The autumn of 1915 was, even more than usually, the vanguard of winter. The torrential rain that began in September and turned the charnel house of the Western Front into a gruesome quagmire that swallowed horses, guns and men with equal ease, swept the streets of London as if attempting to drown anyone with the temerity to venture out of doors, and continued so without a break through a wild and windy Christmas. By the first day of January 1916 the British Army in France numbered 1 million men, a million men living in the worst conditions and under the most atrocious stress that any human enemy could have devised. The great armies were deadlocked, mired in along an arbitrary line, assaulting each other senselessly and ceaselessly with high explosives, mowing each other down with machine guns, watching each other die and decompose on the strung barbed wire that divided Europe. And all for nothing. Not an inch of ground was taken that was not immediately lost again, not a town or village was left in that great swathe of mud that had one brick still standing upon another. Men drowned in shellholes, were blown to pieces in No Man’s Land, were scythed down attempting to take yet another useless square yard of ground. In Britain compulsory military service was introduced. The cry, still, was for men and yet more men, and there were not many who thought to question it. In order to justify the losses already incurred, a victory must be won, no matter what the cost in blood.
In February the Germans launched a surprise attack on Verdun, taking the Allies completely unawares, the avowed aim of the campaign to bleed the French Army – already very badly battered – to death. Yet, astonishingly, against unbelievable odds, the French held, and the enemy found themselves once more locked into a battle that was to last for months. To relieve the pressure on their almost exhausted allies, the British began to prepare for a push to the north, on the Somme, but while all eyes were turned to France an event took place that aroused passionate indignation throughout the beleaguered British Isles. For while tens of thousands of Irishmen fought and died beside their Welsh, Scots and English comrades in the trenches, a small group of rebels, on Easter Monday, took over the post office in Dublin and proclaimed from the steps of that building an Irish Republic.
Most of the inhabitants of the city were as bewildered and outraged as the rest of Britain. To hear Germany referred to as a “gallant ally” was too much for most people to swallow, however patriotically Irish they might be, and anti-rebel feelings were strong, even in Ireland itself. In the brief, fierce fighting that ensued Dublin was reduced almost to the same state as the towns of the Western Front as the thousand or so rebels fought from street to street, from house to house. For Molly, more than most, the newspaper reports were harrowing, bringing back as they did memories that she had believed long buried. Ironically, she caught more than one sharp glance upon her at this time as a discerning ear picked up the trace of her accent, met once or twice with a hostility from strangers that she knew to be undeserved. In truth, however, she had little time to worry about such things. It concerned her far more that the German U-boat campaign in the North Sea and in the Channel was beginning to take great toll of merchant shipping, and that the new conscription laws meant that she had lost more workers than ever, despite the fact that many men in the cold storage trade could have been exempt – in many cases men were reluctant to remain in their safely starred jobs in face of public opinion, of posters that portrayed their children demanding sternly, “What did you do in the Great War, Father?” and of the danger of the muttered word “Conshie”.
She walked into her office late one May evening to find Adam already there, seated at her desk, a slip of paper in his hand. He stood as she entered the room. There was a gleam in his eyes that she recognized.
“They’ve done it,” he said.
“The North Sea convoys?”
“Yes.”
“Stopped altogether?”
“As we expected. Yes.”
She regarded him reflectively for a moment. “As you expected. So, no more natural ice.” She turned away and began to rummage in a tray of papers.
“The price of ice has already gone up fifty per cent this year.”
“I know it. You’d better give your crystal ball an extra polish tonight,” she said, still hunting, then, “Damn!” She stood up, looking around the room.
“What is it?”
“I thought I had the documents for the Southern Queen. I did have, I’m certain.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “I had them with me this afternoon, over at the customs’ shed on quay three. Oh, for heaven’s sake! I must have left them there!”
“Leave them. They’ll be quite safe. You can pick them up in the morning.”
She had picked up her small handbag and was already at the door. “I can’t. I need the wretched things now.”
