***
Llangollen Canal and Rachel’s Farm, December 21st
The morning was one of those sunny winter mornings all bright and blue sky that made the chilly bite of the temperature all the more surprising. The Periwinkle was the only boat on the canal as it slowly nosed out of the wharf. Tom skilfully reversed the boat to a watering stop and filled the boat’s water tank as Nia held the narrowboat calm by its centre rope. The plan for the day was a trip down the cut to the Shropshire market town of Whitchurch, moor up at its reclaimed small wharf and grab a ride with Rachel or Owain to the farm for dinner. Once underway, Nia took the tiller and Tom went inside to make cups of tea.
The journey was uneventful. Nia and Tom talked constantly at the tiller with Nia occasionally popping inside the Periwinkle to get warm. They encountered a swing bridge and Tom moored up and he and Nia, along with Jack, walked down the towpath to raise the bridge. Tom returned to the boat and gently moved past the bridge which Nia, still on the towpath, lowered and then ran back to the boat. Tom warned her about the dangers of running on canal verges especially near locks and swing bridges as a hidden bollard could trip the runner leading to a nasty fall on the towpath or into the canal itself. Nia answered with an, “Aye, aye, captain”. After a couple more swing bridges, which they took turns in raising and lowering, Tom nosed the Periwinkle into a sharp right turn into Whitchurch’s small basin. Once again, the Periwinkle was one of very few boats moored up.
Nia wanted to run again, so they ran along the path that followed the route of the old canal into the outskirts of town, then up a slight rise, around the town’s ancient parish church, and back down to the narrowboat basin. After their showers, Tom and Nia dressed casually for dinner at Rachel and Owain’s. Nia wouldn’t admit it to Tom, or herself, but she was nervous to meet Rachel. It wasn’t only that she hadn’t met a lover’s family member, formally, since Goldenboy, it wasn’t even that she was aware of Rachel’s important role in Tom’s life, it was the simple desire to connect to someone close to Tom. Nia wore jeans, a little less tight than usual, brown boots, a lavender shirt, untucked, underneath her Aran sweater. As the forecast was chilly, she wore a Berghaus quilted coat.
***
Dinner went well. Rachel was surprised as to how natural, thoughtful, and witty Nia was. She quickly became aware that Nia’s connection to Tom was obvious and deep. Dinner over, Owain took Tom out to see a new piece of farm equipment. It was a move that Rachel had prearranged. With the boys out of the house, Rachel brought tea on a tray to Nia at the dining room table. Nia would have preferred coffee post dinner but hadn’t said so. She knew that Rachel was quite an authority at the farm and in Tom’s life.
They chatted about the cycles of the farm and some of Nia’s work. Rachel laughed at the appropriate stories and punchlines and Nia felt that they were connecting.
“Why is Tom still barging?” Nia asked. “If he loves boats so much why isn’t he sailing the coasts?”
Rachel laughed.
“It’s because he’s actually a terrible sailor. He gets nauseated watching the sea on TV. There aren’t many waves on a canal,” she replied. Then, more earnestly, “Tom is a lovely guy,” Rachel said. “He’s had a tough go of it for a few years now but he’s more like his old self again, and I think that’s due to you Nia.” Nia smiled almost shyly. Rachel continued, “But I don’t want you hurting him.” Rachel’s stare was chilling.
“I don’t intend to,” Nia began defensively. “I really, really like him.”
“Like him how much?”
“I’ve rather fallen in love with him.”
Nia’s declaration surprised Rachel, who gawped a little. The words surprised Nia too, they sounded rather loud, but she liked the way they sounded. She liked the way they felt not so much in their production but in her core. In her soul.
“Quite a bit actually.”
“But,” Rachel stammered. “But you don’t know him.”
Nia sat back in her chair feeling affronted, she made a gesture with her hands, “Well, do we really know anyone?” She felt stupid as soon as she said it. “Sorry,” she said. “You’re right, but what I know of the Tom I have been with is that I want to spend all my time with him.”
