Chapter Twelve
They Call Me Willy Tucker
They call me Willy Tucker, not Silly Fucker, and I had a good reason to go to the library. They had all the papers going back for years, and it might be a good time to do some research. There were two major areas I needed to know more about, one of which was engines.
I also remembered hearing the name Foreman before, and wanted to re-read the story.
That was one big library. I stood momentarily, looking up at the majestic building. I’ve been shot at by Huns, bombarded by cannon fire. I should be able to chat someone up and get a few things. No reason to be nervous, but I wasn’t quite used to being back in civilization. First the hospital, then rehabilitation, and then down in Gosport. I was healthy again. It had been a long time coming.
I sat in one of the reading areas and searched out certain items.
The first story was in a back number of The Times entitled, ‘About My Stories.’
It turns out General Charles Foreman was a writer of adventure for boys of a certain age. In the article it listed a few of his stories: ‘The Mystery of Lone Jim,’ and ‘The Lost Citadel,’ and, unbelievably, ‘The Wizard Prince.’
Holy smokes, was that him?
I remembered that story. That was a good story. I read it on Salisbury plain, in a tent, with an oil lamp, in the rain. God, did it fucking rain.
The man’s own words tell all.
‘It was in the garden of my cottage, where the editor of the Boy’s Own Paper and I came up with the idea of, ‘Treasure of the Lost Temple,’ for that is the title of give our new serial. I shall be really disappointed if you don’t like the story.’
He went on.
‘The work and responsibilities I have; take up a good deal of my energies and time. As the Commandant of a Detention Barrack, I have had something like 20,000 men through my hands. These are military offenders of all kinds who were tried by courts-martial, some of the real criminal class, the low-down house-breaking type, but the majority of them the best chaps in the world, who basically just made fools of themselves by overstaying their leave or blacking the eyes of certain objectionable corporals. And it was my business to train these good fellows to be better soldiers and to get them drafted overseas.’
(Yikes. This is Melissa’s dad.)
‘But, at the same time, I need to keep in touch with my own work, or I should find myself up in the air when the war comes to an end. My first books for boys found a public. Earlier in the war, to keep the pot boiling, as you might say, were stories like ‘U-293’ and ‘The Mystery of Lone Jim.’’
‘My strenuous days must soon come to an end. I have but one wish in life. A cottage by the sea and a garden of my own, within sight of my boyhood home, Great Yarmouth.’
Foreman had a few other things to say, including details of a trip in the south seas.
‘We came close to shipwreck. I was on board a small coasting vessel, inside the Great Barrier Reef, off the Cape York Peninsula. We ran into a three-day hurricane.’
Melissa’s father had a personality, and the knowledge might be of some use. If I should happen to run into old Foreman, I will be sure my shoes are shined, my hair cut nice, and that in behind my ears is (or are) clean, and my uniform in good condition.
‘Watch my mouth,’ sort of thing.
Defer to the old bugger, and listen to his Kiplingesque notions of what was right. The man had used two words, criminal class, which told me all I needed to know about his attitudes and his upbringing.
The man would despise me on sight, if I wasn’t careful.
This might be a good time to get out the old medals and polish them up, pin them on my tunic. First impressions can be lasting ones.
Essentially he was talking in a kind of code. What he meant was working class.
“All our boats were swept overboard. The chief engineer was hurled against his engines, his head split open by an ungrateful piston…”
He had a colorful way of speaking.
Foreman would be an interesting man to meet, even if his daughter wouldn’t have anything to do with me.
That might seem like a strange attitude, but she was, after all, engaged to be married.
Betty, a library assistant, was right there at my elbow. She gave the distinct impression she would like to make a sandwich out of me. She was a nice enough person, don’t get me wrong, but her huffing and puffing, sweaty sincerity put me off more than the fact that she was a big girl and always would be.
Very nice skin, one had to admit—
She was in fact, a very nice girl, and all I wanted was information.
Have you ever put yourself in the mind of a person like that and wondered just how they see you? Does she think you’re dreamy? Does she want to be asked out?
What would happen if I did? I may be the one for her, in the same way that Melissa is The One for me. That thought made me uncomfortable. A feeling of embarrassment, for some reason. Maybe I should try to be a little nicer, without actually encouraging her.
Was that how Melissa felt about me? Embarrassment? Pleasant thought.
“Just a couple more things, Betty.”
I tried to smile, in spite of these depressing notions.
“Anything.” Her shiny eyes locked on mine.
Yeah, that’s what scares me, lady. I don’t want to just use you and throw you away like some other man probably would. Even though I was the loneliest man in the whole wide world right now.
Maybe the whores of Southwark wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. At least they had a certain objectivity…
“I need to know about motors and engines, and while it’s probably a big subject…is there one book that may be more helpful than others?” I asked.
“Come with me.” She said, and I had little choice but to follow.
No puns intended, of course. What would old Foreman think of that one, eh?
END
Images. That Louis guy, with a bit of help from the internet.
Louis has books and stories available from Chapters/Indigo Books. See his art on ArtPal.
Check out the #superdough blog.
Thank you for reading.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please feel free to comment on the blog posts, art or editing.