Short Stories from Wing's Authors.

The Best Of Both Worlds

by

A. W. Lambert

In his previous life he had been part of a motorcar. But not just any part of any motorcar. No, he’d come from the bonnet of a genuine Rolls Royce. Now there’s a pedigree for you. Admittedly it had been a very old Rolls Royce; well, it wouldn’t have been scrapped and recycled if it hadn’t been, would it? But old or not, there weren’t many metal toy soldiers that could say that they had come from a genuine Rolls Royce, were there? And even now, in his new Grenadier Guard form, just like the old Rolls Royce, he could boast that he had been made in England. He was extremely proud of that, too.

He snuggled down comfortably in the darkness, the preformed polystyrene packing hugging his shape. There were ten of them, he thought, although it could be twelve. He couldn’t be absolutely sure; the packing process was so quick it had been difficult to count. But they were all the same as him, all standing proud in their beautifully colored, immaculate uniforms, all positioned in a neat row in the box. The journey from the factory had been quite uncomfortable, the vehicle that was carrying them bouncing around a great deal. Not like he was used to, he thought with a smile, remembering the smoothness of the old Rolls Royce. In a Rolls Royce, even an old one, there was hardly a bump at all.

Anyway, all that was over now and they were safely packed on the shelf in the shop. He knew they were in the shop because he had heard the shop assistant being told what to do by the shop owner.

“Pack the boxes on the shelf,” he’d said. “We’ll open them in the morning, make a display.”

A display. He couldn’t wait. He remembered the Rolls Royce when it was new. Now that was what you could call a display. Standing magnificent in the show room. Polished every day, everybody wanting to touch the gleaming bodywork. He was bigger then, of course, a whole bonnet, and so proud. But it didn’t really matter how big or how small you were, did it? Now he might be just a toy soldier, but he was nonetheless proud. After all he was a Grenadier Guard and some would say that that was even better than being Rolls Royce

The night passed slowly with lots of whispering, everyone introducing themselves to their neighbours. And as good soldiers they counted themselves. He was right, there were ten. He was somewhere in the middle of the row, Harry on his right side and Bob on his left. In his previous life Harry had been a bicycle frame; he didn’t know which type. And Bob couldn’t be absolutely sure, but he thought he came from a frying pan. He admitted that he wasn’t very proud of that, but it didn’t matter now because, like the rest of them, he was a brand new, shiny Grenadier Guard. As for the others, none of them could boast anything like a Rolls Royce.

At last morning came and the box was lifted down from the shelf and the lid removed. As the light flooded in he stood as straight as he could, thrusting out his chest and clutching his rifle rigidly to his shoulder, exactly as he was sure a Grenadier Guard would do.

It was a wonderful display and covered almost the entire shop window. Tanks and trucks, their pennants flying proudly, stood in rows at the rear. Staff cars with officers sitting stiffly in the back seats, their drivers upright and clutching the steering wheel, maneuvering themselves in and out of the other vehicles. Dispatch riders, some with sidecars, sat astride their motorcycles ready for action and cavalrymen mounted on strutting horses formed orderly rows to one side. And in the front, at the centre of the whole display, the infantrymen of the Grenadier Guards. It was a magnificent sight.

When he’d been pulled from the box, the shop assistant had viewed him with an enthusiastic eye.

“Best we’ve had yet, don’t you think?” The words were like music to his ears and he desperately wanted shout out that he had once been a Rolls Royce. He couldn’t, of course. Instead he gloried in the feeling that after being the very best of one thing, he was now the best of another.

Other boxes had been emptied and the soldiers stood in neat rows facing forward, looking proudly out through the shop window, nearest of all to the admiring glances of the people passing in the street. And to his utter delight he had found himself positioned on the very end of the very front row, only inches from the window. He could feel the power of the whole display behind him. He could hear the roar of the tanks and the trucks, the sharp rattle of the motorcycle exhausts and the impatient stamping of the horses hooves. He could hear the officers shouting their commands and the whole army preparing itself for battle.

The shop owner had left the shop, wandering out onto the pavement, studying the display, his handiwork. He stood for some time, fingering his chin, a frown on his face. Then nodding to himself he returned to the shop.

“Something wrong?” the shop assistant asked.

The owner nodded. “Something missing.”

“Missing?” repeated the assistant.

“Yes. It’s those Grenadiers.”

The soldier, standing tall and proud, felt his tiny heart sink. What could be wrong? Hadn’t the assistant said that they were the best yet? Hadn’t he said that? He glanced to one side, down the row. It was perfectly straight. The soldiers, every one immaculate; their newly painted uniforms gleaming. So what could be wrong?

“It’s the one on the end,” he heard the shop owner say. “Take him out, he’s not right.”

The one on the end? But that was him. How could he not be right? How could he, with his pedigree, be wrong? There had to be a mistake.

But there was no mistake and utter devastation enveloped him as he felt himself being lifted from his place of honour in the front of the magnificent display.

They took him to the back of the shop where they laid im on a workbench in the corner. The shop owner opened a drawer and for what seemed forever searched among its contents.

“Ah, found them,” he said, finally making his way back to the bench.

It took just a few moments and when it was over the shop owner studied his finished work with some satisfaction. “That’s much better,” he said, polishing the little figure so carefully with a soft cloth that it reminded him again of the car show room all those years before.

They placed him back in position, but this time not exactly the same position as before. This time he was placed in the front and to one side, looking across at the other soldiers. The shop owner again wandered out onto the pavement, this time a wide smile spreading across his face. Nodding happily he made his way back into the shop.

“Much better,” he said to the assistant. “How can you have a whole battalion of Grenadier Guards without a Sergeant?”

The little soldier looked down at the brand new gleaming chevrons on the arms of his jacket and pulled himself up even taller than before. He felt an immense pride as he looked down the rows of his men. He knew it was a great honour to be promoted to a sergeant in the Grenadier Guards, but it was only fitting, wasn’t it? After all he had been a Rolls Royce, and you can’t get much better than that, can you?