Nine Thousand Boys

Madison had been on the bus for seven minutes now and it was getting boring. Next to her, Gemma was lost in the music of her i-pod and wouldn’t respond even to sharp elbows to the ribs. Madison pulled out her phone and texted her second-best friend Tiffany.

Hey Tiff wasup? So BORED rite now.

Seconds later, Tiffany responded:

Hey Mad. BORED 2 death in Coms lecture atm. Where U at?

Madison replied instantly:

On the bus. Gem out of it as usual. Bus full of smelly old people, old dude opposite dribbling and talking to himself. Shd be put down.

Lol. Probly gunna hit on U.

Eeewww think hes checkin my boobs.

Haha old perv. Mad’s got a boyfrend!

EEEWWW old ppl R so gross.

 

Duncan realised that he was mumbling and checked himself. It was a habit he’d got into when his mind wandered, which it did more and more these days. He enjoyed riding on the bus, especially now that it was free for senior citizens. He had never imagined that he would make it to ‘senior citizen’ age. So many didn’t. His dad was only twenty-seven, killed in that murderous landing at Suvla Bay. As a boy, Duncan had worn his dad’s medals proudly, head full of glory, never understanding what a landing under fire was really like, and never having known his father. And Gwen wasn’t even fifty; everything they had been through together, then when it was time for a bit of a rest, a bit of joy, she’d been taken with the cancer.

And, of course, the boys at Normandy, who would always remain boys in Duncan’s mind. Nine thousand boys lying dead on the beaches. His brother Harry. His best mate Lew. As always, Duncan was back there in an instant. He would never be free of the screeching shells, the brutal body-blows of explosions, bloody human parts and bits of kit all mashed together, the grey sea washing up pink along the shore for miles. Hand to hand fighting, taking that beach foot by bloody foot. Nine thousand boys. Sergeant Giles, a funny bugger and tough as nails, saved more than a few of them before he copped a bullet to the neck. Henderson, the smart one, always inventing stuff and wondering about life. He could have been someone, that Henderson. Barnes, just a kid, calling out for his mum in those last minutes as Duncan had held him.

Duncan breathed deeply and shut his eyes as he gradually got the shaking under control. With a great effort of will, he sat straight and smiled. It had been worth it. Their sacrifice had been worth every life cut short that day. They had stopped the Nazis right there, turned the tide of the war. Those nine thousand boys dead on the beaches of Normandy had ensured that all western nations would enjoy freedom for generations to come. The lovely young girls sitting opposite, for example, could take their freedom totally for granted, and Duncan was glad about that.

Small Change

Hannah and Tim were enjoying a last cold beer before heading to the airport. It was late afternoon and the sunlight filtering through the dust turned the streets of Dar-es-Salaam to red gold. They left a decent tip for the barman, but Hannah still had a pocket full of small coins. “What’ll I do with all this?” she asked, “It’s worth nothing.” They were about to leave the change on a nearby table when Tim noticed an old woman sitting beside the gutter with a few bunches of herbs beside her. Hannah funnelled the stream of coins into a plastic cup beside the woman, and Tim waved away the bunch of herbs she proffered. The woman put a hand to her heart as the two shouldered their backpacks and trooped off down the street.

Malia counted the coins again in disbelief. It was more than she normally made in a week. Despite appearances, she was not old – just thirty-five years – but they had been hard years of planting cassava in the fierce sun, cooking and housework, walking miles for water and firewood, childbearing, then the terrible loss of her husband to the evil disease that was sweeping the country. And after that the heartbreak as the fever took her son Christian, and then her daughter Grace, burning and shaking their poor tiny bodies as she watched and prayed. Now little Glory was all she had left, and this pile of coins would buy a net to protect the child from mosquitoes that, Malia now knew, carried the fever. She packed up her unsold produce, slipped the money into her pocket and strode with purpose towards the market.  A net, and perhaps even a scrap of meat to add to their rice this evening.

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Glory sighed and allowed herself just a little smile of satisfaction. She had worked so hard, and now it was over. The late nights of studying by the light of a kerosene lamp, scrimping to buy old text books, long shifts at the café – but of course that had helped her to learn English as well as being a source of good tips sometimes. And here she was at the end of her final Accounting exam. It had been easy and she was confident she had passed well. Now there was the interview at the bank next week to think about – she had saved for a smart new blouse to wear, and there was just enough over to get that beautiful scarf for her mother. Glory smiled more broadly as she imagined Malia trying on the silky turquoise and gold headscarf, and how proudly she would wear it on graduation day.

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Sara gradually relaxed. She sipped the spicy ginger tea and quietly, with downcast eyes, shared her story with the smart young woman across the desk. Like so many older women, Sara had the care of her two grandchildren, their parents dead years ago of the evil disease. She had supported the little family by taking in sewing. Now Sara had had an idea. The grandchildren were of an age to work, and Sara also had a sister and a niece. Together they wanted to start a sewing business – not just the mending, which brought in very little, but making clothing as well. Sara’s niece was very good at designing and cutting patterns – here was a photograph of a dress she had designed for the wedding of Ruth and Njomo. So, Sara was here at the bank to borrow money for a second-hand sewing machine and some bolts of good fabric to get them started. She looked up at the young woman – very young and very pretty, Sara thought, to be a real bank manager. Sara’s heart leapt when the woman nodded and smiled at her. “I’m sure we can help you, let’s work through these forms together.”

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Glory had had an exhausting first day as manager of her own branch, but it had gone well. She was especially happy about the two small business loans that she had arranged: good people who would work hard and spread their prosperity to others in the village. This was exactly what she had wanted to do when she had learnt about business back at school – help her people to help themselves. And there was her mother waiting for her at the corner as always, ever since she had been a little girl running home from school.

Malia thought her heart would burst with pride and happiness as Glory told her all about her day – her little girl was finally the boss, helping to make the lives of people so much better. As she dropped off to sleep later that night, Malia dreamed of a hazy, red-golden evening on the streets of the old city, and a handful of small change.