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What do the youngsters see when we two walk into the Musket and Shot? Is it the brave corporal who endured decades of horrific captivity, or merely the crooked old man who used to perform here? Am I a survivor of Maiwand to them, or just a civilian leaning on his cane, his leg ruined and eyes downcast? I muse aloud when we are seated.
Wood knows. "'Grotesque, abominable relics' is what they think of me – maybe you too by now, Captain, from hanging about with me."
I might have a more forgettable appearance than Wood, but he is right. I feel like a relic, something past its usefulness. The two people I loved most in the world have died within the same year and everything is grey. But I knew where to go to flee my empty Kensington house – to Aldershot, and Corporal Henry Wood who took me in like a lost lamb.
I look around at the young recruits, laughing and drinking with their messmates. None will meet our eyes. "We're a reminder of what can come of all that marching and soldiering, Corporal. A reproach of their youth and stamina."
"Aye." Wood nods as Sallie the barmaid brings over our pints. "If they don't look at us, it won't happen to them."
I laugh bitterly into my beer.