by Ewan Lawrie
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It had seemed such a good idea beside the pool. I'd spotted the short haircut patrolling the sun-loungers and tables soon after he came through the archway that led to the beach. He walked stiff-backed, stopping occasionally for a polite exchange with any man between 20 and 40.
Jem looked over at me,
'Policeman,' he said, nodding towards the khaki-shorted, polo-shirted Caucasian making the rounds of the hotel pool.
'Nope,' I replied. 'Military, no question.'
'How do you know?'
'It takes one to know one.'
I scratched my week-old beard and took a drink of my mai-tai, then waved at George, who was the daytime waiter for this side of the pool terrace. George loomed over me, dark skin gleaming in the Banjul sun.
'Yessir,' his smile was as wide as the Gambia river.
'Who's that, George?' The short-haired guy was about four tables away.
The waiter grunted, looked down at his own military style white jacket and the incongruous shorts and flip-flops,
'Army. Another drink?'
He must have caught my look, because he said,
'British army man. They come a couple of year, go home. Army stay the same.'
I gave George a 10-delassi note and declined a drink. He looked both ways over his shoulder, before slipping the money into the pocket of his shorts.
Jem was yawning. He'd arrived on holiday the same day I did, a week ago. I knew how he felt. Our wives rolled over onto their backs and began the basting process on the front of their bodies. Funny how neither of us offered to rub the suntan lotion in. The Army bloke had arrived at the next group. We'd spoken earlier in the week. Giles, Jacinta, the two kids; Harry and George. And the au-pair. Of course. Giles was a solicitor from Henley-On-Thames. Jem and I weren't. Jem had been an Assistant Stage Manager at the Bristol Old Vic years ago. Now he sold fax machines. I didn't talk about my job. There were two kinds of people then: people for whom any military person was Thatcher's storm-trooper, and those for whom the armed services were the finest people they'd never met. I usually preferred the company of the former, as long as they didn't want to talk about my job.
Khaki shorts finished with Giles. I hadn't quite been able to hear the conversation. Just made out the words 'tomorrow, I'll pick you up, ' as the Army fellow was on his way to Jem and me. He looked about 30, so I reckoned he'd be a Staffy; a Staff-Sergeant, with his own unit, whatever that was. His glance passed over Jem, and he gave me the hard stare.
'Army?' he asked.
'Air Force,' I said.
There was a tiny movement in his cheek.
'Can you play rugby?'
'I do.'
'There's a game tomorrow, if you want it.' He nodded over at Giles, the beginnings of a smirk on his face, 'Giles is up for it.'
'No kit,' I said.
He looked me up and down, 'I've got boots that'll fit you.'
I looked over at my wife. She looked at me over a Danielle Steele paperback and shrugged.
'Okay,' I took a last sip of the mai-tai.
'I'll play,' Jem chirped.
'Played much have you?' The soldier raised an eyebrow.
'Not since school, no.' He looked like the fat boy picked last for the playground kickabout.
The soldier held out his hand,
'Kevin, Kev, come along tomorrow, I'll see you get a few minutes.'
They shook hands. Kev held his hand out to me. I shook it, gave him my name.
'What position d'you play?' he asked.
'Scrum half.'
'So does Giles, you'll have to toss for it.' He jerked his head over to where Giles had been, I could see him splashing the au-pair in the pool.
I laughed.
'See you tomorrow,' Kev said. 'I'll pick you up at 3.'