“Wait.” He was shrugging into his coat. “If you must I’ll run you over there. I—” he smiled faintly “—acquired some petrol this afternoon.”
She realized that she had left the bag in Adam’s car almost the moment that he drove away. Standing in the twilit road outside the great dock gates she almost stamped her foot in rage at her own stupidity. All her money was in the bag, to say nothing of her only means of identification, should anyone choose to question her presence in this security-sensitive area at a slightly odd hour. Not that she anticipated any problem – she knew almost certainly that she would be recognized and allowed to pass by the guard on the dock gates. A far greater problem seemed to be that unless she was lucky enough to find someone she knew who might be willing to lend her the fare, she was in for a long and dark walk home.
As she approached the gate she smiled in relief as a man stepped out and barred her way, peering at her in the gloom.
“Ah, Sergeant Anderson. I was hoping you might be on duty. I wonder if you could help?”
Moments later she was hurrying through the darkening evening towards the customs’ shed, her borrowed fare safely in her pocket. By now she knew the layout of the area as well as she knew her own parlour. To save time she turned into a tiny alleyway that ran between two great warehouses, and her breath almost choked in her throat as unexpectedly in front of her loomed a figure, rifle in hand, a threatening silhouette in the fading light.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
She stopped.
“Out, you, and let’s have a look at you.”
She followed the soldier into the open. “I can explain—”
“Yes, I’m sure.” He held an open hand towards her. “You got somethin’ to show who you are an what you’re doin’ ’ere?”
“I – I’m afraid I don’t, no.”
“Is that so?”
“I stupidly mislaid my bag – left it in a car – my name is Benton. I left some documents in the shed on quay three this afternoon. I’ve come to collect them.” Her voice steadied as she recovered from the shock of his sudden appearance.
“Did you now? Make a habit of it, do you? Mislayin’ things, like?” His voice was not friendly. ‘Irish, aren’t you?”
“Yes – that is, no—” she stuttered, confused. “My husband is English, so—”
“And where’s he?”
Her temper flared at the boorishness of the man. “He’s in France, Private. Fighting for his country.”
He was not impressed. “Aren’t we all? I think you’d better come along with me, don’t you? And with no fuss, neither.”
She stood her ground. “Where to?”
He caught her arm very firmly. “Never you mind. Just come along. We can’t ’ave you wanderin’ around ’ere on your own in the dark, now can we?” His voice was heavily sarcastic. “You might ’urt yourself. Or you might ’urt someone else, like. You ever bin to Dublin?”
The question caught her off her guard. “No.”
“My brother ’as. In fact, it was the last place ’e ever went. Died there, ’e did. A month or so ago, fightin’ some of your mates. Hear about that little party, did you? Bloody Irish. Now, you comin’, or do I ’ave to carry you?”
With as much dignity as the undignified situation allowed her she walked beside him, his hand still firm about her upper arm, to a nearby warehouse in whose cavernous depths stood a small wooden hut. As he marched her towards it she pulled back. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m leavin’ you somewhere nice and safe while I go and find my sergeant. That’s what I’m goin’ to do.”
Somewhere down the river a gun boomed.
“Look, won’t you please listen to me? Sergeant Anderson on the Barley Street gate knows me. Knows me well. He’ll vouch for me. He let me in—”
“More fool ’im. Right. In you go.” He hustled her into the hut, and over her furious protests, slammed the door. She heard the key turn in the lock, and above that the sound of a whistle, shrill and urgent. The guns boomed again. She beat her fists against the door.
“Let me out! It’s a raid! You can’t keep me here—!”
“Safe as ’ouses.” His voice was caustic. “The silly bleeders couldn’t ’it the side of a barn anyway, didn’t you know that?”
“Don’t go away—” His footsteps receded. The guns rumbled again, and it seemed as if the world shook about her.
“Let me out!”
Silence.
