Touching Harry by Peter Robins

Author:Peter Robins
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781870188098
Publisher: Third House
Published: 1988-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

When the last wave of bombers returning to Heston or Hanworth has passed, John Plimsoll concentrates again on the smaller sounds of the river: an occasional squawk of ducks in the reeds below the towpath; from time to time a cyclist passing behind him who calls Good Morning. John replies cheerily and wonders if this greeting, offered by strangers, signals a wish to demonstrate that everyone on the winning side should share in the good news from France. He is not optimistic that when the war is over such ease of contact will continue. In days when he was younger than Harry, neighbours smiled at one another in the markets and fellow dockyard workers waved across the Guildhall Square in Portsmouth. John accepts, with regret, that such a sense of community has passed and his post-war suburb is likely to revert to its pre-war bleakness.

He is careful not to turn his head when giving the time of day to these passers-by. Although it is a cloudless June morning, John wears his gabardine raincoat with the collar up. He has no wish to be recognised. Were he to be, only days would elapse before somebody would mention to one of the family that he — dependable as the church clock and more reliable than the trains — had not — between eight and eight-thirty precisely — been making for the station and a munitions factory. There would be endless questions concerning his health or his mental state. Perhaps not Vinnie and maybe not Harry would start probing. The rest would consider it odd to be sitting quite alone studying small craft bobbing on the Middlesex side of an island in the Thames.

John considers the explanation he might offer. He refuses to call it defence though he fears that is what it would be. He might say he had forgotten that a late start had been planned at the factory. A couple of shopping hours for everyone in celebration of monthly quotas exceeded and a congratulatory letter from the Ministry. This could hardly be contested and he could add nonchalantly that — having realised his mistake — the opportunity for a walk along the towpath while considering his future seemed too good to be missed. Having formulated his explanation, he readily sees that it could be used once only. His morning pattern — developed from the beginning of the year and the tiresome rows with Harry — would be disrupted. Unless he walked further afield. Beyond the railway bridge on the arterial road, perhaps, where the borough ended and Winifred’s wretched Council friends would not bother to walk their snappy little dogs.

He fiddles in his pocket and selects a peppermint. Finding he has only two left in the bag, he makes a mental note to ask the tea lady if she can manage to fiddle another quarter of a pound off the ration at one of the corner shops along the Walworth Road. Margaret has never understood her husband’s passion for peppermints

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