Free To Love a Traitor by JL Merrow

thought it had been to spare him any possible discomfort. “Mr. Watkins was working on the railways, so was exempted from service, you know,” he said, leaning over to address George.
    “But he would have enlisted,” Miss Lewis put in earnestly. “If it hadn’t been for his ears, he’d have signed up straight away. He gets a terrible ringing in them sometimes.”
    “And dizzy spells,” Watkins reminded her, although he looked a little shame-faced about it. “If it hadn’t been for that… But it was very important work I was doing. The country has to be kept moving, ’specially in times of war.”
    “I dare say, if Tom had been able to go out to fight, it would have all been sorted in half the time,” Miss Lewis said, her loyalty, at least, commendable.
    “You’re a silly girl,” her swain replied, his tone affectionate even if his words were not. “What do you know about wars?”
    “I read the newspapers, you know,” she said indignantly.
    “Oh, the newspapers . As if there was a grain of truth in anything they print.”
    And they were off again on the same, well-worn track. “Fancy a stroll, Matthew?” George asked desperately.
    Matthew beamed. “Excellent idea. Coming, Miss Lewis, Mr. Watkins?”
    George held his breath.
    “What, go outside in this weather when I don’t have to? When there’s a roaring fire indoors? You can keep that,” Mr. Watkins answered for both of them.
    “Well, if you’re sure… Come on, George. Just the two of us, then. Let’s get wrapped up, and we’ll be off.”
    They hastened upstairs to pile on—at least in George’s case—pretty much every article of clothing they owned, and hurtled back downstairs in exuberant spirits to plunge out into the snowy world beyond the front door.
    “Lord, I’m glad to get outside,” Matthew said with an air of heartfelt relief, gleefully kicking up clouds of snow. “Isn’t it amazing how a simple coating of white powder can make the place so extraordinarily beautiful?”
    “Yes, and isn’t it amazing what a detrimental effect it can have on the public transport system?” George countered, pretending a cynicism he didn’t really feel. Their snow-covered surroundings weren’t the only beauty in sight. Matthew, pink-cheeked and wrapped in a bright red woollen muffler, made a fine picture against the general whiteness. It seemed absurd to suspect him of any treachery—particularly after his kindness in saving George from Watkins’s interrogation. “We’ll have the devil of a job getting into work tomorrow if the trains and buses don’t run.”
    “Oh, I doubt it’ll last, anticyclones over Scandinavia notwithstanding,” Matthew prophesized confidently. “The snow in London never does. The days of frost fairs on the Thames are long gone. Still, no reason not to enjoy it while it’s here!” So saying, he gathered a handful of snow from a garden wall—and promptly hurled it at George from only three feet away, striking him on the shoulder.
    “Oh, you’re for it now!” George promised, gathering ammunition of his own. “Damn it!” he cursed as his missile sailed past its target, Matthew having seen it coming and ducked.
    “Language, Mr. Johnson!” Matthew chided him. As George looked up, a loosely packed snowball hit him square in the face. He spluttered and immediately retaliated, this time scoring a hit on Matthew’s ear and knocking his hat flying.
    “Ow! Not fair—your snowballs are hard!” Matthew complained, rubbing his ear with his mittened hand.
    Guilt-stricken, George paused in the act of forming more ammunition. “I am sorry—I didn’t mean to—” His words were cut off as Matthew, apparently bending to retrieve his hat, instead scooped more snow up and launched it at George. “Now who’s not being fair!”
    Laughing, Matthew raised his hand in a gesture of peace. “You’re right, that was a dirty tactic! I’m sorry. Shall we call a truce?”
    George grinned. “I think we’d better.