense." His eyes were filling and I wondered just how many nips
he'd had in his tea before his pint.
"Imagine, you leave a place and you go away and do things you could never imagine. You meet people and do things
and you change inside. And when you come back home it's another place, with different people and different feelings.
Everything was bitten down and hard. And I just couldn't get on with Elsie. She knew something wasn't right with me,
with us. This place saved me. I remember I saw the sign, "workmen welcome" and I was so relieved that there was a
place for me. That there were others." His lips crumpled and his hand rubbed my arm.
"Do you understand that after everything, after Jimmy, I couldn't stay with Elsie? I was only sixteen then. I didn't know
what I was doing. I heard about this place. I won't say where, just a place where men, back from the war like me, went.
Men who had sex with men. Peter his name was, he told me."
My mind reeled. I had no words. That ball bearing crashed and thundered.
"Archie, are you saying that you were... ?" I couldn't carry on and didn't even know what they would have called it back
then.
"They didn't have a politically correct word for it then. I was a queer, a poof. And not rich or artistic. I mean, you could
maybe get away with it then. I was a working class poofter. I came here and we were labourers all right but we were
also men, all living and being together, not being bothered. Or, as happy as you could be in those day when you were
inclined different. It was illegal you know. Imagine being in the same league, maybe even thought of as worse than,
rapists, thieves, murderers. Just because of who you wanted to sleep with at night."
He unhooked his arm and started pulling his shirt from his trousers. I put out a hand to stop him, but he moved away
and yanked at his shirt. There on his pale, thin skin was a pink gash, a snake of silver within.
"It was worse back then, Kathleen -- than you can imagine. One misjudgement of character and you could be put away.
Or worse." He motioned to the scar and let his shirt fall.
"Far scarier than the war, I'll tell you. The one who did this, bold he was, a big bruiser from the docks. He took me to a
disused public lavvy." His eyes shone, "We did it in a cubicle that night, listening for footsteps, scared half out of our
wits. I liked him. I was only a kid. I asked if we could meet again and he spat on me, gave me a kicking and made sure
his knife gave me this. To remind me what a filthy queer I was."
My eyes burned, I felt stony pressure build up in my chest. I wanted to say something, anything.
"I can't imagine how hard it was for you. Back then. Thank you for telling me and I'm so sorry. For the scar, and
because it was so hard, I'm sorry."
His eyes were clear and he seemed stilled, if not restored to his sharp self.
"What for, Kathleen? It was worth all the risks. I met Henry, we lived pretty a pretty decent life in Kent." He lifted his
hands to my shoulders.
"Kathleen stop apologising and finish your sentences. Live or die and don't complain either way. It's a choice,
remember." The sun burned my back, his arms circled my shoulders and I lowered my head and let my tears make
watery blooms on his pale yellow shirt.
***
Sarah came at seven, her hair loose, wet and smelling of the storm that had broken. I kissed her tight angry lips at the
door.
"From tonight we hide nothing. We tell everyone, starting with my family. That's a promise to you and my choice." She
looked at me, gauging my seriousness.
"What made you see sense?" She asked, holding my torso tight and taking soft bites of my lips.
"Guinness and Dixy Fried Chicken."
She looked up, her lips my collarbone and I pulled back.
"I'll tell you everything. Once we've been to bed."
Sarah twisted her hair up into a band. Its soft, silky length folded around her fingers. I reached out for it.
"Just get off," she shrugged me away. "I don't know what you think this is but we're obviously under very different
impressions."
"Listen, Sarah I... "
"Forget it. I am too bloody tired. This isn't how I choose to live my life." She was pulling on her jeans, one leg in, one
leg out.
"If you want to that's fine, but I'm not." She turned and looked at me still wrapped in the duvet.
"I hope you find it's worth it." Then the door slammed and I was left with promises and protestations fermenting in my
mouth and the warmth of Sarah still on the sheets.
***
I can't say when I first found it difficult to find words when they were needed. My tongue stuck behind sharp teeth like
a hostage. Maybe while Ma and Dad argued. When I learned that a tongue, even one still coloured by orange squash,
could save or break precious things. Eventually, I used less and less until those important words died in my mouth
never seeing the light of day.
***
I sat in the cafe upstairs in the British Library and waited for the scrape of a zimmer-frame heralding four hours I would
never get back. Amid the well-bred murmurings and clank of teacups, I called Sarah's mobile for the fifth time. A small
bird beating against the cage of my ribs as I listened to the rings.
