Ruby's War by Johanna Winard Page B

and a plump light-haired girl whispered together. The only other customer was a lone man in a raincoat, sitting under one of the wall lights reading a newspaper. By contrast, the opposite side of the bar was full of customers. They were, Con noticed, all men. Some sat at the bar, others at tables playing cards and three more, a fat clergyman and twomen in caps and mufflers, threw arrows at a bullseye on the wall.
    â€˜You ever played darts, son?’ an elderly man at his elbow asked.
    Con smiled shyly. ‘No, sir,’ he said.
    â€˜Well, don’t get Henry to show you how,’ the landlord laughed. ‘He can’t play for toffee.’
    The old man, who wore a porter’s cap set at a jaunty angle, pulled a face, and the men on the opposite side of the bar chuckled.
    â€˜You settled in at the new camp?’ he asked, as the landlord refilled his glass.
    Remembering the humiliation of the night before, Con looked down at his feet, unsure what to say.
    â€˜I was in the last lot. Me and Johnny Fin, here,’ the old man said, nodding in the direction of another old man who’d just walked in the bar.
    The second man smiled and extended a large hand. When Con took it, the man’s face suddenly contorted in a series of twitches, as though he’d been electrocuted.
    â€˜N-n-nice t-to m-m-meet you,’ he stuttered.
    â€˜Here you are, Johnny,’ the man in the porter’s hat said, handing his friend a pint.
    To Con’s surprise, when he was handed the drink, the man’s twitches stopped and he walked steadily over to the piano.
    â€˜I’m Henry,’ the old man said, shaking each of their hands in turn, ‘Henry Barton.’
    â€˜My father was there, as well,’ Con said. ‘In France. He came out of it okay, but his friend was shot. Sniper.’
    â€˜It was the gas that got me,’ Henry said. ‘Johnny, there,carried me for miles on his back. Wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t for him. Any of you lads play?’ he asked, nodding over to the piano.
    â€˜Wes does,’ Con said. ‘Come on, Wes, when’s the last chance you got to play?’
    â€˜Move over, Johnny,’ Henry shouted. ‘Let’s see what this lad can do.’
    The landlord leant over the bar and grinned at the three other soldiers.
    â€˜If the rest of you lads are interested,’ he said, nodding over to the fat priest who was grinning at them from the other side of the bar, ‘Father O’Flynn wants to know if you’d like to learn how to play darts. You’ll be all right with him,’ he said, winking at them. ‘He’s had some of the Yanks playing like champions in no time.’
    â€˜Except that Hal and his mate,’ one of the old men wearing mufflers called, as Bo and Holt made their way through to the other side of the bar, and Con followed Wes over to the piano. ‘They couldn’t play for toffee.’
    â€˜You play as well, son?’ Henry asked Con.
    â€˜Me? No sir, I don’t.’
    â€˜He can sing, though,’ Wes said with a wink.
    â€˜Only in church, and my grandma said I make a bullfrog sound tuneful.’
    As Wes played and Johnny sang, Henry told Con about the time he and his old friend Johnny had spent as soldiers.
    â€˜The last lot did for poor Johnny’s career,’ he said, accepting the pint of beer Con brought him from the bar. ‘As a young man he was the prizefighter “Gentleman” Johnny Finlay. You might have heard of him. Fought all over the world.’
    â€˜Is the … twitch … from the war?’
    â€˜Oh no, that’s the boxing. Punch-drunk,’ Henry said, pointing to his own head. ‘Odd thing is, you’ll notice when it gets busy, he waits on tables and collects glasses. Lives over the shop, so to speak, and helps out around the place. When he carries a tray of drinks, or piles of empties, he’s as steady as a rock, but the rest of