She stood, shivering, listening. Thinking of those airborne monsters that had slaughtered Charley and the children. Seeing them. Since that night she had dreamed of them, woken trembling and drenched in sweat.
Please, God, don’t let them come—
She stood, straining her ears for the drone of an engine. The sound of the guns was continuous now, the volume increasing as the dock guns took up the chase. Panic pounded in her veins with her blood. She was freezing cold, and shaking.
Don’t let them come. Please don’t let them come—
Above the sound of the guns came the strong, steady vibrations of an engine.
She flew to the door, pounding on it until her hands stung and throbbed with pain. “Let me out! Let me out! PLEASE!” Panting and sobbing she leaned against the door, felt it shudder as the concussion of an explosion shook the world outside her prison. The hut was windowless. She could see nothing. Mindless panic took her. She was almost choking with terror. She threw herself against the door as the blast of another explosion vibrated through the air.
“Let me out!”
When the sound of the key in the lock came to her ears she flung herself at the door at the very moment that it opened and found herself, unbelievably, held in arms that were strong and familiar. Beyond the open doors of the huge warehouse lurid flames flickered. A great shape hovered in the sky, caught for a moment in a swinging pencil of light. With a shuddering sob she buried her face in Adam’s shoulder.
“Molly, my darling. Molly, Molly. It’s all right. You’re quite safe.” He rocked her gently, soothingly. “Come on now, my love. This isn’t my girl? Isn’t my Molly?” His hand came up to cradle her head, fondling her hair.
She sobbed still, convulsively. The airship’s engines throbbed and swelled, then diminished as the thing turned and, unscathed, followed the path downriver towards home. One by one the guns fell silent. Still Molly clung. Adam laid his face against her hair and held her very close. A uniformed figure marched to him smartly and stamped to a halt, his eyes fixed on some point in darkness above Adam’s right shoulder.
“Is there anything I can do, Sir?”
“Thank you, no, Private Johnston, I think you’ve done quite enough,” Adam said pleasantly.
The soldiers eyes flickered. “Only doin’ my duty, Sir. I wasn’t to know.”
At the sound of his voice Molly had quietened. She stood with her face still buried hard in Adam’s shoulder.
“That will be all, Private. I’ll see Mrs Benton home. You can apologize to her – you will apologize to her – another time.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As the man wheeled smartly and left, Adam tried to put Molly from him, to look into her face. She clung to him.
“It’s all over, my love. They’ve gone. You were quite safe, you know. That idiot was at least right about that. These warehouses are built like fortresses. They use them as air raid shelters in some places, you know they do. Most of the bombs missed their target anyway. They fell into the water.” His voice was faintly puzzled, “Molly, what’s wrong? What is it? You’re shaking like a leaf—?”
“They killed Charley,” she said. “And the children. The poor children—”
He pulled her to him, bowing his face to her head. “God forgive me, I had forgotten.” He held her for a long time, until her violent trembling had eased. At last, with a long, trembling breath she drew away from him.
“How did you find me? What are you doing here?”
“You left your bag in the car. I came back with it. Sergeant Anderson told me he’d seen you through the gate – I came to find you and met that donkey in a uniform who’d shut you in. That’s about it.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Any time you get taken for an Irish insurrectionist, just call for me.”
She could not respond to his gentle teasing. He looked at her worriedly.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, “I’ve made an awful fool of myself. You see, ever since—” she caught her breath, tried again, “Ever since—”
“Don’t think about it.” His arms were strong about her. He lifted her chin, tilting her head. Complete darkness had fallen. Her wet face glimmered in the reflected light of distant flame. They could hear, faintly, the cries of the firefighters, the clang of bells. Very gently he kissed her. She stood quite still, the silent tears still running down her face.
“I’ll take you home,” he said.
The big car nosed through dim-lit streets. At the crossroads beyond the docks, Adam stopped. “Is there someone at home with your children?”
“Yes. Chantale’s there. Adam, where are you going?”
