Boney fingers

‘A pint please if you would.’ Robert leaned on the bar, hands squeezing his elbows and trying to look as inconspicuous as he could.

The landlord stared arms crossed for a second. ‘I will not. What are you trying to pull Robert? You can have one shandy and count yourself lucky.’

‘But why, I am almost 16?’ Robert said in a huff.

‘Almost isn’t good enough.’ The landlord poured out the small glass of shandy and handed over.

Robert took his drink over to a chair by the fire. It was April, but a chill still clung to the air. As he looked at some of the old paintings and photographs dotted around the room, a conversation caught his ears.

Across the room, sitting at an old, polished table a group of older gentlemen were talking about the marsh. Mr Halstead, the oldest and informal leader of the group was leading the conversation.

‘I hear the army is finally starting to clear the mines from the beach and marshland. Started on Tuesday.’

‘Bout time if you ask me. The defences at Great Yarmouth and other towns were removed years ago.’ One of his companion’s said.

‘Would have made searching the marshes for the two missing men much easier,’ Mr Halstead agreed.

‘What’s this? Two missing men?’ One of the newer arrivals to the group asked. ‘Haven’t heard about that before.’

Mr Halstead took a sip of his stout. ‘You haven’t heard the story? Was a few years back now, but it made a massive stink in these parts. Two men got themselves lost on marshes, poor devils.’

‘That’s right we were all part of the search,' someone chimed in.

‘For weeks we were looking, but not a trace,’ another added.

Mr Halstead coughed as if to demand for silence. As the chatter died down, he carried on. ‘They wouldn’t would they. Most likely blown to smithereens, the bits eaten by foxes and God knows what else, poor buggers. Anyway, Don’t want to speak badly about Ol’ Dick Fobbing, good lad he was, always had time for a chat, but going to the marshes every day, he had to be a bit cracked to begin with if you ask me, and that Mr Stapleton only made it worse.’

The whole table nodded in agreement. ‘And that poor young Stanley. Every day combing through that mud looking for his chums,’ Yet another one added.

‘That’s right poor Stanley with that buggered leg,’ Mr Halstead took up the new direction of the conversation. ‘Isn’t right for an injured veteran to be walking knee deep in that filth. Not after he served so bravely on the beaches of Normandy, taking a piece of shrapnel like that for his men.’

‘I heard it was in North Africa, wasn’t it? A landmine or something.’

‘The story I heard was in Sicily. Operation Husky. Bullet from a machine gun placement.’

More theories were put forward from each man at the table. Mr Halstead growled and banged his tankard on the table. ‘Listen. It don’t matter does it. A hero is what he is, for King and country.’

Mr Halstead raised his glass in the air, and the others followed suit. And as if as an afterthought he added, ‘Here’s to the lad’s bravery. Wherever he was and whatever he did.’

One of the gentlemen called the landlord over and they all got another round. The conversation started to drift off onto other subjects, and Robert shifted his attention to his newspaper.

It was full of the usual stories: about international importance about military alliances and meetings of important people or about rationing. One smaller story caught his eye and brought Robert’s attention back to Stanley. He drained his drink, got up from his chair and made his way out of the pub, heading in the direction of Stanley’s place.

Robert waited patiently at the door. He could hear the familiar shuffling inside followed by the turn of the doorknob. The man who answered had changed much since Robert first met him. The youthful face had become gaunt and angular; the muscles on his legs and arms were withered and his eyelids had drawn backwards, revealing the whites of his eyes and giving him a permanent expression of fear.

‘Robert, it’s just you.’ Stanley said, his chest heaving as though even those few words had drained him of all energy.

‘Yes, it's me, who else would be.’

Stanley gave a wry smile. ‘That sound’s familiar. You’re right again. Who else.’

‘I had something to show you. May I come in?’ Robert asked.

Stanley slumped into his recliner chair while Robert sat next to him on the sofa. He tossed the newspaper to Stanely, opened on the page he had been looking at earlier. ‘What do you make of that?’

The rustle of paper broke the silence as Stanley scanned the paper, his eyes growing wider as he read. ‘Lost British bird...seen for first time...six places across the country...each flock led by a juvenile bird...several nests.’

Robert watched as Stanley read and re-read the same lines. He then started piling Robert with questions about where he might find the birds, train times, ticket prices.

‘Hold on, hold on. You can’t be thinking of going. You can barely stand, Stanely.’

‘I’m going. I have to. Avocets. I need to see. My children.’ Stanley tried to force himself up again, but he was breathing hard and fell back down again. ‘Damn it!’

‘Take it easy.’ Robert got up and tried to prevent Stanely from getting back up. ‘This won’t do. I shouldn’t have shown the newspaper.’

Boney fingers wrapped round Robert’s collar and pulled him down with surprising strength. ‘Don’t you dare keep anything from me. I might be stuck here,’ Stanley said while slapping his right leg. ‘But, you will bring me any more news you find out about this. You understand?’

‘I’ve got it,’ Robert said as he pulled the fingers from his shirt. ‘I will, ok. Now calm down.’

Robert left soon after and as he shut the door, in the background Stanley kept mumbling to himself My children. Where are you? My family.’

Despite the promise he made, he avoided the small cottage at the end of the village. It wasn’t from fear, there was nothing to fear from that skeletal form, but because seeing a man he once respected change so much was too much for such a young man to take.