September Song by Colin Murray Read Free Book Online

spud-bashing or scrubbing the parade ground with a toothbrush, he smiled sweetly and bore it all with the patience of Job. Which drove Corporal Geordie Patterson wild. Our basic training was almost up when he finally cracked and decided to use Bernie as a punchbag. He got four or five good pokes in before I and two other lads dragged him off and quietened him down.
    The quietening down, of course, was what got us into trouble.
    Corporal Patterson lost two teeth, suffered a cracked cheekbone and three broken ribs. The other NCOs were not happy, although one of them did admit that he had it coming. As he also said, though, they couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened, and they decided that all of those involved would spend three rounds in the ring with Sergeant Philip Harrison, who just happened to be regimental champion at middleweight and, we were told, a bit of an animal.
    In fact, the anticipation turned out to be far worse than the event itself.
    None of us survived the first round. I didn’t survive the first half of the first round, but even that was about a minute more than Bernie managed. Harrison was good and fast, and he more than punched his weight.
    We didn’t see Patterson again, though, so we reckoned we just edged it on points.
    Oh, and Bernie took us all back to his mum’s for a proper Jewish momma’s nosh. She fussed over our bruised mugs and kept on ladling out the chicken soup and other delights till we could hardly move. The other two lads weren’t too keen on the food, being more your roast dinner sort of chaps, but I developed a real taste for potato latkes. And, for some reason, the Rosen family developed a liking for me.
    I don’t know why I thought of Lance-Corporal Geordie Patterson, although I suppose he did share a sly and unpleasant look with Ricky Mountjoy. I couldn’t help but think that he’d been a lucky boy. He’d have suffered a bit more than a few cracked ribs if he’d encountered me after the commando training I’d undergone for Special Ops had toughened me up. Harrison would still have given me a good hiding, though.
    Jerry and I walked from Tottenham Court Road station down to Pete’s Place. Charing Cross Road sparkled under the street lights and the headlamps of the buses and cabs after a little shower had rinsed the tarmac and the paving stones. Two girls wearing tight-fitting blue jeans caught Jerry’s eye, but they just giggled at him when he tried to start a conversation.
    He shrugged, sighed theatrically, blew them a kiss and then told me enthusiastically that he’d tracked down some French records of Sidney Bechet and asked if I’d write to the recording company for him, to place an order. I suggested that, if he was paying, I could jump on a ferry and do the deal in person. He sniffed dismissively. I decided to take that as a ‘maybe’.
    The band was enjoying a cigarette and beer break at Pete’s Place and chatting in a desultory fashion with the half dozen customers who had beaten us to it. Peter Baxter himself was standing with his back to the bar, a pint in his hand, gloomily surveying the empty wilderness of his club. His trumpet gleamed dully on the dark wood of the counter, next to him, among the sticky puddles of spilt beer. He nodded at me and smiled bleakly.
    â€˜Not many in tonight,’ I said.
    He cleared his throat. ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘There were quite a few more in earlier.’ He sighed and turned to the bar. ‘Let me buy you a drink,’ he said. ‘For helping out last night.’
    â€˜That’s all right,’ I said. ‘Let me get ’em. I’m having a short.’
    â€˜In that case,’ he said, ‘come back to my office. I’ve got a bottle of brandy there and I could do with a proper drink.’ He looked at Jerry. ‘Will your mate be all right here?’
    Jerry shrugged.
    â€˜Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll just get