Page 17 of These Old Lies
“And if you listen real closely, you can make out the birds in the park.”
Ned couldn’t hear the birds, but he could hear the traffic of the busy streets around him, the whirls of motors passing.
Ned was in London. He knew that. Hesitantly, he let himself take a breath. No smell of horseradish or onion. He took another short breath.
The voice beside him said, “Wellington House is right in front of you, with its fancy columns and big windows. Must cost a bloody fortune to heat that place.”
“Don’t ever accept an invitation from the Duke of Wellington for dinner,” Ned managed to croak out. “He’s cheap on coal and you are lucky if the soup isn’t frozen by the time it gets to you.”
The voice chuckled. “Aye, I’ll take that under consideration the next time the invitation comes in the post.”
Tentatively, Ned cracked open his eyes to see the street peddler sitting beside him. Up close, Ned realised they were probably around the same age, although the other man’s beard and layers of clothing made him look older. The souvenirs had been wrapped up; a balled white sheet tucked into the man’s other side. “You a bit better?”
“Yes, thank you.” Ned's voice was still hoarse. Mortification swept through him as he realised what a fool he must have made of himself. Ned moved to push himself off the ground, to at least be standing, but his hands shook too badly to find a grip.
The peddler placed a gentle arm on Ned’s. “No need to rush anywhere.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Care for one?”
Ned nodded and accepted the thin white tube, as well as the lighter. He breathed deep, letting the tobacco do its job, his heartbeat slowing. The cigarette had nearly burned all to ash before Ned spoke again. “I’ve a friend that smokes this brand.”
The peddler took a deep breath of his own cigarette. “A man of taste, then.”
“You could say that.” Ned watched a young woman in a nanny’s uniform push an elaborate pram through the iron gates of Hyde Park. “He’s a hatmaker.”
“Fancy, fancy,” the peddler replied, carefully tucking away the stub of his cigarette into his coat. “My mother always loved to look at the windows of the hat shop in Ballymena, with their ribbons and nonsense.”
“Been in London awhile?” Ned asked, the banal rhythm of the conversation soothing him.
“Two years or so? Thought I would give the Big Smoke a try. At least here a man can make his own job if there are none available.” He cocked his head towards his sheet.
“People still buy stuff like that?” Ned probably shouldn’t have asked.
“Enough.” The peddler shrugged.
What did it say about a country where a man in the prime of his life wasspending his days hawking trinkets on the street just to earn enough for a warm meal? Never mind that this country owed a veteran a better future than eking out a living on the streets.
Before Ned could think, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out his card and a pencil, quickly writing a few names on the back. “This is a list of theatres in Covent Garden that are looking for stagehands. It's odd hours, and physical work, but any of these jobs are yours if you show them this card.”
The man’s eyebrows leapt when he saw Ned’s full title on the card. “I don’t have enough pride to say no to this, but I’m not a charity case, either.”
“Neither am I.” Ned met the man’s eyes square on, a wordless reminder of how exactly they had ended up sitting on the ground together, and who was in whose debt.
Although, to be honest, Ned’s knees were starting to hurt from the hunched position. Gingerly he stood up, followed by this companion. Ned extended his hand. “Edmund Pinsent,” he said and, after a slight hesitation, added, “Kensington Regiment, 1st London Territorial.”
The peddler returned a firm grip. “Billy McLean, Royal Ulster Rifles, Ulster Division.”
???
Two days later, Ned still felt raw from his gas mask episode. His shell shock wasn’t as common as when he had first returned from Flanders, but he hated that he could be reduced to a hysterical mess so unpredictably.
Pushing the memory out of his mind, Ned picked up his pace, darting in and out between other pedestrians on Brompton Road's wide pavement, as if he could outrun his own weaknesses.
Ned hoped that Billy had followed up on the card. Ned knew the Royal Ulster Rifles, and they had been tough bastards. Perhaps Ned could organise a few friends to make similar offers to other veterans, help get men off the streets and into work. Maybe his mother could organise some sort of fundraiser? Or he could persuade his father to arrange a debate on the subject in the Lords.
Ned almost stopped dead in his tracks. What on earth was he thinking?He had tried to be a hero once and look where that had gotten him. He hadn’t made a damn bit of a difference. Watched a lot of men die. Drove away the man he loved.
“Never again,” he whispered, repeating the words to himself like a prayer as early evening began to descend upon London.
Ned reached the Victoria and Albert Museum as the sun set, the last of its rays revealing the massive red-brick building in all its glory, its decorative patterns, spires, and large clock lit against the darkening sky. On its wide, sandstone steps stood Charlie, the breeze blowing his curls in all directions.