An old soldier

Gangan

Richard Jones was rough and wrinkled like an old oak tree. Well weathered and strong. He was brushed up, clean shaven except for a well trimmed mustache, and he smelled of old spice. He wore a sleeveless vest under his collarless shirt, to which he would attach a clean ironed starched collar, fastened by a small button. He shaved every day with a lather brush and long razor. He was always squeaky clean. He had a deep gruff voice that rumbled from deep inside his chest. I watched in fascination as he shaved while humming an old military tune. The long clean lines appeared with precision as the shaving cream was stripped away and he tapped the blade on the side of the sink to rinse and repeat for the next bit. Any nicks he would stick a wet tissue on the bleeding spot until it dried. All the time humming a tune. He would tell us stories about his early days as a lad working on a farm in Wales or, as a young soldier, in the Horse Guards and in the trenches during WW1. Ypres and the Somme a Christmas truce. He spoke of the bravery of the enemy and how he had a grudging respect for those young men who he fought against. Grim dark sad dirty despairing places. He told stories of ‘going over the top’ of the trench and of valor and bravery, but he never boasted. Eyes fixed on the mirror, staring into a void where he appeared to be back in a moment of time as he remembered his young friends who did not return home. Of the tragedy and the senselessness of it all. The sadness. He recounted numerous stories and I wish I could recall them all.

He wore a smart houndstooth blazer and kept a small notepad and tiny red pencils in his top jacket pocket. He would draw pictures of horses or just let me scribble on the pad while listening to the reassuring rumble of his voice. We listened to rousing marching bands on the wireless as he tapped his well brushed shining shoes in time with the music. He was an old soldier through and through. He listened to horse racing on the radio and bet a few shillings on the favorite. He smoked cigarettes, no filters, and a faint tobacco scent lingered on him. He told me silly stories about why he was bald and how a horse ate his hair. He told me he won WW1 single handed which I believed without a doubt.

He was Father Christmas at a Co-op for many years and parents would come and thank him so much for being such a wonderful one. He was my Gangan.

Photo by British Library on Unsplash