Fast Fiction: The Last Waiting Room
The room is white - whiter than the smocks they are wearing and any hair they still have. Richard Mallinson tells the story of three old soldiers who meet up in the last waiting room.
‘Yes, this must be it.’ says Ron, ‘the last waiting room, so in we go.’
There are three of them, all in their eighties. They go into the room and the door closes silently behind them.
The room is white - whiter than the smocks they are wearing and any hair they still have left. The strip-lighting is white, as are the chairs.
There are no windows but there is a door opposite the one they have come through. They sit down on the chairs facing this second door.
‘What do we do now?’ asks Ted.
‘Well,’ says Bert, ‘they told us to wait here until it was time to go, one at a time - and we always obey orders, don’t we?’
‘You must be bleedin jokin,’ says Ted.
‘But do we just sit here and twiddle our thumbs?’ Bert goes on.
‘I don’t think there’ll be much time for twiddling thumbs,’ says Ron, looking at the door in front of them as it slowly opens.
‘I’ll go first,’ he says - and the other two smile. Typical of Ron, they think…always wants to be first, even on that Normandy beach.
‘Good luck, Ron,’ they call as they watch him float out into the void, his smock fluttering. The door closes.
‘Now what was the code-name we used in Normandy?’ Ted asks.
‘I think it was Sword,’ says Bert, ‘yes, that’s it. Sword… I wouldn’t like to do it all again though, not at my bleedin age…would you, Ted?’
The door opens again and Ted goes through.
Bert sits waiting his turn.
‘I wonder where it is we’re going,’ he muses. ‘It’s always the bleedin same…they never tell us anyfink, do they?’