Rachel leant forward, “Look, Tom’s been through so much over the last fifteen years or so and he’s kind of shut all the pain, his and others, inside. He’s been going through life on autopilot. Did he tell you our parents died when he was still in sixth form?”
Nia shook her head.
“Oh my God. I knew they had both passed away, but he never really mentioned when,” Nia answered.
“It was unexpected, a train derailed injuring about thirty passengers and killing two of them, both our parents. Just incredibly shitty bad luck. I had just finished uni and was working at the time. I was able to live at home with Tom while he finished his A levels. He was so quiet about everything, wouldn’t let me in. He went off to university and I think he had a good time, but I was never really sure. In his second year he joined the OTC. I think he found something there, in the camaraderie of the military, that became his family.”
Rachel took a drink. She captured and held Nia’s gaze.
“But, his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan forced him to retreat further into himself, I think. He’s been trying to be only in the moment, finding a kind of peace on his bloody boat and losing himself in his earbuds living his life to a soundtrack. Seriously, have you seen his playlists? He even has one ‘songs about food’.”
Nia laughed, “We actually listened to it making breakfast. His including Bob’s Marley’s ‘Jammin’ was inspired.”
Rachel laughed, “You’re not the Nia I thought you were.”
“Good thing?”
“Yes, good thing. Good for Tom. I love my brother and I just want him to find happiness.”
“I want him to be happy too,” said Nia. “I think I can make him happy, but there is the part of him that he won’t let me into.”
“Okay, I know,” Rachel said sceptically. “He hasn’t let anyone in really. He’s only shared bits with me, and I got more information from the army doctors and his old CO. When he was just out of the army, he was having a really bad time, I thought it was nightmares and stuff. Owain knew that the grandfather of a neighbouring farmer had served in World War Two. We thought it would be a good idea to get the old man and Tom together for a chat. Well, it turned out the old farmer had been a para, not only that, he was among the first to land in France on D-Day. They sat together,” she pointed, “There in front of the Aga for hours telling war stories. But then I overheard Tom ask the old man, who was ninety-five, when did his nightmares end and do you know what the old boy said?”
Nia shook her head.
“The old boy said, ‘Never’.”
Rachel noticed the look of concern that clouded Nia’s face.
“I could tell Tom was bothered by it,” Rachel continued. “But after a couple of days mulling things over, he told me that wasn’t his issue. It wasn’t nightmares…”
“Is it PTSD?” Nia asked
Rachel looked down at her hands and then straight into Nia’s eyes, “No. Not really. I think he just reached his capacity for handling tragedy and sadness. He was emotionally spent. He was always a kind and gentle boy, an empath if you will, it just got to be too much for him.”
“Was it the helicopter crash? Did it affect him, more than the physical injuries, I mean?” asked Nia.
“I’m not sure, but it gutted him emotionally as far as his time in the army was concerned, although the leg injury alone would have ended his army career. I think the crash was the straw that broke the camel’s back,” Rachel sighed. “He never really fully recovered from it, if you ask me.”
***
Six years Previously
Tom’s recovery was harder and longer than the doctors thought it would be. Tom’s femur had been shattered and, once the Chinook’s metal had been removed from his leg, new metal in the
form of orthopaedic plates and screws had painfully replaced it. His right leg ended up a centimetre or so shorter than his left. There were, also, symptoms of the latest in a series of concussions and he was aware of an ennui that grew on him like moss on a tree. Mobile but limping, he was granted leave and ordered to go home. It was a problematic order as Tom didn’t have much of a home. There was Rachel and Owain at the farm, his own small Manchester house, a beloved classic Mini Cooper, and very little else. Even before he could go ‘home’ he was determined to complete one more important military task.
Tom travelled to Liverpool in full uniform. Departing the railway station, he took a taxi to an unfamiliar address. He found the house he was looking for and knocked on the unfamiliar front door. He heard someone approach from the other side and he instinctively straightened his uniform. The door was opened by a smartly dressed, fit woman in her mid-fifties.
“Mrs Roberts?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Major Tom Price. I wanted to, um, I wanted to let you know that I was with your daughter when she died. I wanted to personally express my condolences to you and your family.”
