Johnny’s nth piece by Johnny Barclay

I thought I’d planned for every eventuality Sidcup wasn’t our first choice but after all those years in ball-bearings, beggars could hardly be choosers.  Actually, it wasn’t as bad as all that and, when twinned with Chislehurst, sounded half respectable like a hyphenated name.

    John and Petal Robinson – that was us – though it didn’t take long for Jack to catch on.  Petal was known as Pet as in Geordie speak, though we never travelled much north of London.

    Children never came our way so we took Margate to our hearts instead.  Regular day trips there by train – passed by Whitstable and its grey expanse of sea, through Herne Bay and on to Margate where tea shops, art galleries and boats in the harbour awaited us.      Lots of laughs there were in those days, less so in the middle years but by the end we were as happy as ever.

    It was a full-time job looking after Pet in the final weeks.  “Be a love, Jack,” she would say, “And fetch me a cup of tea.”  She used to sit up in bed with tea perched perilously on her lap and Woodbines at the ready by her side.      At the very end I remember her taking a good puff from her beloved ciggy, held between frail little fingers and exhaling with a smile.  “Here’s to you, Mr Robinson,” were the last words I heard her say.

    I did quite well on my own at first until I tripped on the frayed carpet and broke my leg.  Not the disaster you might think; it was a wooden leg. I lost the original at Anzio in 1944, so no real pain just the inconvenience of being back on crutches and a bit dot and carry while I waited for a replacement to be fitted.

    It was while I was sitting in my chair looking out over our garden that the telephone rang.       “It’s George here.” I was pleased to hear his voice. “How about a day out to Eastbourne?”  George had been a friend since London days, now on his own too but, despite a dicky bladder, still in good fettle.      “Coach journey,” he said. “A walk down the promenade – wheel-chairs at the ready fish and chips maybe, ice-creams too and perhaps finish up with tea at the Grand and the Palm Court Orchestra.

    Sounds good I thought but, as I listened, I spotted a graceful red creature with pointy  muzzle, more feline than canine, tripping silently up the ivy and over the wall.      “No George,” I said. ’Not quite ready yet.  You go. I’ll be all right here. But don’t forget your milk bottle and make sure you sit by a window which opens.

    I put the receiver down, hopped clumsily over to the fridge, trouser leg rolled up just below the stump, and extracted a beer before settling down to see if my cunning little friend would make another appearance.      Of course Eastbourne would have been a treat, but in truth it had all ended up exactly as I’d expected it would in the first place.

     ‘Here’s to you, Mrs R.”