S is for Serviceman

     My father did die in the service, he did.  Jolly good chap, always cheery and energetic, dashing here and there to play cricket or lend a hand fixing someone’s plumbing.  Mind you, he weren’t no soldier, never touched a rifle one day in his life, but golly me, he was a serviceman.
     They say my father was the best acolyte they ever did see in the church down the street by the Ol’ Yew Tree.  He’d light the candles an’ put ‘em out, ring the bell, pass out the bulletins, and lead the choir.  By the time I came along, my father was hoarse with all the singing.  His throat was stripped like a screw he’d say.
     Not a single lady in town was scared to call my father over when she had a problem her husband hadn’t the time to fix.  A most respectable gentleman they always said, paying him only in simple words of thanks.  Mum never minded much, she trusted him more’n anyone, if you can believe that.  She on’y had to see him smile at her in the morning and snuggle her at night to keep ‘er happy.
     The money was always short in my household, what with three hungry children and one parent at home.  My father never did make much, despite the work he did.  We lived on bread and butter for many years.  I didn’t much mind.
     We never really saw it coming when Father took ill.  There was a bit of fever in his eyes, maybe, but not much else.  To his dying day, he’d rove about the town, coughing out, “as you require, so shall my service be.”
     When they laid him down to rest beneath the Yew Tree, I made a solemn oath with just a pair of tears in my eyes.  I would be a serviceman like my father.