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Warzone (David Hampton)

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Submit your short story via email to the Saturn editor. Please send stories as separate attached text files of no more than 4000 words

The miners were striking. Jerry Davis watched Thatcher bawling her head off on the TV screen, muttered to himself and reached for the remote, ‘bloody Thatcher.’
    The doorbell rang. Jerry stole a quick glance through the drawn curtains of his living room and spotted Dirk Brody, the bloody milkman, after his Friday morning payment. Jerry thought, 'he won’t get a penny this week the greasy little bastard'.
    ‘Morning Jerry-atric,’ Dirk beamed in his usual offhand manner when Jerry opened the door, ‘what we got then,’ he studied a notepad in his hand, ‘five pints that's eighty two pence please mate.’
    ‘Ain’t got no bloody money,’ Jerry grumbled, eyeing the milkman up and down, ‘I’m on a bloody pension me, you try getting by on what that old cow Thatcher gives you when you’re no good for work no more, just you try.’
    Dirk chuckled, ‘alright gramps, keep what little hair you have left on, I’ll just mark you down for next week. It’ll be twice the payment then though mate, don’t you go letting your bills build up. Specially not your gas, they’ll cut you off y’know. You can always do without milk but you old folks need your warmth this time of year.’
    Jerry grimaced then slammed the door. For the next hour he pottered in the garden. His fingertips, exposed in fingerless gloves, soon became red and numb with the cold, his bones began to ache, so he quit and returned indoors. ‘Bloody milkman,’ he muttered, slumping in front of the TV again.
    Thatcher was gone. The news was almost over. He watched some story about weed trouble in America then switched over to ITV and watched Playschool. He liked children's programs. He liked being talked to as if he were a child. Nobody spoke to an old man with respect, not these days, and nobody cared about him any more, not now he was at the wrong end of his life, not now his face was lined, his features withered, a constant reminder to all who saw him of what waited patiently for them in the final years of their lives.
    By noon Jerry was asleep. He woke at three, had some bread and butter, a glass of stout and a roll up, then nodded off again. At six he woke and watched the news. His memory was as pocked as his skin and although he’d seen the same news that morning he remembered none of it. He only remembered things that annoyed him these days; the bloody milkman, the chill in his hands, the fierce ache in his joints, the death of Mary, his wife. He recalled Mary’s death more than anything else, even though he was unsure now how long she had been gone, he knew she was gone though, and he knew he missed her.