“I told you.” She could not see his face in the darkness, “I’m taking you home.”
She was too exhausted to argue. The weariness of months seemed to be engulfing her, a tide drawn to the flood by the evening’s terror. She lay back on the luxurious leather upholstery, her eyes shut. She felt drained and lethargic. And ridiculously safe. Somewhere in her memory those words he had whispered to her as he held her echoed softly.
She woke with a start as they pulled up at the foot of the steps that she had once known so well. The apartment too was the same. Adam settled her in a deep armchair, lifted her feet to a footstool, then went to the telephone and dialled, his eyes on Molly’s face.
“Hello? Is that Ma’m’selle Lefèvre? Ah hello, Adam Jefferson here. Yes, that’s right. She asked me to ring. She’s been delayed, I’m afraid – no, no, there’s nothing wrong. It’s just business, that’s all. She didn’t want you to worry. Thank you. Yes, I’ll tell her. Fine. I’ll make certain she gets back safely. Good night, Ma’m’selle.” He cradled the receiver. “They’re fine. I don’t think they’d even missed you.”
She sat up, swinging her legs from the footstool. “Thank you Adam, I—”
Very firmly he pushed her back into the chair. “Just be still for a minute. Doctor Jefferson prescribes medicine first, talk afterwards.”
“Medicine?”
He went to a cupboard, held up a bottle. “The finest French brandy, saved for just such an emergency.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“The same as I ever did. Don’t worry about it. Just drink it. It isn’t stolen, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“The thought didn’t cross my mind.” As he poured the drinks her eyes went to the window. “You haven’t drawn the curtains.”
“I’ll do it if it makes you feel safer. But they won’t come back tonight. And if they did they won’t bomb Kensington. If he wins the war the Kaiser’s going to live here.”
“That isn’t funny, Adam.”
He came to her, knelt beside her, put the glass of brandy into her hand. “Don’t tell me my Molly’s losing her sense of humour?”
“You called me that before, tonight.”
“Do you mind?”
She had loved him for so long now that it seemed almost as much a part of her as her breath; she had denied it to herself so long that his bent head, his intent face, the hard, narrow hand that held hers seemed unreal. “No,” she said simply, and took a mouthful of the smooth, warming brandy. His hand held the glass insistently tilted, forcing her to drink the rest.
“Isn’t that a dreadful waste of good brandy?” she asked.
He took the empty glass from her hand. “Do you feel better?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Her head swam for a moment and she lay back in the chair. “Don’t I recall that you had an appointment for this evening?”
“I cancelled it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. When have you ever known me do something that I didn’t want to do?” He took her hand in both of his, opened the small, curled fingers gently and kissed the palm.
She rolled her head, tear-swollen eyes closed, in a small, protesting movement. “Please. Don’t.” But her hand remained, open, in his.
“Molly. Look at me.” He waited. “Look at me,” he said again.
She opened her eyes.
“I think you know that I have never begged a woman—”
She did not reply, because she could not.
“Must I start now?” he asked softly.
“Would you?”
“Yes.” The word was unhesitating. “If that is what you require of me.”
“At this moment.”
“Of course. What else is there? Knowing me as you do would you demand a commitment beyond that? Tomorrow is an illusion. It never comes. There is only now.” His shadowed face was unsmiling. “I have never in my life wanted anything as much as I want you at this moment.” The room was very still. It seemed to Molly that her very breath had suspended itself. “In what seems like another life you called me a barbarian. Perhaps I am. Perhaps, my love, we both are. It’s certain, anyway, that we recognized each other the moment we met. And now, here, at this moment, you have me on my knees. Are you going to take advantage of that?” The line of his mouth was hard as ever. She could not take her eyes from it.
She reached both her hands to his face, felt the warmth and the strength pulsing into her limbs from the simple touch of him. “No,” she said, and as she drew his light weight upon her she closed her eyes, shutting out the world, the war, the demands of the people who could lay claim to her and closing in for the space of a moment the love, the need, the giving that she had denied for so long.
