The Hall was filled with big, round tables each filled with bottles of wine and whisky, little nibbles and a beautiful spray of flowers in the middle, with little decorative flags nestled inside. Music flowed around the room, gently cushioning each table with the comfort that their conversation couldn’t be overhead by others. At least, that was the case for all tables but ours.
Though each table was comfortably set for 10 people, ours was overfilled. Chairs were added, to surround Dad and Captain Kenneth Clarke Wright, allowing everyone to exchange the grisly details of the Wars. It sounded like they were attempting to one up each other, trying to compare one war to another. Luis was spellbound.
When everyone was gathered around their radios, anxious to listen to Churchill’s announcement of our involvement in the War, Luis was only nine. Like most boys his age, the promise of hearing new war stories, about planes and guns and heroes was exciting. There was a new chance for them to play new games about the war, re-enacting the dog fights and whatever scuffles were relayed to us in the daily news. Play was imitating life. Then, as the years went on, he prepared himself mentally for drafting himself in. Boys were getting picked younger and younger and he was convinced that as soon as he turned 14, he’d get a chance too. Luckily, it never amounted to that, but he did go out of his way to make sure his disappointment was felt for a few days.
For Luis, being in the war meant he’d get to be like Dad, even for a little while. Dad was more respected than other black men in the community. Whilst this was partially because he was the guy who could fix your car or declare it for parts, it was also due to his role in the war. His tale of him fixing the engine. How he got a British tank back up and running after it had been water logged. It simply never made any sense to us, given that back here, he went around fixing cars and factory machines. Me and Luis never really believed most of his stories, and we had serious doubts about the time he saved a Captain’s life, especially when he had to shoot a German to get them out of a hairy situation. But, more importantly, the rest of our street seemed to think he was alright, and that was what Luis liked more than anything.
Louie had a hard time in secondary school, especially when he was moved to an 11+ school. He wasn’t just with the kids from our street any more. These were the kids that were destined for the draft, if the war had carried on. They were kids who were happy to reduce Louie to the colour of his skin and little else. That was, until their dads mentioned that they knew our Dad and asked after him. Suddenly, a transformation occurred. Louie wasn’t just a blackie any more, he was a good one - and a mutt at that! - and that made him alright by their books. If their dads said he was alright, then he was alright.
It was important to be the right type of black man. Louie just wanted to show that he was just as patriotic as Dad. He wanted to be alright too.
Tired of hearing about men playing pranks on each other in the trenches, I sipped my glass of wine, leaning in to listen to Mum and the other women discuss their own War efforts.
Little Liz wasn’t interested in either of these discussions though. She had been struggling to follow the men’s conversation, but suddenly, her interest had been piqued when she heard one of them mention U-Boats. Ever so brazen, she “So you *do *have a boat, then?”
A mirthful laugh spread around the table. Captain Wright took a sip of his whisky before he leaned in across the table with a smile, “Now, why would you think I have a boat, Eliza?”
Liz looked around the group carefully before she responded. There was a hesitation in her voice as she queried, “Because...because you’re a Captain?”
“Of course. That’s a sensible question to ask. Well, dear, I’m afraid I’m not that type of Captain. I was a Captain in the army. There was no boat.”
“So...you’re a Captain without a boat? Are you sure you’re a good Captain?”
“Depen’s on who yer askin’” Dad murmured to the men, who all gave a slight chuckle.
“Eliza,” Mum said, warningly as she placed the plate of crackers in front of Liz, hoping she would stuff her mouth and stop talking, “Be polite now.”
With a gentle wave of his hand, the Captain chuckled, “No, it’s no trouble. You’re rather quite like your Dad, you know. Always asking the important questions. I’m afraid I didn’t have a boat in the army, no, but I do have a small boat moored in the marina. Perhaps someday in the summer, you should convince your mother and father to come out there. I think you’d be a rather good first mate.”
“Me?!” Eliza grinned excitedly.
“Well, of course. I need someone smart like you to help me keep everything right. I can hardly ask your father to do it,” Leaning in closer, the Captain stage whispered, “He might start a coup!”
Suddenly, the music quietened down and a man in a sharp suit cleared his throat into the microphone, “Ladies and Gentlemen, may we ask you all to return to your seats, please?…” The sound of chairs scraping and heels pattering across the floor could be heard across the room as everyone scrambled to the rightful places. Our once bustling table, returned to its former 10 residents, nested close to the front stage. “Thank you. The evening is about to begin. My name is Horace Wilson and I will be your host for this evening. Tonight, we’re celebrating the victories of not only last year, but of those great British Heroes who went before us!” He nodded, letting the applause permeate throughout the room before continuing, “Yes, yes… fine brave men who served so that we all might live-”
A cheer fell through the room, until someone shouted, “A TOAST!”
