Owen and the Soldier Read online

  I knew what Megan was thinking. Why have you picked Owen? I was thinking the same thing myself.

  “Yes, all of you!” Mr Jennings said. “You three have the best understanding of poetry in the class. I’ve read your essays and you’re good.”

  “What’s the poem got to be about?” Sean asked.

  Mr Jennings glanced at his watch. I guessed it was time for his next class.

  “Whatever you like,” Mr Jennings said. “It doesn’t have to be long, just a few lines each. Perhaps pick your favourite thing to do and write about that?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him that there was no way on earth I was going to stand up and read out a poem, but Mr Jennings left before I could speak.

  Megan and Sean started talking about their poems before we’d even left the classroom. They didn’t seem very happy about it, but they weren’t questioning doing it.

  “I suppose I could write something about running,” Megan said. She had broken every track race record in the school. “What about you, Sean? What’s your favourite thing?”

  Sean shrugged and said, “I dunno. Gaming, I guess. But how can I write a poem about that?”

  They both looked over at me.

  “How about you, Owen?” Megan asked. “What are you going to write about?”

  I picked up my bag.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m not doing it.” And I headed outside for break.

  CHAPTER 4

  For the rest of the day I could sense Megan staring at me, but I avoided her eyes. I could tell that she was waiting for her moment to talk to me. After our last lesson had finished, I grabbed my stuff and was out of the door before anyone else. I jogged to the school gates, then headed to the park. I’d had an idea that I’d get Mum to write to the school, explaining that I wouldn’t be there on the day of the library opening. She’d need to say I had a hospital appointment or something like that. But then I remembered you had to show a copy of a hospital letter if you had an appointment, and I didn’t have a letter. I felt sick. There was no way I was going to read a poem out. Ever.

  I got to the park and headed straight to the bench.

  “Hi,” I said to the soldier. I didn’t fancy my sandwich today, so I just got it out of my bag and put it into the bin.

  “You know that feeling when you get up in the morning and have a lot you’re worrying about?” I asked the soldier. “But then something happens and you wish you could go back to that morning, because the worries you thought were bad weren’t that bad after all?”

  The soldier stared at the ground with his elbows fixed to his knees. I put my bag to one side and sat in exactly the same way. I focused on the ground and creased my forehead a bit, just like his. We sat there for a moment, our bodies mirroring each other.

  “I don’t want to do it, soldier,” I said as I stared at the floor. “How can I get out of it? Mr Jennings won’t take no for an answer.” I looked across at the soldier in his uniform. He looked so anxious. His worries were far bigger than mine. I put my hand onto his cold arm and gave him a pat as I leaned back on the bench.

  “Hey!” I said. “Do you want to see my vault? I’ve been practising it for when I’m a stuntman.” I stood up. The breeze was getting up and a few leaves blew across the ground. “You do? Excellent! Well, like the forward roll, it sounds easy. But you need to learn how to do simple vaults before you get to try the harder ones.”

  I looked at the bench. I’d only tried a couple of vaults before and they were over a low wall in our back garden. The bench was much higher and wider.

  “This one is all about putting your hands in the right place,” I said, remembering what the man on YouTube had said. I walked behind the bench, as that was probably the easiest direction to jump from. Now I saw that the right side of the soldier’s back was crumbling. It had a big hole in it as if he’d been shot. I didn’t like it, so I looked away.

  “Right. So you put your hands like this,” I said, placing them on the bench. “And then you swing your feet over like this …”

  I got my left foot up onto the top, but as I brought my right foot around I caught it and toppled forwards. I crashed to the floor, my arms spread out in front of me. I felt my chin scrape against the hard ground.

  I pushed myself up onto my knees. My shirt had ripped along one sleeve.

  “Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen,” I said as I knelt there. I looked over at the soldier, who was staring right at me. The look on his face suddenly seemed really funny.

  “There’s no need to look so worried about it,” I said to the soldier. “I haven’t hurt myself.” I looked at his crinkled forehead and then I started to laugh. It was one of those laughs that comes from nowhere, and before you know it you can’t stop.

  “I don’t know … what I was … thinking,” I said between gasps. “I’ve not tried to vault anything … that high … before!”

  I laughed and clutched my stomach until it hurt. I took a few deep breaths, then stood up and inspected the rip in my shirt.

  “I’ve only just started practising that one,” I said to the soldier, breathing normally now. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I picked up my bag and walked out of the memorial garden. I didn’t have another clean shirt, so I’d have to put some washing on when I got home.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning I decided I was going to tell Mr Jennings I wasn’t going to read a poem. After all, what could he do? He couldn’t force me to do it. I wasn’t due to have English until next week, but I wanted to get it over and done with. I spotted Mr Jennings on break duty, drinking a cup of coffee in the playground.

  “Ah, Owen!” Mr Jennings said, beaming. “How’s the poem coming along?”

  I stood in front of him but didn’t look him in the eye.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m not doing it,” I said.

  Mr Jennings took a sip of his drink.