Far, far away the guns of battle rumbled.
On the 1st of July 1916 the British attack was launched on the Somme. On that first day alone 20,000 British dead littered the battlefields, and 40,000 more filled the hospitals and the casualty clearing stations to overflowing. As news of the losses filtered home, and the magnitude of the disaster was realized, with whole families of men, whole streets and villages being wiped out, the stunned nation mourned the worst day in Britain’s long military history. For ten agonizing days Molly did not hear from Jack. Anxiously she scanned the casualty lists, watched for the postman, the telegraph boy, and forced herself to believe that the lack of news was good news. At last her patience was rewarded, when she received a hastily scribbled note telling her that he was safe and well, a minor flesh wound in his hand, now healed, having been his reason for not writing before. With that she had to be satisfied; the note told her nothing else. In the next post there arrived a letter from Nancy, who was still stationed at Ypres, her usual understated and humorous epistle, though Molly could not help noting that even Nancy’s tough resilience seemed a little frayed at the edges.
The new influx of wounded strained the home-front hospitals and services to their utmost. Molly launched herself feverishly into yet another storm of fundraising, badgering and cajoling, organizing, demanding. She visited the hospitals to discover their needs and used every ounce of influence that she, Adam, or anyone else possessed to obtain them. She saw Adam alone on a few rare and precious occasions at his apartment, time snatched for both of them out of pressing activity, time out of life that seemed to neither of them to have anything to do with anyone or anything beyond themselves.
Late in August, Edward came home on leave before being posted at last and was swept into the maelstrom of activity and laughingly declared that he would be glad to get back to the war for a rest. Then, at a hospital tea dance, he met Chantale Lefèvre and a wartime romance blossomed that the whole family watched with amusement and pleasure.
“Oh, heavens, isn’t it romantic?” Meg asked, pure envy in her voice, “they can’t take their eyes off each other.”
The family were sitting at the breakfast table. Molly lifted her head as the letter box clicked. Kitty was out of her chair and into the hall before anyone else could move. “It’s a green one! Dad’s writing. Open it, Mum, quick!”
Molly slit the envelope and ran her eyes swiftly over the few written lines.
“He’s coming home. Leave at last. Next week.” In the tumult of the girls’ excitement Danny continued to eat stoically.
The week of that leave was one of the worst she had ever lived through. After the first ecstasy of welcome and excitement had worn off it became obvious to the most casual eye that there was something very wrong with Jack. He had been quiet before, now he was almost totally withdrawn. He had lost weight, looked ten years older than his age. He jumped at the slightest noise. His hands shook. And so far as she could tell he slept not at all. Night after night she woke to find him standing at the open window, a shadow in the shadows, looking out into the rustling darkness. She found his tense silences almost unbearable. He answered her questions in monosyllables or not at all. He absolutely refused to discuss the war.
“Let it be, lass. Talking won’t change anything. Won’t explain anything. Won’t make sense of anything, come to that. Let it be.”
“But, Jack, perhaps if you talked about it, told me about it—?”
“No!” The word was spat, savagely. “There’d be no ease in that. Don’t think it. I’m tired, lass. Dog tired.” His eyes had a worn, defeated look that wrung her heart. “Let it be.”
Their lovemaking, as before, was desperate to the point of violence and totally unsatisfactory for either of them. Once, he cried. She held him, bewildered, as the sobs shook him. Later he slept, and woke in the middle of the night with a cry that woke the whole house. In despair she watched him, feeling his pain, helpless to aid him.
On the Saturday evening two days before he was due to go back, they had an unexpected visitor. Christopher Edmonton turned up on the doorstep of The Larches, elegant in tailored uniform, his cap tucked neatly under his arm, an expression of nervous determination on his face. It was the first time any of them had seen him for years.