The next day was Saturday, the streets were full of screaming kids, sounds of traffic and footsteps. Jerry kept the curtains drawn and settled in front of the television, his cylindrical two bar gas heater next to his chair to fend off the worst of the cold.
    He watched open university, some bearded idiot gibbering on about algorithms, then an hour long documentary on weed trouble in America. The red speckled faces of Texans griping about their farming problems made Jerry angry. ‘Bloody yanks.’ During the war the yanks had been as much the enemy as the kraut. They deflowered any British girl they could lay their filthy hands on. While the British lot had been oversees, fighting old Hitler, the yanks had been back home wrecking lads’ marriages. They came into the war late, did nothing to help but drop the atom bomb then had the nerve to take credit when Adolf threw in the towel. ‘Bloody yanks.’
    Jerry neglected his garden that morning. Normally the cold didn’t bother him but today his joints ached ferociously and the prospect of freezing them outside put him off altogether. Mary had always insisted he spend at least some of his day outside, getting some ‘fresh air’ into his lungs. He was sure she’d understand if he let the rule slip for just one day. If she was in heaven she probably understood how much his body hurt. In heaven you knew and saw everything, Jerry expected. So she would let him off. Just this once.
    He fell asleep at noon again then woke at three and had some bread and butter, a glass of stout and some cheese. He took a pee then dozed till five when he was woken by a shrill cry of ‘hello Mr Davis, and how are we today?’
    He stared unhappily at Mrs Gershwin, the bloody home-help woman. She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I let meself in Mr Davis. Why don’t you ever open these curtains? Its dismal in here. Dismal.’
    She opened the curtains with a purposeful flurry. Cold wintry light flooded the room, ‘so how you keepin’ Mr Davis. How you finding the weather. I ‘spect it gets into your bones don’t it.’
    Jerry grunted a response. Whatever he said wouldn’t have mattered, the silly cow never listened to a word he said. Nobody did. Who wanted to listen to the moans and gripes of a useless old man like him these days? The world belonged to the young.
    ‘My its chilly in here though. I say, did you hear about old Mrs Mertill, passed away poor dear. Passed away in her sleep last Wednesday. Oh, she had a good innings though Mr Davis. She was eighty two you know. Eighty two.’
    Jerry switched off. He didn’t care to hear about death. When it came for him, he’d sit up and take notice. But until then he didn’t like to think about it. Thoughts like that hurt as bad as his arthritis, as bad as thoughts about Mary. Mrs Gershwin continued to witter on but he ignored her.
    By the time she finally left it was six. Jerry drew the curtains again and switched the TV back on. Blake’s Seven was on. Jerry liked that program. He rarely understood a word but the excitement was a welcome relief from the boredom of his life. He particularly liked the women and the outfits they wore. Eighty seven he may have been but he could still appreciate the curves of a fine lass. He hoped Mary wasn’t up there listening in. She’d always been the jealous type.
    Soon he was asleep again, dreaming of spaceships and ray guns. When he woke it was dark outside. He retired to bed without looking at the clock. 

Sunday passed without event. Monday came and Jerry spent the morning in the garden, poking at hard frozen soil with a spade, raking up leaves to fuel a small bonfire. He set the bonfire in a metal bin at the top of the garden. He had nothing substantial to burn, just a few twigs, the leaves and some old newspapers he’d cleared out of the scullery cupboard. Soon enough the fire was crackling away and Jerry was standing over it, warming his hands, thinking about the cold, the bloody milkman and Blake’s Seven.
    The bonfire was short lived. Its warmth was not enough to keep Jerry from feeling the bite of the December air and he soon retreated to the house. Sitting beside the heater, warming his bones, he watched television.
    The news was on. Something about weeds in America, ‘bloody yanks,’ Jerry frowned. There were pictures of a desert, flowers blooming in patches, like pond weed. ‘Nice spread that,’ Jerry mumbled, remembering how the garden had looked during the summer when Mary had been alive. She’d known how to grow a real bed of flowers. She’d had a green thumb and a passion for Latin names. Jerry had just liked the look of all those blooms, they’d reminded him of the patterned flowerbeds in Brighton and Blackpool. These days the garden looked more like a rubbish tip, but Jerry blamed himself for that. He only knew how to dig and make a decent bonfire. He supposed a real gardener needed to know more. 

