I feel the air in the room change suddenly, like the slightest breath of a breeze on a summer’s day. The candle flames flicker briefly, almost imperceptibly.
He’s here. Soft, silent, catlike, he crosses the floor, and I pretend to ignore him, pretend he’s not there. After all, I’m not expecting anyone today, least of all him, who I sent off to The Great War many months ago.
He’d promised to come back, in that way that young soldiers often do, filling the hearts of those they leave behind with love and hope. Hope that, sadly, is all too often dashed on the rocks with a letter from whichever Government minister it is these days who’s happy to send others out to die, whilst he sits in restaurants with carefully curated menus spending public funds.
The arrival of the mail each morning is a daily exercise in dread for all of us. Even those who get their loved ones back find them altered somehow – the horrors to which they have borne witness see to that without exception. Everyone dreams that their husband, father, son, will return the same as they left, but they never do. Some heroes sit quietly, others lose their tempers at a moment’s notice, or turn to drink and other substances. Settling back into civilian life isn’t easy for any of them.
Speaking of writing letters, I should finish this one to his mother, but I cannot. Not whilst he’s here. I set down my pen, align it with the blotter, and pause. I carefully turn over the paper; not even he should see what is written here, its contents should remain private.
He’s behind the chair now, I can feel his presence there. Slowly, I sit back, my head coming to rest, and his fingers brush my cheek so gently I could almost believe that it was my imagination. I smile, overjoyed he is back, but not wanting to give away just yet that I know.
Through the bay window in front of me, the tree is barely moving, but I watch as a golden orange leaf lazily detaches and falls to the ground. Autumn will be in full swing soon, then Winter. It will come too fast, and I shall go through the heartbreak when he leaves again, the perpetual worry that he may never come back. I want to revel in this moment, make it last forever. Home at last, together at last.
I close my eyes and turn my head toward his caress, but there is nothing there anymore. My smile widens, he always knew how to be the perfect gentleman.
“I’m glad you’re back,” I say.
A faint hint of a whisper comes back to me: “I’m so sorry, my love.”
I open my eyes, there is no-one there.
No-one.
“I wasn’t fast enough,” the whisper says.
Tears form, and I pick up the paper again. With heavy heart, I retrieve my pen and gaze at the telegram labelled “Ministry of Defence”.
