The star

James and his journey through life. He fought in a war and was loved by his wife and children. Surely he was appreciated until the end? At least he got to die in his favourite armchair...

The star

 

   James Irvine limped over to the mantelpiece.  He was in a lot of pain with is leg again.  It had been hurting a lot more than usual over the last few days and he found it difficult to stand still for any time. 

   It had been ten years.  He’d come so close to getting through the whole war…

   “Jim,” said Doreen.  “What are you doing?”

   James turned and looked at his wife.  Red-faced with untidy hair, she looked wonderful, he thought.  He loved the way she watched him with her head cocked to one side.  It was a look just for him, he thought.

   He smiled warmly.  “Come over here,” he said, holding his arms out to her.    

   She walked over to him with a timid smile.  Gently, he took her by the shoulders and guided her around so she was standing with her back to him.

   “What are you doing?”  She giggled.

   He wrapped his arms around her and pointed at the red armchair stood underneath the large, sash window.

   “My new armchair,” he announced.

   Doreen giggled again.  “You old silly.  It’s only an armchair.”

   “It’s my armchair,” said James.  “My first armchair.  The spoils of…my work.”

   Doreen cleared her throat and smiled to herself.

   “I can’t believe how lucky we’ve been since you got your new job.  The chair, the television, the washing machine.  My old Mum would’ve been so proud.  A Putney girl with a washing machine in her kitchen and a war hero in her arms.”

   James said nothing.  He breathed deeply and released Doreen from his grip.

   “Jim?”

   He hobbled over to his new armchair and sat down heavily.  He held his head in his hand.

   “Sorry Jim.”

   “No, Doreen.  It’s the pain in my leg.  It’s been doing me something chronic since this dreadful rain started.”

   Doreen leaned against the mantelpiece.

   “Have you been taking the pills the doctor gave you?”

   “Yes,” he said, more loudly than he had meant.  “Yes.  But the morphine makes me feel so sick.  I’d rather put up with the pain.  It’ll get better when the weather turns.”

   They remained still and in silence for a few minutes; the only sound was the fire crackling in the grate.  Suddenly, the sun shone through the window, causing Doreen to shield her eyes.  James stood up and blocked the sun with his body.  Doreen looked up into James’ eyes and smiled.

   “Thank you, darling.  You’re so kind to me.”

   James walked over to her, not as stiffly as before, and put his hand on her belly.

   “My boy,” he said, softly.

   Doreen giggled shyly and kissed James on the cheek.  With a skip in her step she walked out of the room to continue with whatever errand she’d been busy with previously. 

   Alone, James looked back at the frame hanging above the mantelpiece.  Mounted on red felt behind the glass was his medal – an Atlantic Star medal. 

   He reached out and touched the glass.

   “Please be proud,” he said, softly.

 

*

 

   “Granddad.  Granddad.  Get up out of that chair and play with us.”

   Tracey pulled at James as he sat in his faded old armchair.  He was smiling at Jessica, who was standing behind Tracey, and gave her a conspiratorial wink.  Jessica giggled shyly and looked away.

   “I can’t, Tracey love.  My poor leg can hardly move these days.  Get your dad to play with you instead.”

   “But I want you, granddad.”

   James started to cough uncontrollably.  Tracey crooked her head on one side, patiently waiting for James to stop.  He continued to cough; she soon became worried.

   “Granddad,” she said, softly.  James was holding his chest and trying to draw breath.  

   “Granddad,” screamed Jessica, running forward and pushing the now limp Tracey out of the way.

   “Ah ha!”  Yelled James and he pulled Jessica into a bear hug, laughing at her screams.  Tracey burst into laughter and pretended to jump up and down in horror.

   “Don’t do that.  You frightened me.”

   James was now on his knees and tickling Jessica as she wriggled on the floor.  Both were laughing and shouting with excitement.

   Tracey grew bored with the game and wandered over to the mantelpiece.  She looked at an old, black and white photo in a Sepia frame of James and Doreen on their wedding day.  Faded and blurry it bore the signs of age and wear.  Above the photo, hanging on the wall, was a small picture frame with what looked like a medal set on some old, red felt.

