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Advent - stories for the season
Dec. 9th, 2013 12:45 pmThere are scenes for all seasons in Home Fires Burning. Alas, the most seasonal one rather gives the ending away, so here's something autumnal:
Things had changed after Hampshire, as they should have known they would from the moment Phillip had dropped Nicholas home, the pair suddenly unable to look one another in the eye as they shook hands and said their farewells. They’d not spoken about those days, not once in the months since, as if by never referring to them would mean they’d never happened. But the consequences had remained. There’d never be the same freedom between the two of them again, no matter how politely they’d said goodbye or how businesslike they’d been resuming their working relationship in the front line. Nicholas blamed it all on the war, of course, the constant pressure having made him lose his moral compass. Dear God, how could any man keep a sense of what was decent when they’d had to live like this?
As soon as Nicholas came through the pinned up blanket which passed for a door, he knew something was amiss. Phillip, ashen, stood in the middle of the floor with a piece of paper in his hand, the look of happiness which usually accompanied the arrival of the post noticeable by its absence. Nicholas spoke softly but resisted laying a hand on his friend’s arm. “What’s up?
Phillip passed his mother’s letter over, clearly unable to find any adequate words to explain why he was doing it. Nicholas began to read, despite the fact that this was obviously intensely personal—the piece of paper actually exchanging hands was ominous.
I am so very sorry to have to break the news like this. If only I could be with you and speak these words, but I have to commit them to paper, my dearest boy. I hope that you can read between the lines and find my deepest love for you there. We had news today from your friend Fergal’s ship; he had us listed as next of kin because of all the problems with his mother. I don’t know if he ever told you that, but I think in the end it was wise. I will have to contact her next, although I think it might be better if I visit. Poor soul.
Last time they’d heard, Fergal had just got his wish to go to sea, guarding the fishing fleet from U-Boat attack. God knew how long this news had taken to travel back to England and out again.
By all this, you will be able to guess what I have to say. He is dead, killed by a shell. It was apparently swift and merciful, for which we must be grateful. They are sending his things back here and I will keep some of them for you, as a memento of your friendship.
I have no adequate words to describe how sad I am and how much I wish to be with you to console you. I pray to God as I write this that Nicholas will be able to give you the comfort you need at this time. He seems like such a good friend and I hope he proves so.
He could read no more. Phillip had slumped onto the bunk; Nicholas took his place alongside him, clumsily putting an arm about the man, the most intimate contact they’d had since the local church bells had struck four in the morning that last night in the cottage by the river.
Things had changed after Hampshire, as they should have known they would from the moment Phillip had dropped Nicholas home, the pair suddenly unable to look one another in the eye as they shook hands and said their farewells. They’d not spoken about those days, not once in the months since, as if by never referring to them would mean they’d never happened. But the consequences had remained. There’d never be the same freedom between the two of them again, no matter how politely they’d said goodbye or how businesslike they’d been resuming their working relationship in the front line. Nicholas blamed it all on the war, of course, the constant pressure having made him lose his moral compass. Dear God, how could any man keep a sense of what was decent when they’d had to live like this?
As soon as Nicholas came through the pinned up blanket which passed for a door, he knew something was amiss. Phillip, ashen, stood in the middle of the floor with a piece of paper in his hand, the look of happiness which usually accompanied the arrival of the post noticeable by its absence. Nicholas spoke softly but resisted laying a hand on his friend’s arm. “What’s up?
Phillip passed his mother’s letter over, clearly unable to find any adequate words to explain why he was doing it. Nicholas began to read, despite the fact that this was obviously intensely personal—the piece of paper actually exchanging hands was ominous.
I am so very sorry to have to break the news like this. If only I could be with you and speak these words, but I have to commit them to paper, my dearest boy. I hope that you can read between the lines and find my deepest love for you there. We had news today from your friend Fergal’s ship; he had us listed as next of kin because of all the problems with his mother. I don’t know if he ever told you that, but I think in the end it was wise. I will have to contact her next, although I think it might be better if I visit. Poor soul.
Last time they’d heard, Fergal had just got his wish to go to sea, guarding the fishing fleet from U-Boat attack. God knew how long this news had taken to travel back to England and out again.
By all this, you will be able to guess what I have to say. He is dead, killed by a shell. It was apparently swift and merciful, for which we must be grateful. They are sending his things back here and I will keep some of them for you, as a memento of your friendship.
I have no adequate words to describe how sad I am and how much I wish to be with you to console you. I pray to God as I write this that Nicholas will be able to give you the comfort you need at this time. He seems like such a good friend and I hope he proves so.
He could read no more. Phillip had slumped onto the bunk; Nicholas took his place alongside him, clumsily putting an arm about the man, the most intimate contact they’d had since the local church bells had struck four in the morning that last night in the cottage by the river.
