Christmas Story Part 3

The porter accompanied us to the taxi rank and we got in a taxi to head for home. A taxi ride for me: that was something! We could not usually even afford bus fares. Gérard paid the driver in cash and we took the lift up to the fourth floor. Fortunately it was working that day. I don’t know how he would have got up otherwise. Mum was still at work. The café would stay open until two o’clock that Christmas Eve. Gérard looked around and saw that there was little food about and noticed how bitterly cold it was; very different from where he had been with the army. “It’s like a bloody fridge in here, and we will need some food for Christmas.” “Yea, you’re right.”

“Would you like to go off and get some stuff for us? It will save mum time.” “They won’t sell me booze but I could nick some.”

“No way. Just get food. A turkey or something. Mum can get drink later from Primo.”

He gave me a big wad of euros, more cash than I had ever seen in my life. I went off to Intermarché, like as if I was walking on sunshine. My mood changed when I got there. It was packed out with Christmas shoppers and I found one of the last trolleys. I filled it right up with loads of food. I knew my way very well around this store from my shop-lifting days. There were stacks of turkeys, but they looked too heavy for me to carry home. I bought a duck instead. I had to queue for ages at the checkout, but got through at last and paid a huge bill with cash. A security guard was watching me. He was the same one who had arrested me, the big guy, with a miserable face. As I was leaving weighed down with my shopping, he stopped me and asked, “Where did you get all that cash from, sunshine?” I felt like saying, “Mind you own bloody business.” But he was a lot bigger than me. I responded that it was from my brother. His blank face took on a mean expression. His eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted. He was not convinced and led me outside to a police car with the same two cops standing by it.

I told them that the cash was from my brother, who is a soldier on leave for Christmas. “You never told us about any brother when you were at the station.” “You only asked about mum and dad.” “Why did he not do the shopping himself? You look a bit too small to carry all this stuff.”

“He has a war injury and cannot walk much.”

They were not convinced that I had a brother, who had suddenly come onto the scene, and happened to be a wounded soldier. They were not aware of any wars going on affecting French soldiers. They had probably never heard of Mali or the Central African Republic. If a young kid had loads of cash, he must be small fry in the drugs trade.

“We are taking you home to meet this brother. At least you will get a free ride with all your shopping.”

I thought, “ Quel temps ! Quel jour! A ride in a taxi and then in a flic car.” I was smiling to myself, as I knew Gérard would sort them out.

When we entered the apartment, Mum had just got back home and was still in tears from seeing Gérard. He must have been in the bedroom unpacking his stuff. “So where is the soldier?” Gérard had heard the noise and came out from the bedroom on his crutches, dressed in jeans and a thick sweater.

The policeman identified himself and then said, “You don’t look much like a soldier.”

He replied, “When soldiers are at home, they do not wear tin helmets and carry a firearm.”

“Are you the brother of this young lad and did you give him money to go shopping at the supermarket?” “Yes and Yes. Any more impertinent questions?”

The cop was getting angry and lost his cool: “I need to see your ID,” he snapped.

“I can show you my credit card.” “I need something with a photo.”

Gérard looked thoughtful. He did not have a passport with him or a civilian driving licence, although he had learned to drive in the army. He said, “I can show you my military ID, but it is strictly confidential. You must not take a photo of it and would be wise not to memorise it. If you were to tell anyone about it, you would run foul of the official secrets laws and it would be the end of your glittering career in the plod.” He showed the ID to the officer who immediately knew what he meant.

The cops were satisfied and backed off. I thought, “You have met your match.” They made their way to the door which mum was opening for them. Gérard sounding all polite said, “May I be the first to wish you officers a very Merry Christmas and hope you do not get too many calls over the festive period.”

The male officer, looking embarrassed, muttered, “Thanks and good wishes to you all.”

When they had gone and while mum was getting us some food, Gérard told us his story, with as much detail as he was allowed.

“I was on a special anti-terrorism mission in Africa, but I am not allowed to say where. We were there to disable a terrorist command and control unit, which was heavily defended. We succeeded in taking out their anti-aircraft capabilities, which was our main task. Our helicopters did the rest and the facility was totally destroyed. Two of our guys were killed in the attack and a number including me were injured. I have had an operation on my left leg, but it will need more attention after Christmas in Paris. I may had to have it amputated below the knee. At the moment I am on full pay until the army decide what my future options might be. I can help a lot with our finances and we can have the heating full on. No need to worry about money.

“I flew in overnight to a military airfield near Limoges and travelled up by train, with help on and off the train.”

We had a fantastic Christmas together and afterwards went to visit dad in prison. He was in a shocking state. He was well overweight and looked very poorly. He had little if anything to say.

Years later I spoke to a screw who had worked at the prison and remembered dad there. He told me, “That prison at the time was the worse place for someone with a drugs problem. Its new governor had all the qualifications and big ideas, but he had inherited a shambles. There were drugs and booze everywhere and some of the old lags were running the place. There were bent screws bringing in stuff of all sorts. The new governor was keen on rehabilitation and introduced training courses. The one on carpentry, which your dad was put on, was very popular as it enabled the lags to get their hand on sharp tools, for possible use for a variety of dubious acts. Your dad was no good on the course as he was often a bit high and kept cutting himself instead of the wood. He was classed as an uncooperative inmate and lost any chance of parole.”

When eventually dad got out, he was deeply depressed and a total wreck. After two weeks he jumped off a bridge and was killed by a train. Mum never got over it. Whatever was wrong with dad, he did not deserve that.

Gérard ended up having the amputation and left the army with a pension. He trained in IT and got a good job with a local IT firm, where he met his wife to be.

After that Christmas, I was feeling much better about things and tried hard at school. I did well enough to go to the Tech to study to be an electrician. This Christmas we are all off to Martinique. Joyeux Noël à tous!

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