that were shedding snow from their steep roofs, then round the bend at the edge of thevillage. I could see the marshes beyond her, white and flat, and imagined her running across them, all the way to the Thames and on to London, on and on for as far as she could go.
I went on to school and sat behind her empty desk. Mr. Tuttle stood at the front of the room in his long black gown. “Children,” he said. “We should pray.” We bowed our heads and prayed for Sarah's father, for his soul. We prayed for Sarah, for her mother, for all of our fathers who were fighting in France. It was the first time I had done that in school, but it wouldn't be nearly the last.
That same day, in the evening, the lieutenant's name was in the paper. It was listed in the Honor Roll, in the section for the officers, in a little box shaped like a grave. Auntie Ivy pointed it out. “Killed in action,” it said beside his name.
“I met him,” I said. “I liked him.”
“I know you did,” said Auntie. There wasn't a bit of news or a single secret in all of Cliffe that Auntie didn't know.
“Then why did he die?”
“Who can say why?” She shook her head. “Not me, not you.”
Auntie Ivy made an enormous supper that night, a rabbit stew that she cooked in two pots. I didn't know why until we finished and she put on her coat and her boots.
“I'm taking some food to Mrs. Sims,” she said. “Would you like to come?”
“I was going to play with my soldiers,” I said.
But Auntie had already made up my mind. “No, I think you'd rather come with me.”
It was dark when we got to the farm. In the lane beside the house a lantern was burning, and in its yellowish glow a man was loading wood into a wagon bed. He stood on a pile of split rounds, pitching them up one-handed. His arm seemed to go round and round in circles, catching the wood and hurling it up. The lantern light shone on a hook that he held.
“That's Storey,” said Auntie, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He sells firewood around the village.” We passed him at a distance as we walked toward the farmhouse. I fancied his hook; it would be a splendid thing for climbing trees or plucking trout from rivers. But Auntie told me: “He lost his hand, you see. It was shot away in the Burma war, and all he's got is a claw.”
She walked away and I hurried up behind her. We climbed to the porch, but Auntie didn't knock on the door. She pushed it open and called, “Yoo-hoo!”
Shreds of paper hung above us, tiny scraps of blue and white and red. Warm air, tart with smoke, wafted out through the door, and the bits of paper rustled and coiled. The house felt empty, the air like its breath.
I could hear Mrs. Sims walking across the floor above us. Her voice quavered down: “I'll be right there.”
“It's only me,” said Auntie.
We walked right in, to a warm and smoky parlor. We stood on the hearth, warming our hands and our fronts at the fire.
“Those are the sons,” said Auntie, tipping her head toward a pair of portraits on the mantel. “There's just the two of them, no daughters.”
Mrs. Sims was coming down the stairs. Auntie benther head and whispered, soft as feathers, “Both the boys went to war. It was Murdoch who was killed.”
“Who's the other one?” I asked.
“Hush.”
“I know him,” I said. But Auntie Ivy had turned away to greet her neighbor.
I took the picture down. I held it out to Mrs. Sims who stopped in midstep. She stared at me from her black veils and her shawls. “Look. He's my friend,” I said, smiling. “He comes to the garden. I saw him just the other night.”
Mrs. Sims gasped. She touched her forehead, then crumpled to the floor.
“Johnny!” Auntie slapped me on the head. She went running to hold Mrs. Sims. “You wicked boy. That's Murdoch.”
C HAPTER 12
For three days there were no letters from my father. I sat and wrote to him instead, even though it wasn't Friday.
Dear Dad,
I wrote.
How are you? I am not fine.
I went on to school and sat behind her empty desk. Mr. Tuttle stood at the front of the room in his long black gown. “Children,” he said. “We should pray.” We bowed our heads and prayed for Sarah's father, for his soul. We prayed for Sarah, for her mother, for all of our fathers who were fighting in France. It was the first time I had done that in school, but it wouldn't be nearly the last.
That same day, in the evening, the lieutenant's name was in the paper. It was listed in the Honor Roll, in the section for the officers, in a little box shaped like a grave. Auntie Ivy pointed it out. “Killed in action,” it said beside his name.
“I met him,” I said. “I liked him.”
“I know you did,” said Auntie. There wasn't a bit of news or a single secret in all of Cliffe that Auntie didn't know.
“Then why did he die?”
“Who can say why?” She shook her head. “Not me, not you.”
Auntie Ivy made an enormous supper that night, a rabbit stew that she cooked in two pots. I didn't know why until we finished and she put on her coat and her boots.
“I'm taking some food to Mrs. Sims,” she said. “Would you like to come?”
“I was going to play with my soldiers,” I said.
But Auntie had already made up my mind. “No, I think you'd rather come with me.”
It was dark when we got to the farm. In the lane beside the house a lantern was burning, and in its yellowish glow a man was loading wood into a wagon bed. He stood on a pile of split rounds, pitching them up one-handed. His arm seemed to go round and round in circles, catching the wood and hurling it up. The lantern light shone on a hook that he held.
“That's Storey,” said Auntie, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He sells firewood around the village.” We passed him at a distance as we walked toward the farmhouse. I fancied his hook; it would be a splendid thing for climbing trees or plucking trout from rivers. But Auntie told me: “He lost his hand, you see. It was shot away in the Burma war, and all he's got is a claw.”
She walked away and I hurried up behind her. We climbed to the porch, but Auntie didn't knock on the door. She pushed it open and called, “Yoo-hoo!”
Shreds of paper hung above us, tiny scraps of blue and white and red. Warm air, tart with smoke, wafted out through the door, and the bits of paper rustled and coiled. The house felt empty, the air like its breath.
I could hear Mrs. Sims walking across the floor above us. Her voice quavered down: “I'll be right there.”
“It's only me,” said Auntie.
We walked right in, to a warm and smoky parlor. We stood on the hearth, warming our hands and our fronts at the fire.
“Those are the sons,” said Auntie, tipping her head toward a pair of portraits on the mantel. “There's just the two of them, no daughters.”
Mrs. Sims was coming down the stairs. Auntie benther head and whispered, soft as feathers, “Both the boys went to war. It was Murdoch who was killed.”
“Who's the other one?” I asked.
“Hush.”
“I know him,” I said. But Auntie Ivy had turned away to greet her neighbor.
I took the picture down. I held it out to Mrs. Sims who stopped in midstep. She stared at me from her black veils and her shawls. “Look. He's my friend,” I said, smiling. “He comes to the garden. I saw him just the other night.”
Mrs. Sims gasped. She touched her forehead, then crumpled to the floor.
“Johnny!” Auntie slapped me on the head. She went running to hold Mrs. Sims. “You wicked boy. That's Murdoch.”
C HAPTER 12
For three days there were no letters from my father. I sat and wrote to him instead, even though it wasn't Friday.
Dear Dad,
I wrote.
How are you? I am not fine.
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