The man on the stage seemed a little taken aback, especially as some people started to stamp their feet in approval, “O-okay. Well, it’s a bit...early but-but very well! A toast to the Veterans, who-”
“THE VETS!”
I glanced over my shoulder, straining to see where the rowdiness was coming from. It seemed like some of the younger Veterans had taken advantage of the hour of free drinks. It was no surprise about that, at least.
Horace blinked behind his round glasses, a slight shimmer of pink blushing his cheeks as he stammered slightly, “Y-yes. Well. As I was saying.
“Bristol has been hit hard by the war, there’s no doubt about that. We’ve lost some fine men oversees, and we’ve seen losses back here at home, too. You only have to look down the road to see the damage that’s been brought to us. But we Bristolian’s are strong,” Horace intoned, seeming to gain his confidence back as people murmured in approval at the right time with his clearly practised speech. I had no doubts that Horace throw his name into the hat for some political position or other in due time, “We won’t be put down by hardships! We band together and we fight back!”
“TO BRISTOL!”
A rowdy ruckus of cheers, hoops and hollers went around the room. Liz beamed at the opportunity to join in with everyone who was stamping their feet in approval once again, slipping down her seat to ensure that she could reach the floor.
Although this was another unplanned interruption, Horace took the opportunity to raise his own flute of champagne, nodding his approval at the sentiment and took a sip, along with everyone else in the room.
“Tonight, we want everyone to dig deep and donate as much as they can. Every penny raised from the sale of the tickets from tonight, as well as the tickets from the Tombola will go towards the restoration costs of St. Paul’s. As everyone knows, the St. Paul’s is a church at the heart of Bristol that served as a community hub. We want to bring it back to its former glory and we need your help. The prizes are plentiful and everything has been donated by local companies. You can get your tickets from the reception during the meal and waiters will be going around with donation buckets during the evening. Let’s make sure they’re filled up!
“I’d like you all to stand and raise your glasses in a - well, in another toast! This time, to England! May we always rise above adversity and protect what is right!”
“To England!” A chant was returned and glasses were drained for the third time that night.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, trying to ebb the gurgling growls it was emitting. The promise of food was at the end of this speech and it seemed like my stomach was well aware of it.
“Now, there is someone in this room that we would like to pay special thanks to. Without their help, assistance and quite frankly, their wonderful donation of this very room that we are in right now, the Rebuild Bristol Committee would never have been in a position to host this evening’s festivities. This is a man who did so much during both wars to ensure that many lives were saved.”
My eyes wandered over to Captain Wright, who sat very calmly with his eyes downcast. From his stories and conversations this evening, and how generous he was extending an invitation out to our family despite him and Dad not talking for what seemed to be years, it seemed like no great surprise to me that he would be honoured. His colleagues held him in high esteem and he was revered by all. I smiled at his humbleness and how he seemed to shy away from the compliments that Mr Wilson was bestowing upon him.
“Lord Wright - would you kindly stand up for us?”
As a soft murmur spread throughout the room, my brows furrowed as a man a few tables over stood. Although slightly stouter, it was easy to see the family resemblance. His skin had more of a glossy, greasy sheen and the red on his cheeks and slight tremble in the wave of his hand betrayed any semblance of health that he was trying to maintain.
I turned to look at Captain Wright once more, at the shock of white hair across his head. The Captain kept his head faced towards Mr Wilson, refusing to look back towards his family member in a curious show of defiance. It felt absurd to be me that someone like Captain Wright, who seemed so gracious and reasonable, would be able to find himself in some fight with family. My furrowed brows and intent stare must have caught someone’s attention.
To Captain Wright’s left sat another soldier, with chocolatey brown hair. I had never quite caught his name during the evening, struggling to hear much of the conversation to the fringes of the men’s realm. It was the questioning quirk of his brow and the returned stare of his green eyes that made me feel like I was caught red handed. I quickly looked away, back towards Mr Wilson.
“Although not on the battlefields like his younger brother, Captain Kenneth Wright, Lord Wright maintained his position in the House of Lords admirably, consistently protecting us proud Bristolians at every turn. He saved-”
“Weren’t he the man who said sumfin’ bout ‘dirty farmers’?”
The murmur got louder and louder, starting to sound slightly angry now.
Horace blanched slightly, and raised his voice to be heard, “- he saved many votes from turning out against the desires of us Bristolians-”
“-the papers caught him! That’s what he said!”
Lord Wright returned to his seat, trying to shrink his frame down as far as it could slide under the table. I couldn’t help but notice the corner of Captain Wright’s lips twitching as he battled not to smile.
“Now! I think we ought to be grateful to Lord Wright-”
“Grateful?!”
The tides were turning quickly against Mr Wilson and Lord Wright, as the crowd now seemed to be mobile. Angry gestures, raised voices and curses were swirling around the room, building louder and louder until loud clicks could be heard. Captain Wright had risen from his seat and was pounding the bottom of his walking stick into the ground until it caught everyone’s attention. A quiet hush fell throughout the hall.