"Listen, I can't explain if you don't pick up. I'm sorry. It's not that I'm not serious. Please come over tonight Sarah.
Seven o'clock. We can talk. You should know you make me happy. In fact Sarah you should know that I think... "
"You must be Kathleen Muir from the University?" He wore a yellow short-sleeved shirt, khaki trousers and white, white
trainers. I flipped shut my phone.
"Alfred Barrows?" I reached out my hand. "Lovely to meet you. How did you guess it was me?"
"You have the look of a woman who's having to do something on a Saturday afternoon against her will."
I began to protest but he waved it away.
"Don't worry, at your age I had much better things to do too. And call me Archie, otherwise I feel like you're going to
charge me with something." Archie's voice was like coffee and tobacco, there was something rough beneath the
carefully clipped consonants, a Navvies voice in civvies.
"Cup of tea?" I asked nervous, ingratiating.
"I'd say so, yes. Best thing in this heat you know."
He settled on the chair straight backed and impassive. Hands folded over each other on the table. From my place in the
queue I looked at the impression of his elderly silhouette against the afternoon sun.
His head was the hand span of a shiny globe. It looked like it had been polished vigorously, to the bone. He had a
neatly trimmed "Abraham Lincoln" beard and shoulders that were still broad. They were nod to the strong man he
would have once been but now they cried out the vulnerability of the rest of his frame. Bones jutting, skin drooping. A
tissue and paper straw sculpture. Warning: do not leave this man out in rain. His round nose bloomed red at its tip. I
had read once that ears and noses start growing again in later life so couldn't be sure this was the man he was or the
spread of years plumping the skin.
"Sorry no scones, I got a biscuit. Is that ok?"
"That's perfect thank you. I brought something I thought might interest you." He pulled out a much creased
photograph. "I was 17 when that was taken at the Base." He sized up the sultana shortbread.
"Never recovered from the wartime privations of sugar you know. Used to mix up my morning porridge and jam, wait
for it to set and then keep slices in my tunic pockets. Tasted bloody awful, pardon my French." His mouth was full of
half chewed biscuit. "But I always was a food panicker."
The photo lay on the table between us. A shy-looking, squint-eyed boy with the same impressive nose. I took my
Dictaphone and put it on the table.
"Very handsome photo. Do you mind me recording?"
"Not at all, love. As long as you don't mind if I have a nip with my tea." He pulled out a half bottle of Captain Morgan's.
"Another war habit I'm afraid. Never shook it."
"Oh, no, no problem at all." I gave my best Girl Guide smile. "Now, you'll be aware this is a community writing project
the idea behind it is seeing how younger people interpret veteran's stories. It's just a chat, so no need to be nervous,
but I do have some questions prepared."
He looked up from capping his Captain Morgan's.
"I'm sure there isn't any need to be nervous -- unless you are going to speak to me like a Sunday School Teacher for
the rest of the afternoon." Mortified, I opened my mouth to respond but for the second time that day words stayed in
my twisted, embarrassed abdomen. He smiled and put his big soft hand over mine.
"Fire away, love. I know you're just trying to do a good job."
"Sorry. Okay, so how old were you when you signed up and why?"
"I was sixteen and... "
"Sorry, I mean sorry to interrupt, but didn't you have to be eighteen to enlist?"
"Yes, but there was a war on, love. Checks weren't so good as to weed out lad with a bit about him. I forged my
fathers consent letter, got a lad in factory to do it. Easy enough, before I knew it I was at the Quartermaster Stores
being given half-mast trousers and the boots of a dead man."
I took a long breath.
"And at home? What did your family think?"
"Well you know, usual sort of thing. But I'd just gotten married to Elsie Burton when I'd turned sixteen. Early, even in
those days but I knew I was going to enlist."
"What was she like? I mean sixteen is young. Were you in love?"
"She was... handsome, that's what they'd call her back then, with a big warm heart and a big gaping trap she wasn't
afraid to use! Especially when she found out she was in the family way just before I was packed off."
He laughed and strip light reflected on his white dentures.
"And where were you stationed? What year was this?"
"1943, it was. I had been working in munitions factory in Ealing. Dull work -- I was ready for adventure. After I signed
up, I was trained to drive the B-Type busses; transporting troops to the Western Front. Sometimes I drove them back
and all, but not often."
"Sorry, B-Type busses?"
"Old, old omnibus double-deckers, that were shipped in when they ran out of proper military vehicles. They painted
them that grey green colour that everything was back then, no colour for almost 5 years it felt like during the war.
