Free Stratton's War by Laura Wilson

the garden, her beautiful green eyes moist with unshed tears. She had claimed - in a tight voice that declared I-don’t-want-to-discuss-it but meant exactly the opposite - to be watching the birds. ‘God knows I miss them - even the squabbling and the racket. D’you know, I found myself in Pete’s room the other night, reading one of his books? Winnie the Pooh . Bloody silly.’

    Donald nodded. ‘I’ve done a few things like that myself. Can’t blame the women though - it’s a lot harder on them, and—’ His expression changed abruptly. ‘Christ, what’s he doing here?’

    Stratton, who had his back to the door, said, ‘It’s not, is it?’

    ‘It bloody is, and he’s seen us.’ Donald raised his hand in a half-hearted greeting. ‘He’s brought Farmer Giles with him. And the Major.’ Stratton half turned in his seat to see Reg’s porky buttocks pushing the tail of his jacket into divergent halves as he laid the camel sword, now clean and polished, reverentially on the floor before straightening up and patting his pockets for change. Next to him, bearing a pitchfork, prongs up, as if it were a standard, was Harry Comber, the grocer, etiolated and balding. Behind them was Major Lyons, a small septuagenarian, stiff and tweedy with bushy eyebrows, who always made Stratton think of a malevolent cairn terrier.

    ‘I don’t believe it!’ Donald did a dramatic double-take. ‘He’s actually standing a round.’

    Reg’s meanness with money was legendary. He regularly subjected the rest of the family to unsolicited advice about household savings, including - until he’d cut his arse on the remains of an acid-drop - the practice of using grocers’ bags and torn up newspaper in the toilet.

    ‘Shame you haven’t got a camera with you,’ said Stratton. ‘We could capture the moment for posterity.’

    Donald rolled his eyes. ‘He’s coming over.’

    Reg, pint in hand and trailed by the others - at a respectful distance, because the sword, jammed underneath his arm, was weaving dangerously behind him - ambled over to greet them. ‘Well met, indeed! Off duty, are we?’ He winked, as though he’d caught Stratton doing something he shouldn’t, made an expansive gesture, slopping beer on Donald’s shoulder, and then, having ascertained that both their glasses were well over the halfway mark, said, ‘Can I get you gents anything?’

    ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said Stratton.

    ‘I can’t think why you come in here,’ said Reg, plonking himself on an empty chair. Donald opened his mouth, then shut it again, leaving the obvious answer - because you don’t - hovering in the air. ‘Don’t mind if we join you?’ Reg continued, pulling out the chairs next to him for Comber and Major Lyons.

    ‘So why are you here?’ asked Stratton.

    ‘Bit of a crush at The King’s Head. Just come off duty, you know.’

    ‘We gathered,’ said Donald.

    ‘Got our armbands, you see.’ Reg rotated his right arm towards them so that they could make out the letters LDV against the white cloth. Comber and the Major moved likewise, the latter letting out an affirmative yap as he did so. After a moment, Stratton, seeing that some response was called for, gave a hearty, ‘Jolly good,’ and raised his pint. ‘Cheers!’

    A moment’s arm-raising, toasting and theatrical supping noises ensued, during which Stratton avoiding looking at Donald, and then Comber, lowering his glass, said, ‘Candidly, I think this invasion stuff is all nonsense. It’s Hitler’s last throw. He wants to get the war finished before winter.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s going to be famine in Europe.’

    The Major looked disconcerted but contented himself with, ‘Now we know where we are.’ Stratton tried to remember exactly how many times he’d heard this remark in the last week, and felt a surge of irritation. ‘I’m buggered if I do,’ he said.

    There was a short pause before Reg and Comber started to speak at once,