Arthur Davies had fewer words than a wintry tree has leaves. If he ever showed emotion, it would arouse public comment.

            He sometimes walked about the neighbourhood, a nod here and there amid the taciturnity. He was a small, stocky man, a human Oxo cube with short legs. Although only middle-aged, his wild tufty hair was white and resembled anarchic cotton wool.

            On the day Kabul fell to the Taliban he went down to the promenade, sat on a bench, and looked out at sea. He was there hours, passers-by said, staring like a sailor trying to locate an object below the surface. The sea was still, impenetrable, its surface gleaming like stainless steel in the August sun.  

            Somebody wondered if he was recalling his son in that desert of seawater. ‘Bound to have been,’ said another. ‘Might be asking what his sacrifice was for.’ Eighteen years previously, his son’s tank had been blown up by a booby trap, three months after he arrived in Afghanistan. The son had been an idealist, apparently, wanting to do good for the local people of Helmand province, wanting to ‘liberate’ them, help girls get education, stuff like that, it was said. That would’ve consoled Arthur down the years, surely, one woman suggested across her fence to the woman next door. That would’ve kept him going, wouldn’t it? A branch to cling to.