The week dragged on. TV became more festive. As Jerry took the odd stroll he noticed twinkling fairy lights in front windows. Christmas was coming.
    Mary had liked Christmas, gone out of her way to decorate the house, buy a tree. Jerry didn’t care much for it. His memories of Christmas were cold mornings in church with his mother and father, freezing in the trenches and listening to shells whistle overhead as carols played on the wireless. His memories of Christmas always seemed to involve shivering and cold, rain and misery. It was different for folk these days, they had money, bought each other nice things, sat in comfort in their warm homes. Nobody ever seemed to care that it was thanks to Jerry and his days in the trenches, fighting off the Nazis, that things like Christmas could still be enjoyed by all and sundry. Nobody wanted to know. Now was all that mattered, what happened back then belonged to old fools like Jerry.
    Friday morning in front of the news was interrupted by the doorbell. Jerry squinted through the curtains and saw Dirk bloody Brody, the milkman, standing outside the porch, whistling like he owned the bloody world.
    ‘What?’ Jerry snapped as he opened the door.
    ‘Morning Jerry-atric. Looking chipper as ever. So, what do you reckon to all this then, eh? Mrs Smith next door thinks we’ll have them plants growing round here soon.’
    ‘What you on about?’
    ‘Them plants they’ve got in America, Vegas Weed they’re calling it cos’ it started in Nevada, that’s a desert near Las Vegas. They say it came off a shooting star what landed in t’ desert or some such. Mrs Smith reckons if they can grow in a desert they can grow here. What do you think then Jerry-atric? Lets have an opinion from yer, its all anyone else is talking about y’know.’
    ‘Bloody yanks,’ Jerry growled, ‘what do I care.’
    ‘Alright mate, only trying to make polite conversation. Now then,’ Dirk studied his notepad, ‘OK, you owe me one pound sixty please.’
    ‘Ain’t got no bloody money. I’m on a pension. You think I’ve got that kind of money lying around the house? Bloody youngsters these days, you don’t know when you’re well off. I fought for your sort in the war, fought so you could put that grease in your hair and wear those fancy clothes and have your fun. What thanks do I get?’
    ‘OK, gramps, whatever you say. I’ll come back next week,’ Dirk turned and walked back to his float. As he left Jerry heard him mutter, ‘miserable old sod.’
    Friday afternoon Jerry had some bread and butter, a pint of stout and some biscuits he’d found in the scullery cupboard. He often found little treats like that. He supposed Mrs Gershwin left them for him, either that or Mary was still looking after him somehow, getting God to send down some biscuits now and then, or a chocolate bar or a newspaper. He hoped it was Mary and not that silly cow Gershwin. If it was Mary he hoped she understood how grateful he was, how much he wished she could be there to share the biscuits with him and shout at him for being lazy, for eating too much and ignoring the garden. He missed her shouting at him.
    At two Jerry went to bed. He felt tired and his body ached. He supposed he was getting a cold in the head, probably cos’ of the bad weather and the rising damp. He heard Mrs Gershwin look in on him some time around six, but thankfully she didn’t disturb him and soon the house was silent again, Jerry drifted back to sleep.

