again. And all the time she's tending his wound and wrapping his head, she wants to ask, Which one? Which one did this to you?
But when she's done and pinning the bandage, he says, "I didn't tell on the other lads. The constable kept asking who was there, but I'm no rat." His eyes are alight beneath the white strip, as proud to have kept a secret as uncovered one.
"You might as well have," she snaps, suddenly as angry at the other boys as at the sappers. "That lot!"
His face falls, and when she asks him at last--"Now, Jim--" which of the sappers hit him, she sees his face close. He couldn't tell, he says stubbornly, and when she presses him, "But you must know," he raises a fist to his eyes, a gesture that always makes her think he wants to punch himself for crying, and she tells him quickly, "Hey, hey. I almost forgot. I've got something for you."
"What?" he asks grudgingly.
"Only if you stop crying. It's only for a brave boy." "I wasn't crying."
She leans forward and puts her mouth to his ear. "A bike," she whispers, and he looks at her with
amazement, and then with such joy that for a second she
thinks it's almost been worth it. He throws his arms around her, and she finds herself standing abruptly, brushing him off, saying lamely, "Your bandage will come loose."
Later, when she tucks him in, she tries to make up for it,
bending down to kiss him, but he struggles up under the sheets. "Hey," he says. "Does this mean I'm the camp's first prisoner?" And she nods, and leaves him, although a part of her thinks the title rightly her own.
Before she blows out the lamp, she'll hurry to the privy again, sit on the cold wooden seat, drowsing to the fizzing drone of a bluebottle. She'll look out through the half-moon in the door and then down at her drawers in the yellow oil light and see a thin exclamation mark of blood. By the time she goes back inside, the clock over the hearth will read two o'clock, and she'll wonder dully what they call the day after D- day.
Five
L
ooking out of the window the morning after the invasion, she sees it's just another day, only a pale sickle moon in
the blue-white sky to betray there'd even been a night before. Esther forces herself to get up to prepare Arthur's breakfast. Just like normal, she tells herself, if a little sluggish. She sets out the chipped plates with deliberate care, then the yellowing bone-handled cutlery, the bread and butter. Everything in its place. She thinks herself through the movements, conscious of them for the first time in years, as if she's never done them before.
But then, the loaf still clutched in her hand, a slice half sawn, she has to sit, her legs rubbery, shaking. It must be the unaccustomed exercise of the bike ride, she thinks, suddenly breathless.
When Arthur comes in from milking, he takes one look at her and asks if she's all right.
"Fine."
"You're as pale as milk." "I'm fine."
He knows it's a lie, she's sure, but something in the way she says it--so flatly, without appeal--leaves him unable to challenge her, as if the lie is so nearly naked that to uncover it would be cruelty. He slurps his tea, crams down a slice of bread and butter, and stamps out. At the door, he pauses. "Boy all right?" he asks, and she can only nod. "Quite a night he had." She just shrugs, not trusting herself to speak. She watches him go then, feeling an urge to call him back, but
instead shouts for Jim to get up, at once grateful and oddly resentful for the distraction he provided her the previous night. Besides, he's been late to school the last few days and she's newly determined to put an end to it.
There's a scuffle of feet in the corridor, and Jim stumbles into the kitchen, dishevelled and bleary from his late night, the bandage a bright halo around his head.
She butters a slice for him, and for a treat scatters half a teaspoon of rationed sugar over it, watches out of the corner of her eye as he gobbles it down, the smile spreading on his
face. She's
But when she's done and pinning the bandage, he says, "I didn't tell on the other lads. The constable kept asking who was there, but I'm no rat." His eyes are alight beneath the white strip, as proud to have kept a secret as uncovered one.
"You might as well have," she snaps, suddenly as angry at the other boys as at the sappers. "That lot!"
His face falls, and when she asks him at last--"Now, Jim--" which of the sappers hit him, she sees his face close. He couldn't tell, he says stubbornly, and when she presses him, "But you must know," he raises a fist to his eyes, a gesture that always makes her think he wants to punch himself for crying, and she tells him quickly, "Hey, hey. I almost forgot. I've got something for you."
"What?" he asks grudgingly.
"Only if you stop crying. It's only for a brave boy." "I wasn't crying."
She leans forward and puts her mouth to his ear. "A bike," she whispers, and he looks at her with
amazement, and then with such joy that for a second she
thinks it's almost been worth it. He throws his arms around her, and she finds herself standing abruptly, brushing him off, saying lamely, "Your bandage will come loose."
Later, when she tucks him in, she tries to make up for it,
bending down to kiss him, but he struggles up under the sheets. "Hey," he says. "Does this mean I'm the camp's first prisoner?" And she nods, and leaves him, although a part of her thinks the title rightly her own.
Before she blows out the lamp, she'll hurry to the privy again, sit on the cold wooden seat, drowsing to the fizzing drone of a bluebottle. She'll look out through the half-moon in the door and then down at her drawers in the yellow oil light and see a thin exclamation mark of blood. By the time she goes back inside, the clock over the hearth will read two o'clock, and she'll wonder dully what they call the day after D- day.
Five
L
ooking out of the window the morning after the invasion, she sees it's just another day, only a pale sickle moon in
the blue-white sky to betray there'd even been a night before. Esther forces herself to get up to prepare Arthur's breakfast. Just like normal, she tells herself, if a little sluggish. She sets out the chipped plates with deliberate care, then the yellowing bone-handled cutlery, the bread and butter. Everything in its place. She thinks herself through the movements, conscious of them for the first time in years, as if she's never done them before.
But then, the loaf still clutched in her hand, a slice half sawn, she has to sit, her legs rubbery, shaking. It must be the unaccustomed exercise of the bike ride, she thinks, suddenly breathless.
When Arthur comes in from milking, he takes one look at her and asks if she's all right.
"Fine."
"You're as pale as milk." "I'm fine."
He knows it's a lie, she's sure, but something in the way she says it--so flatly, without appeal--leaves him unable to challenge her, as if the lie is so nearly naked that to uncover it would be cruelty. He slurps his tea, crams down a slice of bread and butter, and stamps out. At the door, he pauses. "Boy all right?" he asks, and she can only nod. "Quite a night he had." She just shrugs, not trusting herself to speak. She watches him go then, feeling an urge to call him back, but
instead shouts for Jim to get up, at once grateful and oddly resentful for the distraction he provided her the previous night. Besides, he's been late to school the last few days and she's newly determined to put an end to it.
There's a scuffle of feet in the corridor, and Jim stumbles into the kitchen, dishevelled and bleary from his late night, the bandage a bright halo around his head.
She butters a slice for him, and for a treat scatters half a teaspoon of rationed sugar over it, watches out of the corner of her eye as he gobbles it down, the smile spreading on his
face. She's
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