A first-time piece from me on this occasion. Some of what follows is taken from my own personal experience -- I'm just not saying which parts!
Although Tom has just returned from a defining, life-changing experience, I deliberately avoided detail of what he saw and did during that short, intense conflict in 1982. After all, this ain't a war story, so I kept all of that out and focussed on his virginity and the outcome of being met by Rita upon his return.
The scene is a little short on the summer theme, and I can only apologise if you're expecting blazing skies, bikinis and sun-lotion. But in that year Tom's summer began in the Southern Hemisphere, a completely different setting to the scene in which he and Rita visit the pub beer-garden and then walk home, and I did think it might just qualify as an entry into the contest.
I'm not eligible for any prize, nor would I expect anything, but I still hope you enjoy the piece enough to cast a vote. Oh, feedback, leave feedback, please. If you do make a comment and want a response to it, then email is best -- but do give me an address to respond to!
Anyway -- jibber-jabber, jibber-jabber -- enough chat from me. I hope that reading the following is an enjoyable experience. If there are typos or any kind of fuck-ups still contained herein, I hope you can put them aside.
Okay, here it is.
GA -- Benissa, Spain -- 24th August 2013.
One
He had the window seat, was watching the patchwork of Oxfordshire drift beneath the aircraft when an elbow nudged him.
"We'll catch a bit of summer, eh mate?" The voice came from Tom's left, Pete Vallance in the middle seat of three. "It'll make up for being fuckin' cold and fuckin' wet, won't it, eh?" A chuckle, loose and phlegmy from years of hand-rolled cigarettes. "It won't make up for being shit-fuckin'-scared, though." And then perhaps as an afterthought, a concession to Tom's youth and inexperience before it had all happened: "But you were fuckin' magic down there, mate. Got stuck in, didn't ya."
He didn't turn his face from the window, Tom's eyes remained fixed on the sight of England sliding by, an odd experience since he was looking at where they'd been rather than where they were going, a quirk of the Royal Air Force, configuring the seats in the VC-10 to face the rear of the plane.
"Warmer back here than it was down there, Pete."
Pete Vallance snorted. "Fuckin' bastard cold, wasn't it," a statement he delivered in the nasal tones of his native Liverpool. "Like Sennybridge in fuckin' November. I couldn't believe it was June. What sort of place is it that has winter in June?" He cast an appreciative glance over Tom's shoulder as the plane banked in for its approach. "Great to be back, isn't it? Can't beat Blighty in the summer." He nudged a shoulder into Tom. "The birds are gonna be all over us, kid. Wait and see, mate. The birds are gonna go mad for it. I'm gonna make the most of this leave. I'm gonna shag my way through Liverpool."
Tom turned to see a lewd grin on Pete's face as the man rubbed his hands together, a ferret-faced Fagin in army uniform smirking with lascivious glee. He wondered at Pete's ability, rough of manner and coarse of tongue yet able to charm the knickers off the girls with breath-taking ease. Even with teeth like a fighting patrol -- blackened and unevenly spaced -- there was no doubt whatsoever that Pete would manage to attract a willing partner when he went marauding through his home town.
So why did Tom find it so difficult?
He pondered the irony of his recently won status as a veteran and the dilemma of his persistent virginity, considered the combination of his age and virginity well past a joke. Now, the homecoming imminent, he decided to do something about it. Even if it meant a visit to Soho and spending fifteen quid for time between an anonymous woman's legs, he was determined to do something.
These thoughts occupied his mind during the bus ride along the M4 Motorway, displaced only when he stepped off the coach when it arrived at its destination -- Montgomery Lines, home to 5 Infantry Brigade. It was an emotional welcome -- wives, parents, girlfriends and children, tearful and so obviously relieved their loved ones had returned home unscathed. He entertained a brief notion his father might be there to welcome him, but dismissed the though almost as soon as it popped into his head.
Detached from the hubbub surrounding him, and avoiding the possibility of being stiffed to join one of the work parties unloading baggage from four ton trucks, let the rear party skivers enjoy that privilege, he moved away from any over-zealous NCOs, towards the low concrete platform in front of the Quartermaster's stores.
It was strange being back, not that he'd had time to settle in before they'd left England, three weeks in the battalion, barely time to unpack and learn the names of the other blokes whose room he shared before he'd found himself involved in a whirl of activity, organised chaos as the entire brigade prepared for a hurried departure to a heretofore unheard of cluster of islands in the South Atlantic.
But there he was, back, he'd made it, and now it was over he was glad of being thrust so quickly and violently into his trade. He'd performed well, done the business, and as a result had been accepted, totally integrated, a living cell in the organic life of the section, a blooded member of the platoon, noticed by the Company Sergeant Major and the Officer Commanding in a good way.
He idly observed the tearful reunions all around him, his mind slipping back to the subject uppermost in his mind. Tom again pondered his immediate future and considered what to do, uninvolved as he was in the cacophony of jubilant chatter, squeals of delight and shouts of greeting. There would be a short period of chaos as kit was returned to stores, weapons cleaned -- again -- and put away in the armoury. Form-filling and other bullshit would have to be endured before the lads, champing at the bit, would be let loose among the civilian populace.
There were limited options available to him. He could take a flight to Germany to visit his father or he could stick to his original plan and remain in barracks with the handful of other self-titled 'orphans', men who for a variety of reasons had no desire to return to the towns and villages they came from or had nowhere to go to in the first place. Staying in camp would undoubtedly involve him being sucked into drinking in the Traf or the Queens or the Exchange, listening to already well-worn stories of what they'd done on those cold, confusing and oddly exhilarating nights in June. But visiting his father didn't exactly fill Tom with joy either.
He was just contemplating the train journey to London from Aldershot when he saw her walking towards him.
He blinked and then wondered why he was surprised to see her. It shouldn't have been a shock that she'd come. All it would have taken was a phone call, a simple matter to find out when the battalion, and his company were due to return. She would have taken a taxi from Guildford, her and the Jack Russell terrier.
He said nothing, bashful as ever at these first meetings. He'd warm, would loosen-up after a few minutes in her easy company, her effortless friendliness pushing aside Tom's shyness.
Then she was there, smiling and elegant, her little dog on the lead sniffing Tom's boots.
"Hello, Tom," Rita breathed. "Welcome home."
He moved into her hug, the embrace that changed everything for him.
Two