The next day was Saturday, the streets were full of screaming kids, sounds of traffic and footsteps. Jerry kept the curtains drawn and settled in front of the television, his cylindrical two bar gas heater next to his chair to fend off the worst of the cold.
    He watched open university, some funny looking idiot gibbering on about bar charts, then an hour long documentary on weed trouble on the continent. The tanned faces of foreigners griping about their problems made Jerry angry. ‘Bloody foreigners.’ During the war the Europeans had been as much the enemy as the kraut. They thought the British lot were stupid and cowardly because Churchill hadn’t protected them from old Hitler from the off. The frogs hadn’t been too bad. Jerry had swapped cigarettes with the frogs in the trenches at Normandy. The Ities were the worst lot. They were useless with a gun and always deserting.
    At midday Jerry took a look around the garden. Weeds were sprouting in the old flower beds so he spent an hour or two pulling these up. He could only manage a few at a time before he needed to rest a while, but eventually he managed to clear them all away. Afterwards he made a bonfire using the weeds as fuel. They burned well, making the fire nice and warm. Warm enough to stave off the cold in Jerry’s hands. For once he could enjoy the bonfire before needing to return indoors.
    At around five that day young Mrs Smith from next door came calling. Jerry could tolerate Mrs Smith. She rarely spoke about death and seemed to understand him more than most. When Mary died she had visited Jerry often, bringing round cake and hotpot to cheer him up. These days she didn’t call that often. ‘Thought I’d check in on you Mr Davis. I wanted to make sure all this stuff on the news ain’t been upsetting you.’
    Jerry chuckled, unsure what she meant but moved to laughter that someone cared enough to check on him. ‘Oh young Mrs Smith. I’m alright. How are you and Mr Smith doin’ these days?’ Jerry motioned for her to take a seat and opened the curtains a little way so some light might illuminate her pretty face. He enjoyed her youth, the smoothness of her skin, the light in her eyes, these things reminded him that not everything was old and not everything was about being old.
    ‘Oh, me and Mr Smith ain’t together no more I’m afraid Mr Davis. We didn’t see eye to eye me and him, so he went off with his dolly-bird.’
    ‘Oh,’ Jerry felt a little embarrassed, ‘I see.’
    ‘We got a divorce about two month back. Me and Mr Brody are living together now, we wants to get hitched.’
    Brody. The bloody milkman. Jerry frowned, ‘I see. Can’t say I approve of that. Its not right a man and woman living under the same roof without being married. Mary always said, in sickness and in health Jerry, in sickness and in health - that’s what its all about.’
    ‘Things have changed Mr Davis,’ Mrs Smith smiled. It was a sympathetic smile. Jerry felt foolish, ‘you modern young folk. You’re a mystery to me.’
    ‘Have you had weeds come up in the garden?’
    Jerry recalled the bonfire, ‘oh aye. Had a lovely bonfire this morning too.’
    ‘If you need help clearing them I’m sure Dirk’ll help. I think he has a soft spot for you Mr Davis. He quite often talks about you. Anyway. We’ve had hell with our weeds. The garden’s looking a mess. I think its ‘cos we’ve got so much turf. You’ll probably not do too bad with all that mud you got out there.’
    ‘Used to be flowers back when Mary was still with us,’ Jerry said sadly, ‘lovely out there it were. In the summer you’d have never believed it were the same garden.’
    ‘I can imagine Mr Davis,’ Mrs Smith grinned, dimples forming in her cheeks, ‘she was a good gardener was Mrs Davis.’
    Jerry nodded thoughtfully, gazed out the back window at the red brick wall separating his garden from Mrs Smith’s. Once that wall had been hidden behind climbing ivy and rhododendrons. Mary had always loved to hide ugly things in the garden with her flowers and that wall was ugly. Especially now, all covered in those weeds with their jagged leaves and purple stems. Horrible things.
    ‘Still. Its not as bad for us is it, not according to the news. Those poor Americans are having a terrible time, specially in the big cities.’
    Jerry looked at her, ‘bloody yanks.’
    ‘Oh, don’t be like that Mr Davis. The Americans are supposed to be our friends. If there’s a nuclear war we’ll need them to help us against them communists or whatever they’re called.’
    Jerry wasn’t sure what she was talking about. These days he found it hard to concentrate on any conversation for more than a few minutes at a time. He was preoccupied now with thoughts of Mary and the bonfire he’d enjoyed earlier. He couldn’t take in anything else.
    Eventually, sensing Jerry’s diminishing attention, Mrs Smith gave him a hug and left. For a long time after Jerry stared through the back window thinking things over. Mary ruled his thoughts but now also, for some reason, weeds, Americans and the red brick wall in the garden were in there too.

Sunday was a big disappointment. As he fixed his early morning cup of tea Jerry glanced through the scullery window and saw more weeds in place of those he’d taken up the day before. Probably, he reasoned, he’d weeded the garden several days ago and his bloody useless memory was playing silly buggers with him. Nothing grew that fast, not overnight, not even weeds.
    So that morning Jerry was outside again, yanking out the unsightly stuff. His fingers were still blistered from the last batch, whenever that had been, and the job was hard on his arthritis.
    After thirty minutes he was exhausted, forced to return inside and rest in front of the TV. He didn’t return to the garden to burn the weeds in the bonfire he’d hoped to fix and he didn’t uproot anymore weeds that day. He was too tired, too old, he told himself, to be working so hard. Before she died Mary had always told him not to overdo things, to respect his age and his abilities now he was over the hill. He had always listened to her. She was almost always right.
    The next day, Monday, was even worse. The weeds were everywhere, except now there were green flowers and leaves here and there, which wasn’t so bad. It was years since a flower bloomed in Jerry’s garden and now it was nice to see some there once more, even if they were far from being the most attractive flowers he’d ever laid eyes on.
    He decided not to uproot the weeds after that. Instead he rummaged around the cupboard under the stairs and found some rusty old secateurs. These he used to prune the worst of the growing weed beds, leaving the upper levels of flowers and foliage untouched. As he stood there, surveying his gardening efforts, his breath condensing in front of his face, the sweet scent of the flowers in his nostrils, the faint sound of rustling leaves all around him, he felt almost happy. He could imagine that Mary was there again, behind him somewhere, busy with another part of the garden. He could almost feel her presence, her companionship, there with him. But when he turned round he saw only his mud encrusted spade leaning against the wall.