  “I see,” he said. “And why is that?”

  I hadn’t really thought about my answer. I couldn’t say it was because I was scared, could I?

  “I don’t want to,” I said.

  We stood there in silence for a bit.

  “I really think you should give it a go, Owen,” Mr Jennings said. “I think your creative writing this term has been—”

  “Look, I don’t want to do it,” I interrupted. “You can’t make me, OK?” I stared him in the face this time.

  Mr Jennings pursed his lips together and nodded.

  “OK,” he said. “I’ll just leave it as Megan and Sean then. There’s not time to get any other students involved now. Thanks for letting me know.”

  He turned away and walked towards a boy who had just dropped a wrapper on the ground.

  I felt a bit sick, but I also felt a huge sense of relief. That had been a whole lot easier than I thought it would be.

  After school, I headed straight to the memorial garden to tell the soldier.

  “Mr Jennings didn’t even really care!” I said as I sat beside him eating a bag of crisps. “I think he just picked me because he wanted to push me a bit. Some teachers are like that, you know. Sometimes they try and make you be someone you’re not.”

  I ate the last of the crisp crumbs and put the bag in the bin.

  “I don’t think I’ll be trying any vaults today,” I said, smiling at the soldier. “I’ve got a big bruise on my knee from yesterday, see?”

  I rolled up my trouser leg and pointed my knee at him, twisting it this way and that.

  “I had to put my shirt in the bin too,” I told the soldier. “I’m down to one school shirt now, so I’m going to have to—”

  “Ah, there you are!” a voice said.

  I let go of my trouser leg. Megan was walking into the garden.

  “What are you doing here?” I said, scowling at her.

  “I saw you come in here after school,” Megan said. “How’s your poem going? I’ve nearly finished mine.”

  I picked up my bag and swung it onto my shoulder, ready to leave.

  “I’m not doing it,” I said.

  Megan frowned at me.

  “Why?” she said.

  I shrugged at her.

  “I don’t want to,” I said. “I told Mr Jennings today and he’s fine about it. It’ll just be you and Sean.”

  Megan huffed and said, “That’s not fair. But I guess Mr Jennings doesn’t want to push you if you really don’t want to.”

  We stared at each other and I felt myself blush.

  Megan went over to the soldier. She put a hand on his arm and crouched down to get a better look at his face.

  “He’s so young,” she said. “How old do you reckon he is?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty, maybe?” I said. It felt strange seeing someone else with him. It felt wrong.

  Megan stood up again. “It’s a shame the soldier’s going, isn’t it?” she said. “He’s been here for as long as I can remember.”

  I froze.

  “What?” I asked. “What do you mean he’s going? Going where?”

  Megan patted the soldier on the head, then looked straight at me.

  “To be scrapped, I guess,” she said. “The council are changing everything in the park. It was in the local paper weeks ago. My mum told me about it.”

  I blinked at her and then at the soldier.

  “What? I don’t understand,” I said, my heart racing. “What do you mean they are changing everything?”

  “They’re going to rip everything out that’s in here and redo it all,” Megan told me. “The whole park is getting a revamp and they’re starting with the war memorial garden. Didn’t you know?”

  I stared at her, my throat dry, and then I turned and ran home.

  CHAPTER 6

&nb
sp; When I got home, Mum was still in her pyjamas, watching TV on the sofa. I wasn’t really in the mood to be all nice to her.

  “Why haven’t you got dressed, Mum?” I said from the doorway.

  She turned to look at me and smiled.

  “Owen!” Mum said. “You’re home. Have you had a good day?”

  I ignored her question and walked around the sofa and opened the curtains.

  “It’s really stuffy in here, Mum,” I said. “Shall I open a window?”

  Mum stared at the TV and didn’t react.

  “Mum, shall I open a window?” I said again.

  She looked up at me. “Oh no, don’t you worry about that,” Mum said. “You go and do your homework.”

  She smiled, but her face dropped as soon as she looked back at the TV screen. The plate of toast I’d left for her this morning was still on the coffee table, untouched. I turned away and headed upstairs.

  Mum hadn’t always been like this. After Dad had gone, it had taken us a long time to adjust to being just the two of us, but we’d got there. Then, about a year ago, she’d begun to change. At first, she just seemed to forget to do stuff like brush her hair or make my packed lunch, but it got worse when she stopped working. She was a photographer and she used to be really busy with weddings and family portraits, but then she stopped taking bookings. Because she worked for herself, no one seemed to notice. It wasn’t like she went to an office and didn’t turn up one day. Then she stopped changing out of her pyjamas and forgot to buy food. Her friend Kate used to phone a lot and turn up at our house, but Mum always managed to smile and make an excuse. She’d say she was just getting in the shower or she was going out to do a photography job. But as soon as Mum closed the door or put the phone down, she’d just head back to the sofa.

  Kate texted me once. She said:

  Owen. Is everything OK? I haven’t heard from your mum in a while. Do ring me if you need me, won’t you? Kate x

  I replied and told Kate that everything was fine. I said that Mum was busy with work and she’d be in touch. Kate didn’t reply, but I kept her message on my phone.