Mrs Roberts, held his eyes for a moment then with a sigh, “Then, you’d better come in then.”
Mrs Roberts held the door open as Tom stepped over the threshold. She led him into a small vestibule that opened into a nicely appointed sitting room. Over tea and home-made Victoria sandwich cake, Mrs Roberts asked Tom to tell the story of the helicopter crash that took the life of her only child. Tom had recounted the events of the evening numerous times to army intelligence, RAF crash investigators, and families of other dead and wounded. This time, however, his throat tightened and, unbidden, his eyes filled with tears.
“Please, take your time, Major Price.”
When he told Lieutenant Roberts’ mother about her daughter’s last moments he was silently weeping. He felt awful that a grieving mother had to console him. Later, he washed his face in the Roberts’ downstairs bathroom. He used the mirror to straighten his cap, and again smoothed the front of his uniform. He looked at his medal ribbons and felt a phoney. He knew that he was done with this life.
***
London, December 22nd
Nia put the kettle on, enjoying the familiarity of her kitchen and her things. She had headed home to London to prepare for the BFI event and to make some last-minute arrangements for Christmas day. Tom was heading down the next day. She sat at her kitchen table with a hot coffee and opened her phone to see that Tom had sent her a link to some playlists. She liked Tom’s playlists although her musical tastes differed, having been formed by the mid-1990s’ Brit pop scene. She had memories, some fuzzy and altered, some mirror clear, of hanging out with some of the era’s bands. She liked a lot but not all of Tom’s selections, but she also appreciated his subtle sense of humour and irony in his choice of tracks. She saw that he had linked two new playlists, one named ‘Welsh Music’, and one he had simply labelled ‘Nia’.
She opened the Welsh songs, saw groups she had expected; Manic Street Preachers, Catatonia, Maria and the Diamonds, Stereophonics, Tom Jones, Bryn Terfel, a few unexpected; John Cale, Andy Fairweather Lowe, and Paul Young’s ‘Wherever I Lay my Hat’. She texted Tom. “Hey, Paul Young isn’t Welsh. I know, I even met him once.”
Tom responded, “Ah, but the bass player, Pino Palladino, is Welsh. Great vocals, sure, but that version is driven by the bass.”
She listened to it again. Yeah, okay, I can see that, she thought.
She refreshed her coffee and sat down and moved to the link for the ‘Nia’ playlist. No one had burned music for her since the late 1990s; she found herself excited with the anticipation to see what Tom had curated for her, about her?
The first track was Nick Drake’s ‘Northern Sky’. She had never heard the song even though she had once acted on stage with Nick’s sister. The song was, perhaps, the most beautiful she had ever heard. She teared up and played it again. “What the fuck,” she thought. “Being moved to tears through a song. I’m never like this.”
***
Tom made the now familiar trip down in the Land Rover and then across London via the Tube. They met at the Duke of Wellington pub just off Covent Garden and, after a drink, Nia took Tom across the street to the London Film Museum for a James Bond exhibition. They both enjoyed the exhibition’s collection of Bond related vehicles. They shared a pot of tea in the museum’s cafe and they argued good naturedly over Bond’s problematic relationship with women. Tom feeling that the films objectified women, Nia pointing out, that from an actor’s perspective, many of the female roles were solid ones. Nia was recognised by a patron and asked for an autograph.
“You would have been a great Bond girl, Nia,” the patron stated.
“Thank you,” said Nia generously, ignoring the ‘would have’.
She leant into Tom, “There’s hope yet. Me and Daniel Craig. Yummy.”