Jerry realised he’d overdone things when he woke on Wednesday at three in the afternoon. His limbs ached badly and his head swam violently whenever he moved.
    Rather than aggravate his exhaustion he decided to rest and remained in bed for the rest of the day, only venturing downstairs at around six to fix himself a pot of tea and a sandwich.
    By Wednesday morning he was feeling worse. When he woke - his usual time of seven AM - he felt awful, in pain from head to toe and dizzy as hell. The light in the bedroom was a strange tint of green and from outside came a strange sound, like the sound of wind shifting restlessly through the leafy branches of a tree, except there were no trees and no leaves. Though he noticed both these things he hardly registered them. Even regular things seemed disorientating to his over-tired mind and only sleep, the fragmented unreality of dreaming, seemed to make any kind of sense. So he slept.
    Wednesday passed, as did Wednesday night. Thursday morning Jerry woke with a headache, but the worst seemed to have passed and he could sit up in bed without feeling sick.
    For the second time he noticed the green hue, the sound of moving leaves in a breeze. Slowly he crossed his bedroom to the window, drew back the curtains a few inches and peered out.
    The window was covered completely by greenery and flowers. He could see nothing, his view blocked by a wall of fauna. For a moment he felt odd, wondered if this was a normal thing and he was merely confused, as he sometimes was. But the more he considered it the more he became sure that something was not right.
    Downstairs, the back room window was broken, leaves and winding tendrils, like creeping ivy, had all but covered every available surface, every wall, every inch of the floor, the table, the display cabinet and the collection of china plates - Mary’s china plates - inside, the door leading into the scullery, the door leading out to the patio, everything. Bewildered, Jerry left the room and took his usual place in the front room in front of the TV. Here too was that worrying green colour and he felt certain that behind the drawn curtains lay another wall of weeds.
    He didn’t switch on the TV. He was too dazed to work the remote control. He needed a cup of tea and perhaps some toast, so he ventured into the scullery via the door in the front passage.
    The scullery too was covered by greenery but not so much that Jerry couldn’t break his way through to what he needed, the kettle, the toaster, the bread bin and the cutlery drawer. As he waited for the kettle to boil he watched the weed and sniffed its fragrance, which he liked. Some of the leaves were moving slowly across the walls, carried by thick tendrils. Here and there were insects, scurrying around their new-found jungle home. A spider had spun a web between one bush of leaves and the cooker top. Already a caterpillar had become ensnared.
    His meal fixed Jerry returned to the front room. With food inside him he felt less confused and eventually found enough presence of mind to switch on the TV.

