Behind the Lines: An anthology of short stories by Ian Patrick

Author:Ian Patrick [Patrick, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2017-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

Blood Bond

He had surprised her, arriving home in his commando step-out uniform on a weekend pass. She hadn’t expected him. Had he hoped she would be caught out by his unanticipated arrival? That she might be out on a date with someone else? Just so that he could prove to himself his suspicions had been justified?

As it turned out, she was genuinely pleased. She gave him an ecstatic hug. He was wrong. Nothing there to justify his suspicions. She was as pure as the driven snow.

That was the problem. Pure as the driven snow. Why was he so frustrated? She was so damn good all the time. Mother’s daughter. Daddy’s and granny’s pet. Why weren’t there any rough edges? Why was there no real conversation? No disagreement. No argument. Instead, everyone agreeing with whatever the parents said. Especially the father.

Ja. Yes. I agree. Definitely. Absolutely. You’re SO right about that.

He felt claustrophobic. Every weekend the same. Tea with the parents and granny. A constant refrain from them, and from the cousins, and the parents’ friends from work, and the next-door neighbours, about how the country was going to the dogs. Over tea, and melktert, and ginger snaps.

These people. Protesting. What for? They should consider themselves lucky. They should be put up against the wall and shot. The government should double the police force. I don’t mind paying more taxes, so long as they keep these skelms out.

Everyone agreeing. All the time. Especially with the head of the house. They hung on every word. His simpering wife. The grandmother. The other daughter’s boyfriends. I’m just a plain, simple guy, you know, and I think we should all just get on with our lives and leave the government to run things the way they know best. I’m just a plain, simple guy.

They seemed always simply to nod their heads, sagely. Nobody challenged. Least of all himself.

‘Oh, Sweet Jesus! These plain, simple men!’ he remembered Thomas More saying, in anguish.

He was no better than them. He didn’t have the courage to speak his mind, ever. Maybe because he didn’t really have one. Not an independent one, anyway. He had found it difficult throughout school, and beyond, to formulate his thoughts into something articulate. He felt instinctively what they were saying was wrong. Bad. Terrible. But how to tell them without disrupting the happy state of affairs.

Nevertheless, he was beginning, gradually, to grow up. To formulate a few thoughts. He was beginning to listen. To other students, mainly, and not so much to fellow soldiers. To a few people who were getting increasingly worried about what was happening around them in the country. He missed the conversations with his fellow students, while he was away in the army during university vacations.

When he tried to engage her about some of the interesting conversations he’d had about what was happening in the country, she would have none of it.

‘I think those people who are protesting all the time are dangerous. My dad says they’re all communists. I hope you don’t mix with them at university.

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