NELLIE AND FATHER were enjoying breakfast together when he put down the morning paper.
‘I was in the club last night and I met Arthur Johnson. He was in a bad way, poor chap. Found out only a few days ago that his boy was killed in Flanders – terrible thing.’
Nellie felt a chill run through her.
‘Which of the Johnson boys is it?’ she demanded of him.
‘I’m not sure.’ He looked puzzled. ‘They’ve three or four sons.’
‘Robert and Harry are the ones serving in the army. Which one is it, Father?’
‘He was upset about his boy. He’d had a few whiskeys.’ Father looked stricken. ‘The awful thing is that he cannot even bring him home to bury him with his poor mother.’
Nellie’s mind was in turmoil, gripped by a cold, strange dread.
Father slowly resumed eating breakfast, while she sat feeling sick to her stomach. She sipped her cup of tea and pushed her plate away.
‘It’s the boy with the stammer,’ Father said suddenly, putting down his knife and fork. ‘Apparently his regiment of the Dublin Fusiliers had only arrived in Belgium a few days before and came under heavy attack at Ypres. Arthur heard that the British and allied lines were decimated by the Germans using some new sort of poison chlorine gas they have invented. The soldiers had no chance of escape – none at all …’
‘That’s Harry!’ she cried.
‘I’m so sorry, my dear, to be the bearer of bad news. I remember you were all friends when you were younger and played together.’
‘I met him in the park only a few weeks ago. He told me that he had joined up with some friends from a rowing club.’
‘Poor chap! Lord rest him.’
Nellie got up from the table and pushed her chair away.
She escaped to the park and sat on a bench for hours. The crocuses and snowdrops were gone now and pink and white cherry blossom covered the trees. Golden daffodils grew in clumps along the pathways and a curious squirrel watched her before darting up the branch of a chestnut tree. Alone, she listened to the stillness.
Harry was gone.
She blamed the army generals, parliament and King George. They were the ones responsible for his death and the deaths of thousands of other young men just like him. She abhorred this war.
A week later the postman delivered Harry’s only letter to her.
He wrote of the crowded train and transport ship. Of miles of trenches and battle-weary men and the order to move up the line … He told her that he was afraid. Nellie cried her eyes out, then carefully folded the letter and hid it away in the drawer of her bedside table.