JOINING UP, by Liz Lefroy

Sometime in late May, I woke to the sound of the van door slamming. A few birds were at full dawn throttle.   I looked at the clock on my desk and rolled over pulling a pillow over my head.

When the birds had quietened down to something more civilised, I went down for my Weetabix. There were two chunky KitKats on the kitchen table and a folded piece of paper.  The note read: ‘I am going to join the French Foreign Legion.  Give my stuff to Oxfam. Au revoir.  Ian.’  

I thought of Ian’s £136 debt to the kitty.  I thought the French Foreign Legion was a thing of the past – like Opal Fruits and Leningrad.  A thing involving broken hearts and underfed men wearing caps with flaps on the back to keep the sun off in deserty places like Algeria.  I thought of Steph.

Back upstairs, I pushed open the door to Ian’s bedroom and flicked on the light.  No shade.  No bloody shade.  3 ½ years, and still no shade.  The West Bromwich Albion curtains were closed.  

Whatever Ian had packed and taken had hardly made an impression on his stuff.   His blue and black striped duvet lay at half mast down the side of the king-size bed.  Three mugs stood on the pine chest of drawers amidst cans of Lynx.  The black leather IKEA recliner chair was piled with dark T-shirts and what looked like every one of his Angry Birds socks.  The Homer Simpson boxers he’d been given by Steph for Christmas lay on top like a conquering flag.  All the precious stuff, in other words, left.  I switched off the light, and reversed out.

From my desk, I could see the empty drive.  I Googled French Foreign Legion.  Wikipedia says that the process of recruitment has four stages.  The first lasts up to a week in a centre where the preliminary information sharing is carried out before transfer to Paris.  The second involves confirmation of motivation.  Selection takes place over one to two weeks in the Centre in Aubagne.  I Googled Aubagne and found out that it’s 11 miles east of Marseilles and that the HQ of the French Foreign Legion is located there.  The final stage is the signing of the five year contract.  In as few as nine days, or four weeks maximum, Ian could be signed up as a trainee Legionnaire.  I wondered if Steph knew.

I heard a key in the front door and looked at my watch.  I went downstairs, met Rob in the hallway.  His face was grey.

‘Bad shift?’ I enquired. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’  He followed me into the kitchen.

‘Ian’s gone,’ I said.  

‘What do you mean, gone?  Did he pay his £136?’ I showed him the note.  

‘French Foreign Legion!  Idiot.’  

‘He left you this.’  I chucked Rob a chunky KitKat.   Rob peeled back the red wrapper.  

‘Bastard,’ he said.  ‘Idiot.’  Then:  ‘How much d’you reckon his stuff would fetch on eBay?’

© Liz Lefroy 2013
For Tristan