“Oh, please, don’t get up, Mr Benton—” he held up a quick hand as Molly, her face a picture of politely suppressed surprise, led him into the parlour. Jack, who had barely moved, sat back in his chair and eyed the tall, neat figure expressionlessly.
“Won’t you sit down?” Molly was at a loss as to how to address this unfamiliar young man with his adult’s face and the clipped pleasant voice that showed no sign of the stammer she remembered. To call him Christopher, as she had used to, seemed entirely inappropriate. To call him Captain Edmonton was impossible. “You remember my sister-in-law, Mrs Benton?”
Annie, who had come to visit Jack, was sitting silently by the window. She nodded, unsmiling.
“Yes, of course.” If Christopher noticed the desperate change that bereavement had wrought in Annie he gave no sign of it, and Molly warmed towards him. But she was puzzled by him. He seemed entirely self-composed, yet she saw that the long hands that held his cap were clenched so that the bones stood stark against the skin.
He looked at Jack. “I heard that you were wounded, Mr Benton? On the Somme, wasn’t it?”
Jack nodded. “A scratch.”
“Pretty awful business from what I heard. You’re recovered, I trust?”
“Yes, thank you,” Jack said, taking an easy breath, a savage spark in his eyes, “Sir.”
The young man moved his head sharply. The straight brown hair, shorter than Molly remembered it, fell forward across his forehead and he flicked his head sideways in the familiar gesture to flip it back. His face was afire, yet he held Jack’s eyes steadily with his own. “I apologize for coming in uniform,” he said quietly. “Had I known that you were here I promise I should not have done. I’ve been meaning to come for weeks. Months. I wasn’t sure – wasn’t certain – that I would be welcome.”
His composure was deserting him. Jack sat, stone-faced, and watched it happening.
Molly could not bear it. She put an impulsive hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Christopher! Why of course you’re welcome! How could you doubt it? However you’re dressed, and whatever the time!”
“Thank you.” His smile was grateful.
“Sit down.” She saw that his eyes were still fixed upon Jack’s still figure. “I’ll light the lamps.”
“Oh, no, Moll,” Annie protested quickly from the window, “not yet. Don’t pull the blinds yet.” She was watching the wide, still sky.
Christopher stood stubbornly in the centre of the room. “You were at Loos, weren’t you, Mr Benton? Before the Somme?”
“Aye. I was.”
“Nancy told me. Before she left.” The name was spoken at last. He took courage from it, but not enough to sustain him entirely. His eyes moved from Jack to Molly. “I came to ask after her, Mrs Benton. I don’t have her address. She said she’d write. She promised. But she didn’t.”
“Aye, well,” Jack said from his chair, “I daresay that our Nancy’s got more to do than push a pen and shuffle forms, lad. Her time’s well taken, any road.” The emphasis, and the insult to the young man in his pristine War Office uniform, was unmistakable.
“Jack!”
“It’s all right, Mrs Benton.” Christopher was turning his cap in his hands, over and over, but his voice was perfectly steady. “I know what Mr Benton is saying. And I know that he has every justification.” He smiled, a slight downturn of his sensitive mouth. “Self-deception is not one of my vices. I understand why none of you approve of any association between me and Nancy. And I swear that under any other circumstances I would not dream of enlisting your help in this way. But please—” he turned in earnest appeal to Jack, “—Nancy and I are old friends. I simply want to know – have to know – that she’s all right. That she’s safe still. That she doesn’t regret her decision.”
“She doesn’t,” Molly said positively, and taking the matter into her own hands she got up and walked to the sideboard, not looking at Jack. “Here. Her latest letter. It came last week.”
Christopher took the envelope, looked at Jack. “May I?” He paused. “Please?”
“If I say no?”
Without a word Christopher extended the letter towards the other man, not even looking at it.
Jack considered him with hard eyes. “Happen you’re more of a man than I gave you credit for, Captain Edmonton,” he said at last “Go on. Read it. Where’s the harm?”
