“So why’d you leave, John?”
Before I replied, I asked, “What were you told? I can only imagine my disappearance sent tongues wagging. Particularly in regards to a certain someone.”
The three shared a glance. “Well, we’ve had differing accounts of what happened,” Mark replied.
So I told them what happened, at least according to my memory, and they knew I wouldn’t lie about something like that. It was the first time my parents and sister would have heard the whole truth, at least from my side anyway. All I’d done when returning home the same morning that I’d left for Paris is that we’d split up and I was going away for a while. Now they knew the real truth as to why. My heart had been broken into a million pieces.
“Look, it might seem liked a drastic reaction to what she did, but at the end of the day, I actually don’t have any regrets. What she did was actually a benefit. I loved my time in the Legion. I wouldn’t have had my life any other way now.”
“Still think about her?” Brett wondered.
Sighing at such a question, which I expected, I replied with a half-truth. “From time to time, simply curious as to how her life turned out. The one question I’ve always had is if she regretted what she asked of me that morning. Probably not, but considering what I’ve learned over the years regarding that sort of thing…” I trailed off and shrugged. It didn’t matter anymore.
“So what are you going to do?” Chris asked.
“Find a job somewhere. Spent ten years as an engineer in the Legion. I’m sure I can apply my knowledge in the civilian world.”
“Join the Army. See the world,” Mark said.
Laughing, I shook my head. “Nah, I’ve done my time in the services. I’d like to know I won’t be sent to some shithole to have my arse possibly shot off. Well, again anyway…” Hearing Mum gasp, I took her hand. “I’m fine, Mum. But bleeding for the Legion means I’m now a French citizen too.”
“Fuck, you’re now French too?!” Dad exclaimed.
“Je me sens aussi Français qu’Australien aujourd’hui, papa.”
“What was that?” Mark added.
“Je ne suis pas gêné d’avoir la double nationalité, mon ami.”
“Bloody show off,” my sister muttered, though I saw her smiling, “I swear, John, whip out the French when you’re out. Women will be hanging off you all night. Only time I’ve heard it spoken as fluently is when I’m watching foreign movies.”
We spent the afternoon sitting in the sun, enjoying the warmth regarding the weather, sinking beers and catching up on our lives. I told them everything I’d been up to, from the earliest days in training to my deployments, mostly in Northern Africa, which is where I’d earned most of my wounds. Not that many, but I’d been left with a couple of scars that would lead to questions. Stories about trips around Europe raised some laughs, admitting to smoking weed with squaddies whenever we were in Amsterdam, though I didn’t partake in the pleasures of the flesh on offer.
“I don’t enjoy meaningless, casual sex,” I said, “Unless I feel that immediate connection with someone I meet, I’ll generally wait.”
My mates all shared glances before chuckling. “Still an old romantic at heart, John?” Mark only half-joked.
“Well, French women certainly didn’t mind. Add that I’m an Australian managing to speak conversational French…” I left the insinuation as needed. “Anyway, enough about my love life. Let’s talk about what we’re going to do together next.”
*****
I learned my mates liked to play golf, and as they’d been stuck playing as a threesome for years, I found myself dragged onto a course within a month of my return. I feigned not wanting to go, stating I was terrible around a golf course, that I rarely played. They believe me until I stepped up to the first tee and absolutely launched the ball, hitting centre fairway, exceeding anything they’d done by at least fifty metres.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Mark exclaimed, “John, you’re still a bullshit artist, I see.”
“I might have played a round or two with some friends back in France.”
“A round or two?” Chris retorted, obviously not believing me.
“Maybe I’m just naturally gifted?”
They gave that some thought until I made par on the first hole while the closest score was three over. “Fucking massive bullshit artist,” Mark muttered as we walked to the second hole, “This was a bad idea, guys.”
“Want me to play left handed?”
“Fuck off, John. You’ll probably be even better.”
They learned that, to their relief, the first hole wasn’t exactly a fluke, but I actually wasn’t as good as first perceived. Brett was also driving a buggy, as he had a bad knee from a game of soccer, so once we’d started sinking some beers, our standard of play dropped significantly, and we spent more time reminiscing about the stupid shit we’d got up to at school, though thankfully they didn’t mention my relationship at the time. Or, at least, they didn’t too often.