The ground was ripped asunder and stained with the blood of men from both sides. British and German troops lay dead or dying on the crippled earth and in the shell-shocked trenches. The carnage all around them was so terrible it brought tears to the eyes of many of the tommies.

Red Cross ambulances rumbled in and medical officers leaped out, hastening to the wounded. The doctors tried to ease their suffering as best they could in conditions so appalling to behold that one young doctor turned away, vomiting at the sight of such needless butchery. And the dead were slowly carried off and laid at the far end of the wood.

Blackie, dripping with sweat, filthy and blood-stained, his uniform ripped at the shoulder, his helmet dangling around his neck, began his search for Joe and Harry.

A Seaforth Highlander, thrown against a tree like a crumpled rag doll, a jagged wound ripping open his chest, was obviously in the throes of dying. ‘Help me, for God’s sake, help me,’ he moaned through parched lips.

Blackie knelt down and took him in his arms. The boy tried to speak again. ‘Don’t talk,’ Blackie murmured, cradling him like a baby, his eyes urgently seeking a medical officer to no avail.

The boy sighed deeply and shuddered and went limp in his arms. Blackie looked down at him. He was dead, his eyes wide and staring. Blackie closed the lids, gazing at that young face, so tender, so innocent in death. No more than nineteen, Blackie thought, and tears of compassion and hopeless anger dimmed his vision. Blackie released the dead boy and with great gentleness laid him down under the tree, the only one standing for miles.

Filled with a searing pain that seemed to split his chest in half, Blackie flung himself onto a patch of grass miraculously not torn up by the shelling. He pressed his face into the earth and closed his eyes. The last two days had passed in a haze of blood and killing and pain. He knew he would never forget the screams of the men as they were mowed down with such relentless efficiency, or ever cleanse himself of the stench that clung to his body like another skin. It was compounded of every kind of foul thing on this earth.

How will it end? he asked himself, this war of senseless murder and destruction precipitated by evil men seeking dominion over the world and the enslavement of mankind to satisfy their own greed for power. He did not know the answer. His mind reeled with furious rage, indignation and despair; his sorrow over-whelmed him. He pressed his face deeper into the grass and felt the cool clean sensation of the dew against his skin. And he did not know that the grass was dry or realize that his face was wet with his own tears.

Reality in the shape of a strong arm on his shoulder roused Blackie. He lifted his head. Harry was standing over him. ‘Come on, me old cock. We’re not at a bleeding Sunday school picnic,’ Harry joked. He pulled Blackie to his feet.

‘Have you seen Joe?’

Harry shook his head and a dismal look wiped the cheery grin off his face. ‘No, I haven’t, lad. And I wouldn’t know where to begin to look, not in this bloody mess I wouldn’t.’

‘Help me to find him, Harry. Please,’ Blackie begged, his voice suddenly cracking.

‘Aye, I will that, lad. Don’t worry, he must be somewhere hereabouts. Come on then, mate, let’s start with that group of wounded tommies over yonder.’ Growing increasingly aware of the worried expression on Blackie’s face, Harry grinned and punched his arm. ‘Joe can’t have gone for a bloody hike, now can he!’ he asserted, endeavouring to be jocular. ‘I bet we’ll find the old cocker puffing away on a fag-end, Blackie, and looking as if he don’t have a bleeding care in the world.’

FORTY-TWO

Emma sat on the edge of Christopher’s bed, the storybook in her hand, the lamp infusing her face with roseate tints and casting an aureole of light around her head. She closed the book and smiled at her son. ‘Now, come along, Kit. It’s time to go to sleep.’

Kit’s wide-set hazel eyes regarded her steadfastly and his small round face, covered with a dusting of light freckles, was very intense for a five-year-old. ‘Please, Mummy, just one more story,’ he begged. ‘Please, Mummy. You promised to read to me a bit longer tonight and you never break a promise, do you? At least that’s what you’re always saying.’

