The letters – and there were many – began to pile up, unread on his bedside cabinet. The first arrived the day after he reached the hospital from the Somme, the next a few days later. Thereafter, they appeared with disconcerting regularity.
A nurse offered to read them to him if he wasn’t feeling up to it, but he asked her to dispose of them instead. She slipped them into the cabinet drawer, out of sight.
It was Matron herself who came to tell him he had a visitor.
He shook his head, too conscious of the tented sheet covering the bottom half of his bed. Her features pinched with disapproval when she failed to persuade him. He listened to her retreating footsteps, clipped and brisk, his face buried in his pillow, tears pricking his eyes.
And still the letters came.
He was discharged into his parents’ care. His father hauled him from the back seat of their motor, cradling him in an awkward embrace, reminiscent of a childhood long past, before depositing him into the