They took the Tube south of the Thames. Nia knew the way, walking Tom through some dark and close streets to a traditional Italian restaurant she knew well. The small restaurant was still family owned, and still decorated with red and white chequered tablecloths, iconic Italian prints on the wall, chubby bottles of Chianti served as candle holders, and bunches of plastic grapes garlanded the room. A cheap and cheerful Christmas tree had been placed in the corner. It was, as Nia noted, a step back in time to an era when small restaurants such as this, often run by former Italian prisoners of war who remained after the peace, provided colour, spice and flavour to the bland and over boiled regular British faire. As Nia promised, the food and wine were excellent and the laughter that emanated from the kitchen simply added to the elevated level of happiness both Tom and Nia were experiencing. Tom told Nia that his ravioli was the best he had ever had. Nia smiled, pleased that Tom had enjoyed the meal and this experience with her. They held hands across the table as they finished their bottle of a ruby rich Primativo.
It was late and raining when they settled the meal’s bill. The restaurant owner offered to call them a taxi but both Tom and Nia were content with stretching their legs after their dinner. The streets were dark and slick with the rain. As the warm lights of the restaurant faded behind them, Nia held Tom’s hand a little more tightly.
“Maybe we should get a taxi,” she said.
“It’s only a couple of streets,” Tom replied. “We’ll be fine.”
They turned right into a small street. The high stone walls of the Victorian church to their left, darkened by over a century of city grime, cast a fog like darkness across the entire street. One streetlight buzzed bravely but only dimly about halfway down the narrow road. A boarded up, ready for demolition and redevelopment, brown concrete two-storey1960s’ block of flats ran down the right-hand side of the street. Tom tried to imperceptibly increase their pace; he had heard an additional pair of footsteps behind them. His military training was alert to the fact that the street was an ideal landscape for an ambush. Then, he noticed a figure emerge from the deep shadows of the church wall in front to them.
“Fuck,” Tom said, and he slowed his and Nia’s pace.
“What?” Nia asked with barely disguised fear in her voice.
Tom steered her towards the streetlight as the two men approached. One from the front and the other one from behind. “Could be nothing,” Tom said. He watched as the men clearly moved towards them, one reached into his bomber jacket’s inside breast pocket and pulled out a hunting knife.
“Get behind me,” Tom growled in command.
Nia turned to face Tom, she had never heard him speak like that. She noticed that his jaw was clenched and jutting, his cheekbones appeared to elongate, and his usually light and warm eyes were cold and dark. Nia got directly behind Tom watching the men approach over his shoulder.
“Awright, mate,” the first man without the knife said. “How about giving me your wallet, phone, and watch?”
“And the whore too,” the knifeman said as he closed to about a yard in fr
ont on Tom. “And any jewellery too.” He moved the knife in his hand, holding the blade down while making axe-like chopping motions. Amateurs thought Tom, but even amateurs could kill easily. He slowed down his breathing, he heightened his senses, watching every move the knifeman made while also being acutely aware of the second mugger’s position.
Nia felt Tom switch his weight and turn slightly sideways to face the knifeman who smiled showing drug-rotten teeth. In a blink of an eye, Tom pivoted on his strong left leg and kicked out with his right catching the knifeman just below his left kneecap. The knifeman yelped in pain and stumbled forward as Tom grabbed his forearm and then the hand that held the knife. As in one fluid move, Tom bent the knifeman’s wrist and extracted the knife from his hand. He then pulled the man forward unbalancing him, spun him around into his quickly approaching compatriot. Tom shifted his weight again, pulling Nia behind him. The second mugger recovered and swung a haymaker punch at Tom’s head. Tom sidestepped easily and punched the man in the throat. The man collapsed to both knees with both hands at his throat grasping. Tom moved his feet quickly and, seemingly effortlessly, brought his right knee into the man’s nose. The man slumped over backwards and lay still and twisted on the damp pavement, blood quickly pooling under his shattered nose. The former knifeman grabbed Tom by the shoulder and tried to spin him around, but Tom used the momentum to bring his left elbow into the man’s temple, sending him thudding to the ground. Tom knelt and put his right knee over the man’s chest and grabbed his head with both hands pulling it forward and over his chest. The mugger, only semi-conscious from the elbow strike, cried out in pain.
Tom heard his name being screamed. He looked at the man’s face between his hands realizing that he was within a few centimetres of breaking the mugger’s neck. He let the head slip out of his hands. “Tom!” Nia screamed again. “Enough.”
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