(There is a young man sitting on a
simple wooden chair in the middle of the stage. He is wearing the typical
clothes of a commoner in the 1910s.The light is tinted to give the impression
of a sepia photograph. He sits still for a moment, posing for the camera, and
then he relaxes and sits more comfortably.)
Freddie: I’m at sixes and sevens. I don’t know which way is up
anymore, I’m disorientated. I always loved that word, dis-orient-tated. One of
the toffs back home told me what it meant. I remember that day so clearly, I
was helping Pa in the shop, sorting the different jams on the shelf. Ma’s
home-made jam is famous in our area; everyone knows it’s best. That was why
that Gentleman came, he’d heard of the legendary jam sold in the Village Shop.
The
bell tinkled above the door, another customer to add to the hustle and bustle.
A tall, proud man stepped through the door, having to hunch over and angle his
body just so, to allow his towering stature and broad shoulders to fit through
the door. As he straightened, I remember looking up and up and up, past his
well shone shoes and pressed trousers, following the flawless seams of his
jacket all the way up to his mighty jaw. He was ever-so intimidating to a small
shop boy like me, but when he smiled, I found myself returning the gesture. ‘Will
you tend to him while I finish up with Mrs Knowles, Freddie?’ Pa said to me
with a wink. I loved it when Pa gave me responsibilities,
and to tend to a gentleman was an honour not bestowed to many others in my
position. My excitement must have come across wrongly for the gentleman
crouched down, so that his eyes were level with mine. They shone with concern
and he placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you quite well, my boy? ‘Tis simply
that you look rather shaky and disorientated.’ After explaining that I was
perfectly well, I tended to his needs and brought him an armful of jam jars. As
he turned to leave, I tugged on his sleeve, bringing his attention back to my
wide-eyed gaze. ‘What does dis-disory-tation mean?’ I asked him. With a sparkle
in his eye, he grasped my shoulder, turning me to the right ever so slightly,
so I faced the window at the front of the shop. ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘You’re
facing east, and therefore you are orientated.’ He then turned me further
right, ‘Now, you’re no longer facing east and therefore you are disorientated.’
It’s
hard to believe that I had completely forgotten about that wonderful day from
my childhood until now and yet I cannot get rid of the images and sounds and
smells and tastes that are burned and scarred into my memory. Every time I
close my eyes, bright flashes of light blind me with images of men, my friends,
lying in the mud and dirt. Their faces pasted with a mask of their own blood
mixed with the mud they’re lying in. It covers their deathly pale, white skin
and seeps into their lifeless eyes. Everything is silent, calm and lifeless. I
can feel the grittiness of the dirt in my eyes and my pathetic salty tears leak
in rivulets down my face. I can feel them as more and more images claw at my
mind and the silence grows and grows until it is no longer silence. (Quickening) It’s the blast of bombs,
it’s the shrill shrieks of mere boys being slaughtered by an enemy they don’t
even know, can’t even see. (Getting louder)
It’s the moans of agony as the wounded are carried past our stations and the
whining and sobbing of men afraid to lose their lives in a place as horrible as
the Western Front! (Abrupt stop and
prolonged silence)
It
was just like any other day, the wind howled and the rain pounded down on the
mud and men around me. The whistle echoed down the maze of trenches,
accompanied by the battle cries of men out to fight. Everything seemed to slow
down. I know that can’t possibly have been true but that’s how it felt. I can
still feel the air stirring around me as the others brushed past and climbed
the ladder in front of me. The air felt cold; it made the hairs on my arms
rise, gave me the shivers. I remember thinking at the time that mayhap someone
has stepped on my grave. That’s what Pa used to say. Pa (sigh)...he would’ve thought me a coward. I tried to swallow back
my pitiful tears but the grains of mud in my mouth scratched the back of my
throat and left it raw. My eyes burned,
my ears rang and my hands shook. Yet I still...couldn’t...move. Over my head
the cries of the others, the braver men, echoed. They travelled down the
trenches, carrying the pain their owners felt. Those cries linger and they’re still
shrieking in my ear. COWARD!
But
I am not a coward, I never have been. Ma always called me her brave little
soldier, especially after Charlie died. She would hold me close and murmur
comforts in my ear while I murmured comforts in Lucy’s.
I
can see them all, standing right in front of me now. They’re talking to me;
they’re telling me stories about home, about good old Blightly and the village.
Rita and Penny are talking about the time we tried to catch fish with our bare
hands in the brook out behind the old wood. I can still feel the way the fish
slid through my fingers, my clumsy hands no match for their slimy scales. I can
still feel the sun beating down on the back of my neck and Rita; you were
complaining that you were too hot. You were so hot, that I had to throw you in
the brook, d’you remember that? I do,
that was the day we met Lucy. You heard us shrieking and came to see what all
the fuss was about. That was always one of my favourite things about you Lu;
you always had a sense of adventure. You were so curious about everything; we
made a good team, eh? I always got us into trouble and you always got us out of
it! Do you remember our wedding? You were so beautiful that day. When the
church doors opened and you stepped in on your father’s arm, the light
surrounded you like a halo. You were an angel, Lu, I married an angel. And now
here you appear before me in a pool of light and beauty. You’re here to take me
away from my disorientation, to a place where I am always facing east.