Amused at his unsubtle brand of persuasion but unswayed by it, she laughed and rumpled his hair playfully. ‘I have read longer to you, Kit. You must go to sleep now. It’s well past your bedtime.’ She put the book on the table and, leaning forward, kissed his cheek.

His sturdy little arms went around her neck and he nuzzled closer to her. ‘You smell so nice, Mummy. Just like a flower. Like a whole bunch of flowers,’ he murmured in her ear.

Smiling, Emma drew away and smoothed back his hair. ‘Snuggle down, Kit. Good night and sweet dreams.’

‘Good night, Mummy.’

Emma turned out the light and closed the door quietly behind her. She paused at Edwina’s door, hesitating uncertainly before tapping lightly and entering. Edwina was sitting up in bed reading, her pale blonde hair tumbling in luxuriant waves around her thin shoulders visible through the light cotton nightgown. She lifted her head and focused her cool silver-grey eyes on Emma, looking as if she resented this intrusion on her privacy.

‘I just came to kiss you good night,’ Emma said carefully, crossing the floor. ‘And don’t burn the midnight oil for too long, will you, dear?’

‘No, Mother,’ Edwina said. She placed the book on one side and continued to gaze at Emma, a patient expression on her face.

Emma hovered near the bed. ‘Our little nursery dinner was fun tonight, wasn’t it?’ she gaily remarked, wishing to reinforce the rapport, tentative though it was, which had recently sprung up between them.

Edwina nodded. ‘Yes.’ The child studied her for a moment and then said, ‘When is Uncle Winston coming to stay with us, Mother?’

‘I’m not quite certain, dear. Very soon, I hope. He said in his last letter he expected to get leave imminently.’

‘I’m glad he’s coming. I like Uncle Winston,’ Edwina volunteered.

Surprised at this unexpected confidence and encouraged by it, Emma lowered herself on to the bed gingerly, always acutely conscious of Edwina’s abhorrence of close physical contact. ‘I am happy that you do, Edwina. He loves you very much and so does your Uncle Frank.’

‘Will Uncle Frank be coming, too? I mean, when Uncle Winston gets his leave?’

‘Yes, that was the plan, Edwina. We’ll have some jolly evenings together. We’ll play charades and have singsongs. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

‘Oh, yes, it will be nice.’ Edwina proffered Emma a rare smile, a deliquescent smile that softened her cold young face and brought a hint of warmth to those enormous argent eyes.

Emma, observing Edwina intently, felt her heart miss a beat. There it was again. That smile. That melting smile she remembered only too well. She dropped her eyes, aware that a flicker of fear had entered them, and nervously straightened the coverlet. ‘We’ll make plans for your Uncle Winston’s visit tomorrow,’ she said in a low voice, and stood up abruptly. Bending down, she kissed Edwina fleetingly, afraid of being repulsed, and went on, ‘Good night, darling. Sleep tight.’

‘Good night, Mother,’ Edwina responded dutifully in a stiff tone, and returned to her book without giving Emma a second glance or a second thought. Her mother, this woman whom everyone claimed was beautiful and charming and clever, hardly existed for the ten-year-old girl. Edwina lived in a world entirely of her own making and she did not permit anything or anyone to penetrate it, and the only two people she loved were Joe and her Cousin Freda in Ripon.

The child was an enigma to Emma. She ran lightly down the stairs, Edwina’s smile lingering in her mind as she entered the study. She grows to look more like her every day, Emma thought with a stab of acute discomfort. But it’s only a physical resemblance, she reassured herself, hurriedly dismissing those characteristics which were becoming more pronounced in her daughter and which disturbed her from time to time. The desk was covered with a pile of papers that needed Emma’s immediate attention and she sat down, determined to wade through them that evening. After half an hour she realized her powers of concentration had fled and she put down her pen in irritation and leaned back in the chair, wondering what ailed her. Strain? Tiredness? She had felt distracted and restless that morning, feelings unprecedented for her. But they had persisted throughout the day and she had left the store earlier than usual, conscious of needing to break loose from the fetters of her business and assailed by a desperate longing to be at home with her children.