The next day was Friday, the streets were empty, there were no sounds save for the continuous rustle of leaves, the distant murmur of the wind. Jerry kept the curtains drawn and settled in front of the television, his cylindrical two bar gas heater next to his chair but not switched on - the gas had been cut off late Thursday afternoon.
    He watched the news which was all that seemed to be on anymore. The main story seemed to be weed trouble throughout Britain. The terrified faces of Londoners and East-enders griping about their problems made Jerry angry. ‘Bloody cockneys.’ During the war the cockneys had been as much the enemy as the kraut. They thought northerners were dumb and treated them badly from the training grounds through to the trenches. They were always sticking together and getting in scraps, as if they thought they were better than everyone else, just because they came from the bloody capital.
    Dirk Brody never called that morning. Jerry supposed his doorbell was so covered by weeds Brody might have difficulty ringing it. Just as well, Jerry smiled to himself, since he had no money again. Still, the anomaly did disturb him slightly and by midday he was feeling quite unsettled.
    At around one that afternoon the electricity went and the TV switched itself off. Jerry had a number on a piece of paper, given to him by Mrs Gershwin, an emergency number In case he should ever need her urgently. He decided he would put his dislike for the woman to one side and call her. He had no idea how to fix a TV and now the gas was off the house had become uncomfortably cold.
    Mrs Gershwin didn’t answer.
    The scullery was inaccessible now. The weed had blocked off both doors leading in there and was now spreading, like green veins, from the back of the house into the front. The front room ceiling was slowly disappearing, as was the front passage floor. Since he couldn’t bring himself to open the front room curtains he couldn’t know for sure, but Jerry imagined the front was as blocked off as the rest of the house.
    Two o clock came and went, as did three and four. Jerry was hungry and the house had become bitterly cold. He tried some other phone numbers which he found next to the telephone but nobody answered any of them. During his last call the phone went dead.
    He banged on the wall between his house and Mrs Smith’s, in the hope that she would hear him. He seemed to recall her once telling him he should do so if he were ever in dire need of her help, if he ever fell down the stairs or burned himself or forgot where he was. Nobody banged back and, though he waited a full hour during which he continued to bang every now and then, nobody came knocking at the front door to see if he needed help.
    Eventually, tired and hungry, he gave up. His chair, when he sat in it, was wet with the cold, his hands and face were raw. Frost had begun to form on the lifeless TV screen. Distractedly Jerry wondered if that might damage the workings. His TV was very important to him. If that broke he’d have no company at all, save for the radio, but he disliked the radio. There were no radio stations for an old man like him. What there was he didn’t understand. The world had no time for old things, it was all new, all up to date and modern. Never mind that none of it would exist if Jerry hadn’t sat in that slime filled trench for three years, surrounded by the headless bodies of his mates, listening to the endless cackle of gunfire, the deafening thuds of incoming shells, waiting to die. Never mind all that. None of that mattered these days. It was all computers, fast cars, loud music.
    Jerry fell asleep at six, despite the cold and the pain in his body. He fell asleep clutching a photo of Mary, because he had wanted to save it from the weed which now covered everything around him. When he slept, he dreamed of that photo.
    Mary laughed, her girlish laugh. Her voice was always so feminine. Jerry loved to hear her speak, ‘look at yer tryin’ to work that bloody camera, you’ve got no technical smarts, you’ll break the thing.’
    Jerry was fiddling with the self timer mechanism. They were on the cliffs at Dover, Mary was standing in the wind with the sea behind her, her hair streaming out around her. Some way away, and in shot, was Jerry’s flashy red MG, his pride and joy. Some hippies were having a picnic close by and they laughed as he fumbled stupidly with the camera controls. Bloody hippies. Where were they in the war? Let them keep their love and peace. Jerry would show them what love and peace meant in the real bloody world.
    Quickly he ran to join Mary, wrapped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her in close, ‘happy anniversary love,’ he smiled. She kissed him. Even after all these years her kiss made him weak, made his insides lurch, his heart thump against his chest. She gazed at him for a moment or two. They exchanged something, something unspoken that might be ruined by words, then faced the camera and smiled.

There, standing before him, smiling as she had done that day on the cliffs of Dover, was Mary.

Fauna by Jane Carlton
(Contains language that some may find offensive)
The fiction contained on this page is © Jane Carlton 1999
Reproduction or republication of this work without prior written
authorisation from the author is strictly prohibited. Time dated
copyright proof of this stories author and authenticity is available
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