dog scrambled after him and, as little Ernie watched enviously, Bob and Charlie raced off through the long, windswept grass – the dog in search of rabbits, the boys pretending they were Spitfires.
Ron watched them for a moment, glad of their innocent pleasure in a world gone mad. No doubt people were killed or injured in that surprise attack, but all the boys had in their heads were thoughts of the daring adventures they read about in their comics and the Biggles books they borrowed from the library. Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let them ever learn what it’s really like.
He remembered his own enthusiasm for war, and how he’d so naively enlisted in search of adventure, only to face the shattering reality of the trenches and the horrors of the Somme. He’d been forty – and really too old for enlistment – but his two sons, Jim and Frank, had barely left school when they’d joined the Royal Engineers to fight alongside him. It was only a matter of chance they’d all survived to come home – and now, a mere twenty-two years later, they were at war again.
He thought about his sons, and the rift that had grown between them. They had once been so close, but Jim and Frank lived very separate lives now, and hadn’t spoken to each other since they’d been demobbed. He’d never discovered what had caused the quarrel and, as they both refused to discuss it, he had to accept he never would.
Setting the dark thoughts aside, he ignored the twinge in his lower back – a reminder of the shrapnel still embedded there – and lit his pipe. He might be regarded as past it by some, but he’d joined the local Defence Volunteers, carrying the old Enfield rifle he’d kept after being discharged from the army. To his mind it was only playing at soldiery, and his skills were going to waste. He had little respect for Colonel Stevens, who led the platoon; he was only a librarian, and had spent the better part of the last war well behind enemy lines in the catering corps.
Ron hawked phlegm and spat before surveying his kingdom of windswept grass and arthritic trees. The softly rolling hills above Cliffehaven were as familiar to him as the back of his hand, and a welcome escape from the claustrophobic confines of the basement rooms beneath Beach View. From his vantage point, he could see the great sweep of farm-land and pastures to the north, the sparkle of the sea beyond the white cliffs, and the tiny farming hamlets in the valleys. It was a green and pleasant land and a priceless legacy for these young ones to inherit – and although he was no spring chicken, he was determined to defend it to his last breath.
The pipe smoke drifted behind him as he called the boys to help retrieve the dozens of nets he’d laid over the rabbit burrows. Once they were all gathered and tucked away in one of his many pockets, he whistled the dog to heel and set off for home with Ernie on his shoulders, the other boys racing ahead of him.
Sally was out of breath as she fumbled with the key and stumbled through the door into the hall. ‘Ernie? Ernie, where are you?’ she cried out desperately.
‘It’s all right, dear,’ said Peggy, hurrying to her. ‘They’ll be back any minute, I’m sure.’
‘They haven’t come ’ome?’ Sally covered her mouth with her hand to hold back the anguished tears. ‘Oh, my Gawd,’ she sobbed. ‘I knew I should never ’ave let ’im go with Ron. Now ’e’s injured or dead or … or …’
‘Now, now, that’s enough of that my girl,’ said Peggy firmly as she steered her into the kitchen. ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you. I’m sure Ernie’s absolutely fine.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Sally demanded. ‘They ain’t back, and I saw people lying in the road, dead or dying, and the plane kept coming back and back again, and there was bullets and …’ She fell into Peggy’s arms and sobbed against her shoulder.
‘Anne,’ ordered Peggy, ‘go and get the
Ron watched them for a moment, glad of their innocent pleasure in a world gone mad. No doubt people were killed or injured in that surprise attack, but all the boys had in their heads were thoughts of the daring adventures they read about in their comics and the Biggles books they borrowed from the library. Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let them ever learn what it’s really like.
He remembered his own enthusiasm for war, and how he’d so naively enlisted in search of adventure, only to face the shattering reality of the trenches and the horrors of the Somme. He’d been forty – and really too old for enlistment – but his two sons, Jim and Frank, had barely left school when they’d joined the Royal Engineers to fight alongside him. It was only a matter of chance they’d all survived to come home – and now, a mere twenty-two years later, they were at war again.
He thought about his sons, and the rift that had grown between them. They had once been so close, but Jim and Frank lived very separate lives now, and hadn’t spoken to each other since they’d been demobbed. He’d never discovered what had caused the quarrel and, as they both refused to discuss it, he had to accept he never would.
Setting the dark thoughts aside, he ignored the twinge in his lower back – a reminder of the shrapnel still embedded there – and lit his pipe. He might be regarded as past it by some, but he’d joined the local Defence Volunteers, carrying the old Enfield rifle he’d kept after being discharged from the army. To his mind it was only playing at soldiery, and his skills were going to waste. He had little respect for Colonel Stevens, who led the platoon; he was only a librarian, and had spent the better part of the last war well behind enemy lines in the catering corps.
Ron hawked phlegm and spat before surveying his kingdom of windswept grass and arthritic trees. The softly rolling hills above Cliffehaven were as familiar to him as the back of his hand, and a welcome escape from the claustrophobic confines of the basement rooms beneath Beach View. From his vantage point, he could see the great sweep of farm-land and pastures to the north, the sparkle of the sea beyond the white cliffs, and the tiny farming hamlets in the valleys. It was a green and pleasant land and a priceless legacy for these young ones to inherit – and although he was no spring chicken, he was determined to defend it to his last breath.
The pipe smoke drifted behind him as he called the boys to help retrieve the dozens of nets he’d laid over the rabbit burrows. Once they were all gathered and tucked away in one of his many pockets, he whistled the dog to heel and set off for home with Ernie on his shoulders, the other boys racing ahead of him.
Sally was out of breath as she fumbled with the key and stumbled through the door into the hall. ‘Ernie? Ernie, where are you?’ she cried out desperately.
‘It’s all right, dear,’ said Peggy, hurrying to her. ‘They’ll be back any minute, I’m sure.’
‘They haven’t come ’ome?’ Sally covered her mouth with her hand to hold back the anguished tears. ‘Oh, my Gawd,’ she sobbed. ‘I knew I should never ’ave let ’im go with Ron. Now ’e’s injured or dead or … or …’
‘Now, now, that’s enough of that my girl,’ said Peggy firmly as she steered her into the kitchen. ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you. I’m sure Ernie’s absolutely fine.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Sally demanded. ‘They ain’t back, and I saw people lying in the road, dead or dying, and the plane kept coming back and back again, and there was bullets and …’ She fell into Peggy’s arms and sobbed against her shoulder.
‘Anne,’ ordered Peggy, ‘go and get the
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