Stand Easy - Part II

[Part I here.]

Flo died in February 1965. Lung cancer - unusual that; Nobby smoked far more than she did. Though their house might have been spotless - no overflowing ashtrays, no specks of ash on the carpets, it did smell like a smoker's house. After Flo's death, Nobby might have been emotionally devastated, but he didn't show it. He carried on as usual, doubling his efforts at work and at home, teaching himself ironing and other domestic chores that until her death had been Flo's exclusive preserve. Nobby's routine remained unchanged. Those that knew him could not detect any tell-tale signs of grief-related depression. His clothes were as ever tidy, shoes gleaming, hair Brylcreemed back, moustache trim.

He might have wondered what life was all about, what was the purpose of it all, but at the British Legion or at the Stockwell Arms he never mentioned any worries or questions he might have - all was as it should be. He took to regular church-going at the garrison chaplaincy; at work, he never took a day's sick leave.

And so Nobby's life continued, interrupted but unimpeded. After Flo's death, his brother would contact him more often. Nobby's three nephews were all growing up, like any teenagers, enjoying their pop music and increasingly the new freedoms that the Swinging Sixties had to offer.

One Saturday in the summer of 1969, Nobby had an unexpected visit from his eldest nephew, Stephen, who was studying at the University of Essex. Opening the door, his eyes befell a young man with unkempt shoulder-length hair, frayed and somewhat dirty denim trousers, and a T-shirt with a questionable cartoon on it and a Victorian military jacket that looked like it had been once worn by a dashing hussar. Nobby ushered him in. "Come on in Stephen - " "Steve," the young man corrected him. "Glass of beer, son?" Nobby asked politely. Steve sat down in the parlour, which had been kept untouched since his aunt's death, and still dust-free. Nobby came back from the kitchen with two glasses of Courage Pale Ale.

"How are you, son?"
"Fine, uncle, I'm fine - nearly finished my second year at Uni... but how are you? How are you coping without Aunt Flo?"
"Just keep going - don't think too much about it - "
"That's... that's..." Steve's voice petered out. He didn't know how to address his deeper feelings to his uncle. How to say it. He knew that Uncle Nobby been through a lot during the war, unlike his dad who was too young to see action, he knew Uncle Nobby was a quiet man.

Nobby lit up a cigarette and drew a succession of long puffs between steady, parsimonious sips at his beer.

"Uncle - I'd be, well - could you - could you, er... lend me twenty quid please? Until my grant cheque clears - I'll pay you back in two weeks' time - it's just that I need it, well, I'm going to a music festival on the Isle of Wight, and dad, well..."

The beer had loosed Nobby's inhibitions a bit. "I don't wish to seem rude, or unkind - and it's not my place to say this - 'cos I'm not your dad - but just look at yourself! Long hair - when's it last seen a comb? And your trousers! Look at you! You're a mess, boy!" He tried to keep his voice calm, but felt the tone of the Regimental Sergeant Major welling up in him. Sorrow was giving way to anger, but Nobby felt he had to show restraint. Everything he saw in his nephew angered him - the clothes, the pop music, the free-and-easy lifestyle, the sociology - "these young people today - they don't contribute," he thought. But anger, he knew, was not the answer.

"Stephen," he asked, "what d'you think I think? About you, your sort, your way of life, your attitudes, your music? What d'you think I think?, eh?"

Steve sat back, a question like this so much more profound than any senior lecturer could have dropped him. "Well, Uncle..." he pondered a while, "it's hardly my fault that your youth was, like, er, tainted by war - I know when you were my age you were fighting for King and Country - who knows, I might have back then..."

"But you'd not fight for Queen and Country today, would you, boy?"

"No - I don't think I would. It'd be better to talk than to fight, I think, Uncle," said Steve nodding his head firmly.

"Tell you what, young man," said Nobby, reaching for his wallet, "Here - " he pulled out four five pound notes. "Here's twenty quid. It's yours. One condition. You go down the High Street and get your bloody hair cut. Short back and sides. I'll even give you one-and-six for the barber's." With great sadness, the young man stood up and bidding his uncle a sincere farewell, he left Nobby's house.

Steve remembered this incident several years later as he went for a haircut before his job interview as a junior management accountant with Coopers & Lybrand.

This time last year:
The problem of household waste

This time two years ago:
End of the school year for Moni and Eddie

This time three years ago:
Jeziorki midsummer scenes