Fiction

In “The Old Phoenix”

We were walking up Croke Lane to the train station after our Tuesday night parade. I’d been in Croke Lane many times, but never noticed it before. Indeed there was little to notice, just a small door between two of the old warehouses, with a sign, “The Old Phoenix”, and written underneath in chalk, “Sea-farers’ nite”. Well, we were sea-farers, of a sort, Navy volunteer reservists, who had just spent the evening in the drill-hall polishing up our relic nine-pounder cannon for an inspection scheduled for the following Sunday. I won’t say we were actually feeling mutinous—polishing the cannon had…

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