I did not tell Mam: it would only upset her. That evening I milked Amy, and turned the cheeses in the little cheese pantry as usual. All the while, I had the same lump in my throat that I could not swallow.

Mam and I listened to the wireless. Mr. Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, announced that we were at war with Germany again, and we both agreed that it only seemed like yesterday that the last war had finished.

Finally I cried. Sitting there in front of the fire, I felt a fat tear roll down my cheek, and the sob broke over my heart like a wave over a shipwreck.

Mam thought I was crying because of the war, but I was not. I longed—for the umpteenth time—to grow up, to be like Jack, like all the boys I had ever known who had grown up.

Could Mam read my mind? It certainly felt like it sometimes. She got up and came over to me, sitting on the side of the chair and rubbing my back. I traced the two little scars on her upper arm with my fingers as I had done countless times before, while she sang a mournful, low tune. The words were in the ancient language we shared, and Mam’s wavering voice deepened my sadness so that I wept like a small child with my head on her lap.

I thought then that I would not see Jack McGonagal again, and that this war would probably end the world.

I was wrong on both counts.