Bloody dangerous job driving one of them things I'll tell you. Stood out like a sore thumb. Double-decker busses!"
"Were you happy? I mean, I just mean, did you feel like you were having your adventure? Benefiting a noble cause."
"Kathleen -- do you mind if I call you Kathleen? I was sixteen. Truth is I didn't know what I was fighting for. It was grim
but it wasn't just me. You got through it. You lived or you died and didn't complain either way."
"I understand. It's not like there was post-traumatic stress back then."
"Exactly. What I did enjoy was... " He took a loose-lipped sip of tea and looked down at his hands.
"Go ahead."
"The other lads. Knowing you were you next meal away from being blown to smithereens was enough reason to be
good to each other. I mean you got the odd bully, higher rank usually, but mainly the mates I had there were the best I
ever found. True and decent, completely honest."
"A best friend?"
He looked up sharply, and his brown eyes, which had been years away until then, snapped against mine with a ferocity
that made me want to swallow back my words. He nodded and looked at his hands.
"Jimmy Dougan. He was twenty-one, so, older than me. Always a great laugh and pal. Looked out for me he did and
helped me write letters to Elsie; I wasn't one for reading and writing. We shared bunks at base for four months."
I knew the answer because I could see his expression reflected in his smooth, wide fingernails but somehow I found
myself asking the question regardless.
"Hit. Driving one of those flaming busses back. Bloody crime. It was only a week till he was going to be dispatched to
Paris -- it had just been liberated."
"I'm sorry." I said meaning it more than I could express.
He cleared his throat and then coughed, hacking in the way old men do into a grey handkerchief.
"Kathleen, it was the biggest tragedy of my war that a wonderful fella like Jimmy could be taken. For no reason at all
but he drove a bus that Tuesday, not someone else." His breathing was laboured and I tried hard to place his inference
but my mind was full, there was too much to untangle.
I picked up my teaspoon and stirred my cold coffee. I should have known this would happen, that my words would fall
short of what was needed. Still, I sat mutely cursing myself, watching his chest rise and fall. I am meant to be better
than this. Though the words had battered against my front teeth, they got no further.
Archie looked me over kindly, "Don't worry lovely. Lots of people don't know how to react. Back then you didn't. Full
stop. You just got on with it."
His kindness unstopped my words.
"Did you know many people who died?"
"Not including the poor saps who came in Omnibus to the front? I knew over twenty. Some factory lads, people from
Lambeth who you'd see about, like. Tony from the base and of course my pal, Jimmy."
I tried to imagine that much grief but Archie broke through my thoughts.
"Listen, I'm parched. My tea is cold. Is it breaking the rules to wet our whistle's?"
It took me a moment to realise what he meant. He flashed his dentures, grinned like a kid suggesting we skip school.
Fuck it. I needed a drink badly.
We went to a place around the corner, full of UCL sweatshirts drinking pints of snakebite bought with student loan
checks. Mine had just come through too but Archie waved me away from the bar and sent me to a sticky table in the
corner. If he felt uncomfortable with loud music, shrieking girls or pool table machismo he didn't show it. He made a
joke with the barmaid and gave a garrulous laugh. He looked more at home than me.
Drinks on the table, a pint of Guinness for him and half for me, blackcurrant sweetened with creamy foam the colour of
candyfloss.
"Is that ok? I know some women drink pints these day but... "
"No, no, it's grand. I haven't had Guinness and black since I was their age." I jerked my head over to the denim-skirted
students eye-linered to within an inch of their lives.
"Now let me just get my... " I rummaged in my bag.
"Hold on, hold on! I thought you said this was a chat? Nothing to be nervous about. Don't I get a go?" He pursed his
lips and nodded his head in parody.
"I do have some prepared questions." I laughed and wondered how it was possible to be so sharp at -- I did the maths
-- eighty-seven. Christ.
"Now how old are you Kathleen?"
"Me? Twenty-seven, this is my second time around degree."
"And you live in London?"
"Holloway Road, a house full of international students, it's like the United Nations if we have a party."
"Anyone special?"
I felt pink heat creeping up my neck.
"What? Oh, I see. There's something, but you know. It's unresolved."
He nodded. "Well, careful. They don't come along too often. Look at Jimmy."
That statement rolled around my mind, a heavy unruly ball bearing. When it came to a stop I knew I did not want to
deal with the implications and I took my Dictaphone out, smiling, nervous.
"Seriously Archie, I'll need more stories for the report. You'll get me shot by my tutor." Too late I realised my
insensitivity and felt my stomach plunge like a faulty lift.
