Free Gather the Bones by Alison Stuart

kitchen range. “Good ride?”
    “Paul took me up to Stoneman’s Hill,” Helen said. She kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “When that pony arrives from Wellmore, I’ll take you there.”
    “If you go through, I’ll bring you breakfast in the parlour,” Sarah said.
    “Don’t be silly,” Helen responded. “I don’t see any point in setting up in the parlour. I’m quite happy to eat breakfast here. Paul, can you pour the tea?”
    Paul looked at Helen and then at the large, brown teapot Sarah had set on the table. A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “Of course. Pass those tea cups, Alice.”
    Sarah Pollard put her hands on her hips and glanced at Helen as the man took a chair at the end of the table and dutifully poured four large cups of tea.
    “We always eat breakfast in the kitchen at home,” Alice said as the adults arranged themselves around the table.
    “Just don’t tell Grandmama,” Helen said.
    Paul regarded Alice over his teacup. “Definitely don’t tell Grandmama. Anyone else want that last piece of toast?”
    Helen pushed the platter across to him. Sitting at the kitchen table with his sleeves pushed up, his dark hair falling across his eyes as he buttered a piece of toast, he seemed more relaxed then he did in the world beyond the green baize door.
    The outside door opened and Annie, the girl from the village walked into the kitchen.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Pol...” she stopped mid-sentence, her hand still on the door latch, staring at the breakfast crowd. She bobbed a curtsey. “Good morning, sir… madam.”
    “It’s all right, Annie,” Paul rose to his feet. “I’ve finished. I’ll leave you all in peace. Thanks for breakfast, Sarah.”
    “You go and make a start on the dining room, Annie,” Sarah said as the kitchen door swung shut behind Paul. Humming to herself the girl picked up her basket of cleaning rags and followed Paul out of the kitchen.
    Helen set down her empty cup. “I should go too. I’m holding you up,” she said, pushing her chair back from the table. “Have you finished that toast yet, Alice?”
    Alice set the crust she had been eating around, back on the plate and looked up.
    “If you’re not in a hurry, I’ve something to show the two of you.” Sarah rose to her feet and fetched a large parcel, loosely wrapped in brown paper from the sideboard. She set it down in front of Alice. The child knelt up on the chair and pulled back the wrapping to reveal a heavy old-fashioned scrapbook.
    “It’s just something I’ve kept all these years,” Sarah said, collecting the breakfast plates and carrying them over to the sink.
    Helen pulled her chair up beside Alice and they began to turn the pages. The scrapbook contained a history of the Morrow’s lives, chronicled in newspaper cuttings, yellowed invitation cards and photographs, beginning with the wedding of Sir Gerald Morrow and the Honorable Evelyn Vaughan. There followed birth announcements for Charlie, clipped from The Times, items from the social pages of the county newspaper recounting Charlie’s prowess at cricket and rugby and a photograph of Charlie playing Dick Dauntless in a school Gilbert and Sullivan production. There were newspaper photographs of Sir Gerald’s funeral, including one of the villagers turning out to line the route of the coffin to the church.
    A couple of small articles mentioned the success of the Winchester First Eight, stroked by P.N. Morrow, at the Head of the River and Paul as captain of the First Eleven in their win against Harrow in the cricket.
    Then the war, a brief item recounting that Captain Charles Morrow would be awarded a posthumous MC for gallantry in the face of the enemy and a couple of newspaper epitaphs, none of which Helen had seen before. She looked at the neat printed words recounting Charlie’s bravery and the nation’s collective sorrow at his death. They meant nothing to her, it was almost as though they talked about a total stranger.
    Helen