Christopher took the letter to the window to gain the last of the light. In the silence the paper crackled. Molly saw that, as he finished reading, his long thumb brushed gently across the carelessly scrawled signature.
“Thank you,” he said, handing her the letter and retrieving his cap from the table, “that was what I came to find out. You’ve been very kind,” he added stiffly.
Jack leaned back in his chair. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, lad, sit down,” he said, a tired note in his voice. “Molly, lass, is there a drop of whisky in the bottle?”
It was much later when the whistle shrieked in the street outside. Oddly, there had been no warning barrage. Annie stiffened. Christopher looked up sharply. “A Zeppelin?”
Faintly, in the distance, a gun crumped. Jack’s eyes closed for a fraction of a second longer than a blink. Another gun opened up, quite close, rattling the glass in the window. The whisky glass in Jack’s hand jerked. Somewhere above them came the insect buzz of an aeroplane and, distantly, the rattle of a machine gun.
Molly seated herself on the arm of her husband’s chair, unobtrusively placing herself between him and the other occupants of the room. She could feel the force of his trembling through the frame of the chair.
The sound of the aeroplane came again, and more machine-gun fire. The airship’s resonant drone beat against the eardrums.
Nancy’s letter was still lying on the table. Christopher picked it up and looked at it.
“Keep it,” Molly said.
He folded it carefully, tucked it neatly into his pocket.
A strange, reverberating explosion seemed to shake the very air. Sweat sheened Jack’s face. In the street someone shouted loudly, excitedly.
“Dad! Mum! They’ve got the Zep! It’s burning! Come and look, oh come and look!” Meg burst into the room in her nightgown. Behind her stood Kitty, plaits wild, eyes wide. The room was bright with light. Annie flew to the door, followed closely by the girls.
Molly hesitated. “Jack—”
“Go and watch the Zeppelin burn,” Jack said, in the voice of a stranger.
Outside the street was thronged with people. Except that many were in their nightclothes, it might have been a street festival. Men shouted, women pointed, children danced and shrieked. The sky was a blaze of white light, its centre a holocaust that could have been the sun itself.
“Holy Mary,” Molly said, her hand to her mouth.
The great, blazing, cigar-shaped torch drifted slowly across the London sky, illuminating all of the city in its death-glow. Like fire itself, cheering ran through the watching multitudes. Not far from that ball of flame that just a short while before had been an invincible and menacing airship a tiny, black-painted aeroplane looped a wild loop, victorious, and the people below shouted themselves hoarse at the sight. Molly looked at Annie. She was staring, tense as a drawn bow, at the flower of flame that was dipping away to the north. Molly thought of the dreadful, charred load that it must carry and, enemy or not, felt sickness rise. Near them a motor bike revved up. “Let’s follow it! Let’s see the buggers hit the ground. Let’s watch ’em fry!”
Molly’s stomach turned again.
“Come on, Annie, let’s get inside.”
“No.” Annie’s eyes were fixed on the flaming airship as if on a vision of heaven, “Burn!” she said, her voice low and vicious, “burn damn you!”
Molly turned and left her. Going back through the front door of The Larches she met Christopher coming out. In the deep shadows of the doorway she could not see his face beneath the peak of his cap.
“Thank you, Mrs Benton,” he said, extending his hand.
She took it. “I’ve done nothing. I’m sorry if—” From within the house came the sudden crash of glass. Molly ran past Christopher, through the hall and into the parlour.
Jack stood, his massive shoulders hunched, leaning against the mantelpiece and staring down at the whisky glass that lay, shattered, in the hearth.
In the sky outside the bloody, murderous glow was dying at last.
Three days later Jack returned to France. With an odd, fatalistic premonition, Molly waited, but she heard nothing from him. The letter, when it came, was addressed in unfamiliar writing. She stood looking at it for a long time before she opened it.
“—it is with great regret – killed in action – greatly missed – a true friend and a brave soldier—”
She laid the letter on the table and walked, blindly, to the window. Outside, it had started to rain again.