  After I’d left Mum staring at the TV, I went to my room and switched on my laptop. I wanted to find out what was going on with the soldier in the memorial garden. The first page that came up was an article from the local newspaper. It was dated four months ago.

  Town Memorial Soldier Being Scrapped

  He might have sat on the bench for the past fifty years, but the town’s memorial soldier has now served his time and is destined for the bin. Council member Camilla Broadly said the council have exciting plans to revamp the memorial garden:

  “There is no doubt that the stone soldier has done the town proud,” Camilla told us. “But he’s clearly seen better days and is beginning to crumble. Once we have removed the soldier, we will create a peaceful area with flowerbeds, a cross and a new bench. The plaque displaying the names of those who died in the war will remain.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Megan was right. They were scrapping the soldier! Why? OK, so he was a bit crumbly in places, but surely not so bad that they had to put him in the bin?

  Underneath the article, there was a small drawing of how the garden would look after the work. There was a bench, two flowerbeds, a tall stone cross and the plaque with the names. It looked empty without the soldier. Lower down, there was a line with an email address:

  What do you think about the council’s plans? Send an email to our Features Editor at the following address …

  I thought for a moment. The article was old, but the work hadn’t happened yet, so surely something could be done? I opened up my email account and began to type.

  Dear Features Editor,

  I am writing to you about the removal of the First World War soldier from the town’s memorial garden. I don’t believe that this should happen. My dad said that the soldier represents all those who died in the war. I think taking him away would be wrong.

  Yours sincerely,

  Owen Fletcher

  I hit send before I had a chance to think about it. There, it was done now. I’d never emailed a newspaper before. Then I searched for the local council’s website. There was a long list of all the departments and I clicked on “Planning”, hoping it was the right one. There was an email address for enquiries to the planning office, so I copied my message to the newspaper and sent it to them. Then I turned my laptop off and went downstairs to find something for dinner.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next day, I left for school a few minutes earlier than normal. I wanted to check in on the soldier and make sure there were no signs that work would be starting soon.

  When I went into the memorial garden, I saw that someone had put an empty can of Coke on the soldier’s knee and wrapped a dirty old tea towel around his head. It made me feel a bit sick to see him looking like that.

  “It could have been worse, I suppose,” I said as I took the towel off his head and put it and the Coke can in the bin. “At least it isn’t bird poo.”

  I sat down beside the soldier. I could hear a blackbird singing in a tree behind us and the distant sound of a bus going along the High Street.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” I said to the soldier. I could feel a painful lump forming in my throat. “The council said they are going to do up the memorial garden. They want to make a lot of … changes.”

  I looked at the soldier’s cold, anxious face and I swallowed.

  “But it’s going to be OK,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’ve sent the newspaper an email and I’ve sent one to the council too. I’m going to get them to change their mind.”

  I put my hand on the soldier’s rough arm and rubbed his sleeve. Some of the stone crumbled against my fingers. I could see he was damaged, but surely there must be a way to repair him rather than get rid of him altogether?

  “The council don’t understand how important you are, that’s the problem,” I said. “And if they can’t see it, then I’ll have to—”

  “Oh, hello again,” a voice said.

  I took my arm away fast and flicked my head round. It was Megan. She was standing by the entrance in her school uniform. She opened her mouth to say something but shut it again. She’d definitely heard me talking.

  I picked up my bag, put my head down and stumbled past her. I could feel my cheeks burning. If Megan told anyone that I’d been talking to a statue, no one at school would let me forget it.

  “Hey, wait up,” Megan said, catching up to me. “I thought we could walk to school together. I normally go down the High Street, but I thought I’d come by the park for a change.”

  I ignored her and kept walking.

  “Do you go to see the soldier every day?” Megan asked.

  “What’s it to you?” I snapped back as I walked faster. My face was still burning.

  Megan dropped back for a moment, then caught me up again. “My mum said they’ll be starting work on the garden any time now,” she said.

  I stopped.

  “Already? B‑but how!” I stuttered. “How can you know that? They can’t take the soldier away. It’s wrong!”

  Megan’s bottom lip stuck out.

  “My mum works for the council,” she replied. “She doesn’t work in that department, but she knows all about it because she’s involved with the money and budgets and stuff.”

  “Can you tell her to tell them not to do it?” I said.

  Megan shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t think it’ll make much difference. The decision has been made. He’s crumbling away, Owen. The soldier can’t really stay like that, can he?”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “He’s fine. He just needs repairing, that’s all. You should tell your mum they’re wasting money, that’s what they’re doing! It would be cheaper to fix him than do all of that work, surely?”

  We began to walk again.

  “I would have thought they’d have looked into that, wouldn’t you?” Megan said. “I know the council are always trying to save money.”

  She stopped and put her hand on my arm.

  “Sorry, Owen. I can understand why he means so much to you, especially after …”