Over the years I have written a number of short stories. This is my favourite.

Bodmin. The very word was like a bell. With a forlorn and far-off ring. Far-off it

certainly was; five hundred and forty miles away according to The News

Chronicle Everything Within, which was the nearest we came to an

encyclopaedia in our house. The idea of travelling had always fascinated me. I

had once said to my mother, ‘One day I want to go on a long journey,’ a wish

that she now reminded of at every opportunity. She didn’t see my impending

departure for Bodmin as a posting over which I had no control, but as an act of

defiance, ingratitude even, after all she had done for me.

My father, on the other hand, might have been a great traveller himself

except for the fact that he hated going away from home. He loved consulting

maps and railway timetables, though; planning journeys that he never made but

now that I was doing my national service his passion for armchair travelling

suddenly had a purpose.

We were sitting in the front room with the ritualistic tea and chocolate

biscuits that followed Sunday dinner.

‘I don’t see any way round it,’ my father said, his shoulders hunched as

he pored over the atlas.

My mother gave me a conspiratorial smile and said, ‘Round what,

father?’

‘You’ve either got to go through London or Bristol,’ he said.

‘It’s down south is it?’ my mother said.

Now it was my father’s turn to enlist my support.

‘She criticises me but if she hasn’t a clue herself,’ he said. ‘What would

you do if you had to get to Bodmin?’

‘I’d go to the station and wait till the train came,’ my mother said.

She should have added that if a train didn’t come after five minutes she

would have set off to walk.

I left home at seven thirty on Sunday evening and arrived in Bodmin next

day at tea-time. The barrack rooms looked as if they had been dropped at

random on a hillside close to the station. They were divided into two with eight

men in each half. We were all eighteen-year-olds except Eric Tyson, who was

twenty-five and a qualified solicitor. Tony Vincent and Mick McKenna were

‘regulars’ who had signed on for five years. There was one other north-

easterner, Graeme West from Murton Colliery who began every day by reciting

the ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’ speech from MacBeth.

“It is a tale told by an idiot,”’ he intoned on the first morning.

‘You’re fucking right, mate,’ said Mick McKenna.

We studied Russian five hours a day.

‘In the Russian language there is no letter ‘y’ ’ said our instructor, Mr

Diakowski.

‘How do they manage for underpants,’ said Simon Grant who was sitting

next to me.

Simon had sharp alert features and a quiet voice. We became friends

immediately.

Mr Diakowski also explained about Russian names.

‘If a Russian boy is called Ivan and his father’s name is also Ivan the boy

will be known as Ivan Ivanovich – Ivan the son of Ivan. So let us now apply

this to you gentlemen. ’

I became Stewart Georgeowich and Simon Simon Fredovich; Graeme

West was Graeme Robertovich and Mick McKenna Mick Mickovich. A

new cult was born.

After four weeks there was an exam. Anyone with less than 40% would

be taken off the course. Simon got 44, I got 42, Eric Normanovich Tyson

got 40. Below Eric’s name there was a thick black line. Tony Jackovich

and Mick Mickovich had failed. When I went to the barrack room after tea

they had packed their kitbags and were inviting us all to join them for a

farewell drink.

I walked down the hill into Bodmin with Simon.

‘I’m told you have to avoid scrumpy,’ he said.

‘I’ll probably have a half of shandy.’

Eric Normanovich caught up with us. Wearing a suit, a long overcoat and

a trilby he looked much more a solicitor than an airman second class.

‘You men going ashore?’ he said.

‘We were studying at a joint services’ camp army, navy and R.A.F. The

navy treated the camp as though it was a ship. Going into Bodmin was

‘going ashore ‘ and the bus into Bodmin was ‘ the liberty boat. ‘

Tony and Mick were sitting at the head of a long table covered with

glasses, most of them full. Tony thrust a glass of pale, flat liquid into my

hand.

‘What is it?’

‘Just cider. Get it down your neck.’

People were telling stories and soon it was my turn.

‘…the C.O. had noticed people were putting up pigeon lofts and hen

houses in station married quarters so he asked the duty sergeant to write a

memo about it and the he wrote: ‘With effect from today there will be no

erections in married quarters without the permission of the Commanding

Officer. ‘ ’

Every story was greeted with laughter and applause.

‘A pint for the story-teller. Give that man a drink. ’

I was feeling dizzy and the room was spinning. I stood up. Old men sitting

at tables playing dominoes looked up and laughed. When I opened the

door the cold air hit me like a fist. I was in the car park and couldn’t find a

way past the cars; my legs would go where I wanted them to. I leaned

against the side of a Volkswagen. The cider bubbled up in my throat, hot

and sweet and I vomited and again, and again. An old man wearing a

battered brown trilby helped me to my feet. For a minute I thought he was

my granddad and felt ashamed.

‘Been on the scrumpy? ’ he said. ‘ You lads never learn. ’

He handed me a clean white handkerchief that smelt of tobacco

I woke in my own bed. Tony Jackovich was standing over me, laughing, a

mug of tea in his hand.

‘Feel all right, mate? ’

My head ached; my throat was sore, my stomach churning.

‘First time you’ve been drunk? You never forget the first time. ’

I wished I could.