cherry tree -- 1917

cherry tree

I then walked back to the house, washed my hands and sat by the crackling fire, getting lost in its flames. But I didn't feel its warmth, I didn't hear its joyful crackle. Its joyousness turned to evil, smoke choked my lungs and fear strangled them more, the pitch black of smoggy night, running with shouts in horrid German and bullets pelting after me like the hounds do after the fox. They felt so close, far too close. The zzst of passing bullets came nearer. My head hurt from where I'd hit it, blood beginning to trickle warmly, my hand a dull smart- I shook myself and stood rapidly, my head spinning with standing too quickly. Deep breaths racked through my body. Without knowing it, I'd touched the back of my neck, where I'd knocked myself out on the stairs that night. Of course, there was nothing. I wasn't back there. I was home... back home.

No, I wasn't back. I wasn't the same man. I was someone different.

"Will?" I turned and saw the girl from Écoust, but...she hadn't known my name. I blinked, once, twice and saw my wife, my Mary. She looked at me. "Are you alright? You...seem shocked."

I said nothing, nor did I nod, I just strode towards her and hugged her, my face burrowed in her shoulder. She didn't question, just sighed and wrapped her arms around me, a gentle embrace.

We stayed like that a long time.

July 18th 1921

"So, I'm sure you heard of Lloyd's ceasefire with Ireland?"

I hummed my reply, my back leaning against the house-wall and staring absent-mindedly into the garden before me. Mary had settled herself on a garden chair and her parents, two individuals I'd never liked much, were standing with us. Charles had taken his pipe and was smoking, his back also against the garden wall. Margaret was just watching from another garden chair, her prying eyes surveying everything. Of course she did. She always did. The both of them were nosy. Helen, Ruth and my parent-in-laws' dog scampered across the lawn, playing with each other, joyful, cheerful. To be honest, the dog was my favourite of the trio.

Charles took a good look at me, I could feel his gaze on me. "You're quieter than usual," he commented. "Not that you were talkative before but ever since you came back, you've been abnormally quiet. It's been, what, two years? Three?" I nodded again, taking another sip of the wine, not looking at him.

Please don't mention the War. God, don't let him.

The old man, somehow feeling, that he needed to fill my silence with talk, continued. "I've always wondered why you didn't join the RIC. I mean, they recruited ex-soldiers like you and I heard they paid them for it too," he leaned closer. "And we both know that money for you and your family is running tight now, what with your job," I grimaced. The man was drunk, I was sure of it. Or he just wanted to rub our dwindling money in our faces... well, my face. I should be working. They supplied us with most of our money now, it was one of the reasons I put up with them. The grip around my glass tightened. "So why didn't you? Wouldn't have been that hard for you, seeing as you were in the war. You would have made more money, that's for sure. Probably would have done a very similar thing, you know, fighting and bringing those Irish to order-"

The glass shattered, splintering and cracking. Red splashed among the broken shards of glass. At first, I'd thought it was wine but when I heard Helen gasp, I then noticed the pain. "Fuck!" I shouted out, my first word that week. My hand was a mess. Glass mixed with my blood, it seemed, numerous cuts pouring blood, some deep, others not. Crimson curdled my vision – the barbed wire, Blake's wound – I cradled my messed up hand to my chest and then stormed into the house, pushing the door open. I pulled the First Aid Kit from where it lay on the top of the cupboard. Mary came rushing in after me and got hot water going in a bowl. I'd already started picking out glass shards with a tweezer. Mary tried to help but I just waved her off, already falling back into my war-time process of nursing a wound. She fell away, retreating back to the garden, bringing a broom with her. Ruth came in to inquire after me, her eyes resting on the bloodied hand.