The boy at TOM’S TABLE

Having served his country, Tom had no sympathy for young bludgers

Tom unbuttons his poppy-adorned blazer and walks into the cafe. ‘Morning,’ he says to Nessie. ‘The usual.’

Nessie can’t work out Tom. This solitary, gruff man has become her pet project. She wants to make him smile.

But so far, not even a smirk.

‘Don’t you get sick of the same thing every day, Tom?’ ‘No.’

‘No? Ever thought of a mochaccino and a blueberry muffin?’ she says, hoping to see the corners of Tom’s mouth twitch.

‘No.’

‘Okay.’ Nessie accepts defeat. ‘The usual it is. But Tom,’ she says. ‘Someone’s beaten you to your table.’

Tom looks over at ‘his’ table, irritated that his daily routine has been sabotaged.

‘Didn’t know that could happen,’ he grunts.

‘What?’

‘A kid that young could get out of bed this early.’

Nessie smiles. ‘Well, he’s proved you wrong.’ ‘Hmmmph. ’

Tom sits at a table opposite the boy, and studies the angry suture line zigzagging around his shaven scalp. Crutches lie on the ground under the table.

Probably drove drunk,

Tom thinks, angrily.

The boy looks up from his paper. ‘Chilly this morning.’

‘You’d know,’ Tom says, pointing to the boy’s head.

‘Oh, yeah.’ The boy runs his hand over his scalp. ‘You’re right.’

‘By the way,’ adds Tom, ‘you’ve taken my table.’

Tom never used to be obsessive. Or angry. He used to be placid. But a tour of duty can change everything.

Tom fixes his gaze on the table thief. You have no idea what people like me have suffered; what we saw. You or anyone else, he thinks.

And then, as so often happens, Tom loses his grip on the present. His mind wanders back to the screams of his comrades, the stench of his gangrenous foot, the pain of his amputation. ‘Sorry, mate.’

The boy’s voice brings

Tom back. ‘Sorry? For what?’

‘For taking your table. Please, come and join me.’

‘Thanks, but…’

Nessie arrives with Tom’s order. ‘Over there, Nessie,’ he says. ‘At my table.’

‘Great,’ the boy says. He hobbles up and pulls a chair out for Tom. ‘My days are so long at the moment. It’ll be good to have company.’

‘I’m Alex,’ says the boy.

‘Er... Tom.’ He shakes the boy’s hand, wondering when he last felt another’s skin on his own. ‘So?’ Alex says. ‘What’s your story?’

Tom raises an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The poppy on your jacket. You in the services?’

Tom’s shocked. Nobody’s been interested in him for so long. ‘Yeah… in the ’60s.’

Alex nods. ‘The ’60s? Vietnam?’

‘Rather not talk about it.’

‘I know what you mean, mate,’ Alex says. He squeezes Tom’s forearm. ‘War doesn’t have much going for it, does it? Apart

‘Same horror different war,’

says Alex

from the camaraderie.’

Tom looks Alex in the eye. ‘And how would you know?’ ‘Just finished my first tour.’ ‘What? You’re…?’

‘A soldier. Afghanistan.’ Tom takes in the young boy in front of him. His drastic error of judgment weighs heavily in his chest and tears of shame sting.

‘I know, Tom. Same horror, different war.’

Tom listens to Alex’s story, then, with a bit of coaxing, shares his own. They talk the morning away.

Nessie looks over at the unlikely duo and wonders what two strangers can find to talk about.

And then… it happens.

Just as Alex and Tom are saying their goodbyes, Alex says something, with a cheeky glint in his eye. Nessie watches in awe as the old man throws back his head and laughs. A big belly laugh that ricochets gleefully off the walls of the cafe.

As the two diggers, now mates, embrace, Nessie wipes away a tear.