"Oh my God, I'm so... " Archie put down his pint and howled his teeth clicking in a hazardous manner. He mimicked my
Scottish brogue.
"Oh, Archie tell me more about the war, or you'll get me shot!" I laughed, shame faced. Archie's laugh spurred me on
and we roared, heads bent to the table, tears seeping, Guinness' ignored.
***
Later, on the streets of Kings Cross, full of the rough smoky smell of a hot city, I laced my arm through Archie's, afraid
for his fragile frame on the busy streets.
"Over there." He pointed to a Dixy Fried Chicken shop.
"You want some chicken?" Christ, it was just like a student pub-crawl.
"No, that's where I came after the war. It's why I suggested we meet here. Third floor I was, but the whole place was
filled. We were squatters. Happened a lot after the war you know." I looked at the peeling white paint. Tried to imagine
the debris of war around it.
"You, Elsie and the baby? Lived there?"
He let out a deep breath, another of those hacking coughs shook his body, its sound stolen by the cars and busses.
He looked at the grey net curtained windows of the upper floors.
"I couldn't get on you see, Kathleen. It didn't make sense." His eyes were filling and I wondered just how many nips
he'd had in his tea before his pint.
"Imagine, you leave a place and you go away and do things you could never imagine. You meet people and do things
and you change inside. And when you come back home it's another place, with different people and different feelings.
Everything was bitten down and hard. And I just couldn't get on with Elsie. She knew something wasn't right with me,
with us. This place saved me. I remember I saw the sign, "workmen welcome" and I was so relieved that there was a
place for me. That there were others." His lips crumpled and his hand rubbed my arm.
"Do you understand that after everything, after Jimmy, I couldn't stay with Elsie? I was only sixteen then. I didn't know
what I was doing. I heard about this place. I won't say where, just a place where men, back from the war like me, went.
Men who had sex with men. Peter his name was, he told me."
My mind reeled. I had no words. That ball bearing crashed and thundered.
"Archie, are you saying that you were... ?" I couldn't carry on and didn't even know what they would have called it back
then.
"They didn't have a politically correct word for it then. I was a queer, a poof. And not rich or artistic. I mean, you could
maybe get away with it then. I was a working class poofter. I came here and we were labourers all right but we were
also men, all living and being together, not being bothered. Or, as happy as you could be in those day when you were
inclined different. It was illegal you know. Imagine being in the same league, maybe even thought of as worse than,
rapists, thieves, murderers. Just because of who you wanted to sleep with at night."
He unhooked his arm and started pulling his shirt from his trousers. I put out a hand to stop him, but he moved away
and yanked at his shirt. There on his pale, thin skin was a pink gash, a snake of silver within.
"It was worse back then, Kathleen -- than you can imagine. One misjudgement of character and you could be put away.
Or worse." He motioned to the scar and let his shirt fall.
"Far scarier than the war, I'll tell you. The one who did this, bold he was, a big bruiser from the docks. He took me to a
disused public lavvy." His eyes shone, "We did it in a cubicle that night, listening for footsteps, scared half out of our
wits. I liked him. I was only a kid. I asked if we could meet again and he spat on me, gave me a kicking and made sure
his knife gave me this. To remind me what a filthy queer I was."
My eyes burned, I felt stony pressure build up in my chest. I wanted to say something, anything.
"I can't imagine how hard it was for you. Back then. Thank you for telling me and I'm so sorry. For the scar, and
because it was so hard, I'm sorry."
His eyes were clear and he seemed stilled, if not restored to his sharp self.
"What for, Kathleen? It was worth all the risks. I met Henry, we lived pretty a pretty decent life in Kent." He lifted his
hands to my shoulders.
"Kathleen stop apologising and finish your sentences. Live or die and don't complain either way. It's a choice,
remember." The sun burned my back, his arms circled my shoulders and I lowered my head and let my tears make
watery blooms on his pale yellow shirt.
***
Sarah came at seven, her hair loose, wet and smelling of the storm that had broken. I kissed her tight angry lips at the
door.
"From tonight we hide nothing. We tell everyone, starting with my family. That's a promise to you and my choice." She
looked at me, gauging my seriousness.
"What made you see sense?" She asked, holding my torso tight and taking soft bites of my lips.
"Guinness and Dixy Fried Chicken."
She looked up, her lips my collarbone and I pulled back.
"I'll tell you everything. Once we've been to bed."
Kerry Hudson