   “What’s that Granddad?”

   James looked up from his game, smiling wildly, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, and looked at the frame.

   “Oh that old thing.  It’s a medal from when I was a lad.  Nothing important.”

   “Oh,” sighed Tracey.

   She wandered out of the room.  James grabbed the side of his armchair and slowly pulled himself into a standing position.

   “Here you are,” said Jessica, offering James his walking stick.

   “Ta, love.”

   Jessica looked up at James as he stared, panting, out of the window.

   “What is the medal for, granddad?”

   James looked round at Jessica and then back at his Atlantic Star.

   “Nothing, honey.  Your grandma liked it so we had it framed.”

   “How did you get it?”

   James sighed and looked at Jessica in the eye.

   “I was in the Navy a long time ago.  I won it because people thought I was brave.”

   Jessica’s eyes widened in wonder.

   “Really?  I bet you were; I bet you were very, very brave and killed lots of…”

   “No,” James said firmly.  Jessica stopped talking and went red in the face.  “No.  It…wasn’t like that.”

   “Sorry,” said Jessica, quickly.  She started to fidget uncomfortably.  James breathed deeply and stroked her blond hair.

   “I was a young man when I won that medal.  I watched all my friends die.  Do you know how I got my limp?”

   Jessica shook her head.

   “No, nor do I.”

 

*

 

   “Is Mr Irvine at home?”

   “Yes,” said the face in the crack of the door, “but he’s still not feeling well.”

   “Oh dear, what a shame.  We’ve missed him at the day centre.”

   The face shrugged.  The woman on the doorstep looked swiftly into the hallway, but it was too dark to see anything of interest.

   “Anyway, here’s his meal.”

   “Thanks.”

  “And…give him my best.”

   “We will,” said the face.  He shut the door.

   The hallway was in disarray.  Wallpaper hung torn from the walls.  Scattered on the floor was several weeks’ worth of post.  The telephone lay disregarded on the bare floorboards. 

   The face carried the tray of food into the living room and dropped it on the floor. 

   “Everything alright, Gary?”  Asked the young man holding his hand over James’ mouth.

   “Fine,” said Gary.  “He stinks, Dave.”

   Gary pointed at James.

   “Of course he does,” replied Dave.  “He’s been sitting in his own filth for two weeks.”

   The curtains hid the daytime.  Rubbish was strewn all over the concrete floor, its carpet long since torn up.  The armchair was now up against the back wall.  The wedding photo lay smashed on the floor next to the mantelpiece.  The walls were bare plaster – there were streaks of blood and faeces all over the place.

   Dave released his grip on James.

   “Please,” sobbed James.  “Please.”

   “He’s talking again, Gary.”

   Gary picked up the item closest to his foot and threw at James.  The corner of the picture frame caught James on the bridge of the nose.  Blood oozed slowly from the cut and dripped onto the smashed glass and red felt that had landed in his lap.  Amongst the debris was a shiny, silver circlet attached to a piece of ribbon.  It looked beautifully clean against James’ soiled clothes.  It had, after-all, remained preserved in the frame for 64 years.

   James wept quietly.  After some time he looked at his Atlantic Star and tried to remember his friends, but their faces had long since faded.  He tried to remember Doreen’s smile, but the long years since her passing had stolen the image from him.  His leg, no longer of any use, twitched pathetically as blood and tears seeped through his trousers.  An image of Jessica swept into his mind.  She was smiling at him.  Her smile always reminded him of Doreen.  Her weekly letters had stopped some time before.

   Dave and Gary crushed Jessica’s image as they loomed into view holding a dirty brown, rug-sized piece of material.  It looked like a monk’s habit.  It stank of petrol.

   “We’re off now.  Thanks for letting us stay and all that,” said Gary.  “You looked a bit cold so we found this rag in one of the bins up the road and thought it might warm you up a bit.”

   They walked out the front door, laughing inanely. 

   As the flames licked James’ face and singed his hair, he felt himself beyond the pain and somehow managed to pin his Atlantic Star to his lapel. 

   “I’ve waited so long to wear you,” he said.  “Goodnight.”