“It is rather rare that my brother is lost for words. As many of you are aware, he said some rather...unfortunate things about Bristol and her people in the past. He told me earlier that he was rather hoping that his efforts tonight would go some way to show how sorry he is. You see, my brother is a rather shrewd business man. Whilst it may not seem it, he does have the best interest of Bristol at heart, as has our whole family for many, many years. Whilst he may be careless with his words, he is not careless with his money. No... which is why he was proud, when he told me that he planned on donating 1000 to the funds for rebuilding St Paul’s.”
A small round of applause spread throughout the room and eyes fell back towards Lord Wright. It appeared that in the stress of the situation, his entire face had turned a violent shade of red. He nodded primly at the moderate approval he had now managed to garner due to his brother’s speech.
As the last of the applause died out, Captain Wright clenched and unclenched his grip on his walking stick, “But, of course, he knows that that does not go far enough. He told me it was important to hear from each and every one of you in this room tonight, that your voices were imperative in helping him understand the needs of his fellow Bristolians. And what better way to do this over a pint? Ladies, and Gentleman, my ever so generous brother had planned to announce that throughout dinner, he would ensure that every table here tonight had enough refreshments to truly celebrate V-Day.”
This time, the applause was thunderous. A wisp of a smile also spread along the soldier’s face as he rested back into his chair, his arms now folded over his broad chest.
Horace cleared his throat towards the microphone, nodding his head as he caught up with clapping, “Well, there we have it! A-and just in time for the starters coming out! Truly...truly something special. Well, I hope that everyone enjoys their meals and the music from The Brighton Bassline-”
Everyone’s attention was now either turned to attempting to get a waiter’s attention so that more drinks could be brought to the table, or with their faces buried in their plates of food. After the length of the speeches and the amount of alcohol that has been imbibed, besides the soft piano music and gentle plink of a bass that played in the background, only hushed conversation and purrs to delight could be heard throughout the room as everyone gobbled down their soup or pâté.
After devouring my own plate of pâté and toast in silence to satisfy my stomach, I pressed a hand to my mother’s shoulder, “Do you want any raffle tickets?”
Dabbing a cloth napkin at the corners of her lips, she nodded gently, “You know what to do, love.”
“Anniversary, date of births and a strip? You know they’re a pound a ticket? Dad’ll-”
“He always gets annoyed until we win something. And we always win something.”
“Well, at least I do-”
“You had no use for that shaving kit.”
Louie snorted, “Her moustache says something different- ow!”
“I raised a gentleman, not a bully,” Mum tutted, shaking her head at Louie as I got up out of my seat, “For that, you can pay for your birthday ticket-”
“What?!”
“You’ll learn!”
With a snort, I left the table, sweeping my way towards the edge of the room to avoid the paths of waiters who were circling to snatch up empty plates, winding my way back to the table out front. I riffled through my purse as I waited in the queue, wanting to count up the exact change required.
The blonde committee member sat as primp as ever, a plastic smile stretched thin on her face as I approached, “It’s a pound a ticket.”
“I know. I’d like 15, please,” I responded sweetly, my own smile equally as fake as her own as I held out the to her. Before she could even ask, I rattled off the numbers, “1, 3, 4, 6, 11, 12, 17, 29 and then the rest from the back, please. If any of that’s not available, just take the numbers from the back.”
With a court nod, she turned to her work, flicking through the pages of the raffle ticket book. If my mother was here, she would be desperate to fill in the silence that filled the room. On an average day, I would be, too. Right now, however, in that moment, I just wanted to appreciate the sweet satisfaction of having this devastatingly beautiful woman who turned her nose up to my family before now finding the tickets for me and my family to win that raffle.
“You know, I don’t think it counts as a real win if you just buy the whole book,” lilted a soft voice over my shoulder. A hand reached out from behind me to place a five pound note on the table, spreading the smokey waft of cigars and cologne through the air, “Just the scraps, if there’s any left.”
I furrowed my brows to turn towards the unfamiliar voice, finding myself shoulder to shoulder with the brown haired soldier from the table. Now he was closer to me, I could see that he had sun-kissed caramel streaks flecked through his hair. With a slight chuckle, I shook my head, “It’s not quite all of them but...all’s fair in love and war.”
His thick, dark brown eyebrows wrinkled in disbelief, “I don’t know if that applies to a raffle. There might be an uprising if you win all the prizes because you’ve bought everyone out - thanks, Helen.”
“You’re welcome, Tommy,” Helen replied silkily, placing his tickets directly into his outstretched hand. For him, her smile was more than welcoming.
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, picking up my tickets from the table to wander back towards our table, handing Mum over her ten tickets before I glanced at my numbers once more. I had the feeling I was going to be lucky tonight.