soldier?”
I shrugged. “He came to the garden. He used to know Dad.”
“Everyone did,” said Auntie Ivy. “And everyone loved him.” She took her hand away. “Now go and play, Johnny.”
I didn't feel like fighting my soldiers. But I cleaned up the trenches and put the men in order. Then I made barbed wire from the twine that was left over from my Guy Fawkes guy, laying it out in coils across my noman's-land. I staked it down with twigs from the beech tree, going back and forth from the trenches to collect them by the wall.
On my third trip there I saw the sergeant watching me. He stood among the trees, in his khaki clothes, and all I saw at first was his face. “Hello,” I shouted, but he didn't answer.
I stepped closer, and his arms appeared among the branches. His uniform was tattered now, the collars frayed, the cuffs unraveled. He looked as though he'd walked a hundred miles, through mud and thorns, since I'd seen him last. “Are you all right?” I asked.
He still didn't answer. His mouth opened and closed, and he moved backward, slinking into the forest. Thenhe turned and started to run, if you could call it that. He went away in a hobbling gait, with one leg stiff, until I couldn't see him anymore.
That night I dreamed about him. I saw him crossing a battlefield in that same hobbling way. I shouted at him, and he turned around. And his face was my father's.
It was snowing when I woke. I lay in my bed watching the flakes spiral past the window. I thought of it snowing in France, all of no-man's-land turning to white. I wanted to see my own battlefield looking like that, but by morning the snow had changed to rain, and there was only a bit of slush on the ground. I went off to school in my Wellingtons, the rubber soles squeaking with every step.
At the post office I met Sarah. She was slogging along, her feet dragging troughs in the slush. When I caught up to her she looked at me, and
her
face was different too. It was like Auntie Ivy's, wrinkled with worry.
“He died,” she said.
“Who?”
“My dad.” She sniffed, and started sobbing.
“What happened?” I asked.
Her lips quivered. Her breath hissed through her teeth. Every time she tried to speak she started crying instead.
I thought of her father. I remembered how tall he was, how
heroic
he was in his big coat and his polished buttons. I could hear his voice and see his smile, how happy he'd been in the garden. It seemed so real just then that I could remember the smell of the rain on his woolen clothes. It wasn't possible that he was dead, that he was gone—just like that—forever.
“Sarah,” I said.
“Yesterday,” she said. She sobbed and took a breath. “We got a letter from him yesterday.”
She clamped a hand across her face, across her eyes and nose. “He said he was happy. He said he'd been scared but he wasn't anymore. He told us not to worry.”
Sarah rubbed her eyes, then took her hand away. She blinked, spilling tears on her cheeks. “He was dead when we got it.” Suddenly, she smiled. “Johnny, it was like he wrote it from heaven.”
She walked with me for a while, but very slowly. She was like a flower that was wilting; her shoulders slumped, her head drooped down. Then she stopped altogether. “I don't even know how he died,” she said. “I don't know what happened to him yet.”
Children rushed past us. A ball of slush plopped on the ground at my feet. A boy shouted, laughing, “Johnny's going to get maa-aaried!”
Sarah put her hand on my arm. “You don't think a shell hit him, do you?”
“Maybe.” I didn't know what to say. “Do you want to come to Auntie's after school? Do you want to play with my—”
“No,” she said. “I won't.” She backed away. “I wish I'd never gone there.”
“Why?”
She gave me a terrible look. Then she started crying again, harder than before.
“What's wrong?” I said.
She turned and ran. She fled down her trail of ragged footprints, past buildings
I shrugged. “He came to the garden. He used to know Dad.”
“Everyone did,” said Auntie Ivy. “And everyone loved him.” She took her hand away. “Now go and play, Johnny.”
I didn't feel like fighting my soldiers. But I cleaned up the trenches and put the men in order. Then I made barbed wire from the twine that was left over from my Guy Fawkes guy, laying it out in coils across my noman's-land. I staked it down with twigs from the beech tree, going back and forth from the trenches to collect them by the wall.
On my third trip there I saw the sergeant watching me. He stood among the trees, in his khaki clothes, and all I saw at first was his face. “Hello,” I shouted, but he didn't answer.
I stepped closer, and his arms appeared among the branches. His uniform was tattered now, the collars frayed, the cuffs unraveled. He looked as though he'd walked a hundred miles, through mud and thorns, since I'd seen him last. “Are you all right?” I asked.
He still didn't answer. His mouth opened and closed, and he moved backward, slinking into the forest. Thenhe turned and started to run, if you could call it that. He went away in a hobbling gait, with one leg stiff, until I couldn't see him anymore.
That night I dreamed about him. I saw him crossing a battlefield in that same hobbling way. I shouted at him, and he turned around. And his face was my father's.
It was snowing when I woke. I lay in my bed watching the flakes spiral past the window. I thought of it snowing in France, all of no-man's-land turning to white. I wanted to see my own battlefield looking like that, but by morning the snow had changed to rain, and there was only a bit of slush on the ground. I went off to school in my Wellingtons, the rubber soles squeaking with every step.
At the post office I met Sarah. She was slogging along, her feet dragging troughs in the slush. When I caught up to her she looked at me, and
her
face was different too. It was like Auntie Ivy's, wrinkled with worry.
“He died,” she said.
“Who?”
“My dad.” She sniffed, and started sobbing.
“What happened?” I asked.
Her lips quivered. Her breath hissed through her teeth. Every time she tried to speak she started crying instead.
I thought of her father. I remembered how tall he was, how
heroic
he was in his big coat and his polished buttons. I could hear his voice and see his smile, how happy he'd been in the garden. It seemed so real just then that I could remember the smell of the rain on his woolen clothes. It wasn't possible that he was dead, that he was gone—just like that—forever.
“Sarah,” I said.
“Yesterday,” she said. She sobbed and took a breath. “We got a letter from him yesterday.”
She clamped a hand across her face, across her eyes and nose. “He said he was happy. He said he'd been scared but he wasn't anymore. He told us not to worry.”
Sarah rubbed her eyes, then took her hand away. She blinked, spilling tears on her cheeks. “He was dead when we got it.” Suddenly, she smiled. “Johnny, it was like he wrote it from heaven.”
She walked with me for a while, but very slowly. She was like a flower that was wilting; her shoulders slumped, her head drooped down. Then she stopped altogether. “I don't even know how he died,” she said. “I don't know what happened to him yet.”
Children rushed past us. A ball of slush plopped on the ground at my feet. A boy shouted, laughing, “Johnny's going to get maa-aaried!”
Sarah put her hand on my arm. “You don't think a shell hit him, do you?”
“Maybe.” I didn't know what to say. “Do you want to come to Auntie's after school? Do you want to play with my—”
“No,” she said. “I won't.” She backed away. “I wish I'd never gone there.”
“Why?”
She gave me a terrible look. Then she started crying again, harder than before.
“What's wrong?” I said.
She turned and ran. She fled down her trail of ragged footprints, past buildings
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