It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go. It's a long way to Tipperary To the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Leicester Square! It's a long long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there. "Why don't you sing?" I glance up. "Sorry?" "You heard me, feller. Why don't you sing with us?" He’s a young lad, a scrappy pup of a soldier. Too much hair, too much talk and too much misused energy. I shift my feet to make a groove in the mud. "I can't sing." The boy lets out a loud laugh. "Who do you think we are? The London bleedin' Chorus?" He abandons his pack and sits down opposite me, insisting on an answer. "No rule sayin' that I have t'sing.’ I mumble. "True that, feller. Very true. I was just wonderin'. That's all." I remain silent and busy myself with my sodden shoelace. I feel the boy still watching me. "It might make you feel better." "What?" "Singin'." I give an inward sigh. "It's a good thing to sing a good old British song" the boy continued, apparently oblivious to my discomfort. "Good for the blood." I pause and look up. "It's Irish." "Y'what?" "Irish. The song you were singin'. Tipperary. Irish. Obvious, really" The boy looks momentarily crestfallen but quickly turns on a smile. "Ah well. No wonder ol' Paddy sings it with such gusto, then." I shake my head and place my hands behind me, looking for a dry piece of mud to raise myself up on. "You Irish then, fella?" I look at his smiling face. He looks no older than eighteen. Eager. He must be one of the new ones. Far too much energy. Far too much light in his eyes. I shake my head. "No." "Oh." I look down the centre of the trent, to the laughter of the new recruits. He follows my gaze. "'Ow did you know that then?" "Know what?" "'Bout Tipperary. That it was Irish. I didn't know that." "I just know stuff, lad. Tha's all." He looks encouraged by my smile. "What's your name?" I pause. "William." "Matthew" He offers his hand and I bend down to shake it. "You look too old to be down here, feller." He doesn't say it as an insult. Just a statement. "I'm not as old as I look." I sit back down beside him. "'Ow old are ya, then?" "Thirty-three." "Jesus!’ He hands me a tin cup of water ‘You look older." "I've been here too long." "When are you next due leave?" I shrug. "Not sure." "I'm countin' the days, me. Six weeks, two days. Nearly one day. Mary's going to meet me off the train. God, I can't wait." "I bet." "You got a sweetheart back home, William?" "No." "She moved on, has she? Like Jimmy's lass?" "I never had a sweetheart." Matthew looks at me, eyes wide. "Never?" "No." "Who are you writing to then?" I feel myself going slightly red and for once I thank the dark. "Nobody." Matthew wraps his arms around his knees. "What about your parents?" "I don't have any. I was abandoned as a baby." Matthew becomes apparently fascinated by a piece of mud stuck to the bottom of his mug. His forehead creases in concentration as he tries to peel it off. He carefully sets it back down and turns back to me. "You're an orphan." Matthew says this very quietly, his eyes fixed on me. I nod once. "Where...where are you from?" I shake my head. "Nowhere long enough to call home." Matthew's eyes widen. "This is the longest place I've ever lived anywhere. This soddin' hole." Matthew leans back against the wood, looking genuinely upset. "That why you don't sing? 'Cause you don't have a sweetheart to sing for? Or a home to fight for?" He wipes a dirty hand across his mouth, his eyes wide. " God. It must be awful, feller. Must be truly awful when the post comes. I live for that moment, feller. Live for it." "Makes no difference t'me. I've never known any different." "Saddest thing I've heard since I got here, William... and I heard some sad things." I stand up quickly, my legs slipping slightly in the mud. I don't welcome sympathy. "I'll write to you, William." I pause. "What?" "You heard me. When I go home. In six weeks, nearly one day. I'll write to you. I'm no poet and I'm no sweetheart but I'll write just to say hello. Then you can have post. Like everyone else." I don't look at him. I suddenly feel... I can't even explain. For once I feel weak. For once I feel scared by the explosions in the distance. For once I feel scared for tomorrow. "Good luck t'ya Matthew." I still don't look at him. I can't. I begin to walk away as I hear him shout. "It's okay you don't sing, feller. It's okay..."
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