Competition Winners
2nd Prize
Fairytale of Bognor by Penelope West
Well, here we are. The end of the line-specifically the end of a branch line in West Sussex. I played escape and evasion with the Southern Rail ticket inspector, by hiding in the bog en route from Victoria to Bognor. Spend pennies to save pennies, I say. Let me introduce myself. Fergal Reilly, 1 at your service. Snark to my friends.
Why I am I here? Do you expect an answer to existential questions at this hour? Apparently, Bognor has the most hours of sunshine anywhere in this sceptered isle, so that’s good enough.
Opposite the station is a cinema, a vintage picture drome. A drunk on the steps flails an arm. ‘Come and have a beer!’ Ah, he knows me, but perhaps I shouldn’t fall into bad company just yet.
Observing the usual high street shops, Timpson’s has a sign which says ‘If you are unemployed and need an outfit cleaned for an interview, we will do it for free.’ How civilized. I might need it if those feckin’ sea gulls crap on my last decent jacket.2
Once upon a time, there was stage school. Briefly, I had an agent, and a role as a minor character in a TV soap. Then he was written out, the phone stopped ringing, and work dried up. Actors resting between engagements have lousy credit, so Keira chucked me out. I joined the Army to collect material for the play I’ll write someday. Military life has a lot to offer- board and lodging, first rate costumes and props, and a band of mates I’ll never forget. Even the Padre was always up for a craic.
The Army invites you to parties in all the best places. I’ve been to Helmand and back. Caught in the periphery of an improvised explosive device blast, I have metalwork in my leg, though I still have two, unlike some of the poor devils. Did you notice the limp? I don’t shoot stuff in my veins. I’ve just been shot at, so there.
I register a café called ‘Charlie Charlie One.’ That’s the universal military call for everyone to come, so I obey.
Taking stock of my surroundings, the café is a cheerful place with a motherly type behind the counter. A stout chap sporting Arsenal football kit sits in the corner reading ‘The Sun’, a Staffordshire terrier asleep on his feet. At another table, a woman with a tatty note pad is working on a Chrome book. What’s this? The poor man’s JK Rowling? Watch your tone, Fergal Snarky. Everyone has their story.
The woman buys a coffee, and says, ‘Pay one forward, please’.
The proprietor nods and smiles.
A large mural shows a soldier and dog working together in the desert, and clocks on the wall display the time in London and Baghdad. Posters explain that the cafe is run by veterans, for veterans. I pocket a card with the contact details. 3
Restless again, I follow a sign to Hotham Park, lured by music from the bandstand. They’re playing the theme from ‘Rocky’, then the marching tune, ‘Sussex by the Sea’. I sit propped against my Bergen to listen.
Behind the bandstand is something resembling a circus big top. Billy Smart’s? No, wrong Billy, silly. It’s Butlins, and a banner proclaims they’re hiring across all teams.
Now the park is emptying, that bandstand will make a fine four poster for the night. As Shane MacGowan didn’t quite sing before he shuffled off this mortal coil:
‘In Bognor Regis Town,
I pitched my eiderdown,
This place called Hotham,
Is scarcely Gotham,
No super hero here,
Just pain and doubt and fear,
Perhaps a little cheer,
Upon the morrow.’4
Flashes. Whistles. Bangs. Jesus! Reflexively, I throw myself into a hedge, covering my head. I stay there a while, mouth dry, heart racing. I’m not blind or deaf, and my limbs work. One last bang yields a thousand coloured stars, and a thumping disco beat takes over. Those must be quality speakers. I can feel the reverberations through the ground. So, Butlins had fireworks and now it’s party time.
I laugh until the tears stream down my face. Truth to tell, yesterday I wasn’t sure whether I’d write myself out of the script. I finger the card in my pocket.
What do you imagine when you hear the word veteran? A Chelsea Pensioner in a red coat with a row of medals? Actually, it’s anyone who’s served. That youngster, who went from the care system to the Army but was temperamentally unsuitable; the bandsman stretcher bearer who never says what she saw, or my charismatic self, writing my life story.
Tomorrow, I shall claim that coffee and talk to someone who has marched a mile in my boots, supposing they have feet.
Sweet dreams.
1 Fergal Reilly is a fictional creation. Ideally, read this monologue aloud, with an Irish accent. All the places mentioned are real, and can easily be explored in a short walk around the town.
2 I might say ‘if the seagulls christen my last decent jacket’.
Paraphrase if you wish to make it more polite for a live reading!
3 Sincere thanks to Matthew Cole, Director of Veteran Services, Crimsham Veteran’s Hub, for talking to me about his work.
4 Sing to the tune of Fairytale of New York, by the Pogues.