Free Dead Man's Embers by Mari Strachan Page B

sat in the same chair to watch Davey. And she has learnt nothing. Every morning he has re-enacted the same incident, watching and waiting, finding the strain intolerable to judge from the twitching of his shoulders and the way his finger squeezed ever tighter on his rifle’s trigger, until an attack on his position seemed to take place and he would fall flat onto the flagstones, yelling at Ben to do the same.
    Always Ben, Non thinks. She shivers slightly, gooseflesh rising on her arms despite the heat, at the memory of Wednesday’s debacle at the séance. Catherine Davies would not speak of it on the way home and Elsie would not stop speaking of it. Non does not want to think of it, it was nonsense, she is sure, and yet . . . and yet . . .
    This morning, the large mound of dirty washing in the basket by the door, which she sorted out last night ready for Lizzie German, is what is drawing Davey’s attention. She wonders what it is he sees there in the innocuous pile of bedding and clothing. She feels too tired to even think of the day’s work ahead of her; she has had to increase the intake of her tincture by several drops. Her eyes close. Just for a moment, she thinks. There is no point inwishing the War had never happened, but she does wish it fervently sometimes. She wishes that when she opens her eyes she will find it has all been a terrible dream. But no, here is Davey beneath the table in the throes of his own terrible dream.
    It had been a strange time for them all who were left behind, as if they had gone to sleep one night and found themselves overtaken by a nightmare from which they could not wake. Many families found it difficult to manage without their menfolk – though Non knows of two women who were glad of the respite from the beatings their husbands regularly administered – but Non supposes she was one of the luckier ones. She was lucky that the school wanted her back, having lost so many of its male teachers to the War. She was lucky that Lizzie German was able to look after Osian for her. By then, Lizzie’s Herman had been taken away, and Lizzie was struggling on her own to bring up three small grandchildren whose parents had both died of tuberculosis. Lizzie had been glad of the money Non paid her. And I was lucky, Non thinks, to have old William Davies as an ally. He had protected her from the worst of Catherine Davies’s machinations, and he had kept Billy out of her way. She was lucky, too, that she had all the skills with herbs her father taught her – unused for years, but easily recalled and practised again. Her remedies were popular, women came to her rather than to Dr Jones or Williams the Pharmacist – she does not suppose she was very popular with those two. She wonders, now, if it was one of them who complained to Davey – almost the moment he returned – about her activities, and persuaded him to stop her helping anyone.
    They managed, she thinks, somehow most of the women managed, everyone helping one another. How they all waited for the postman to come on his rounds – in those days it had been one-legged old Peg. Someone would always have news, thoughthe postal service from the battlefields was erratic. There would be nothing from Davey for weeks and then a bundle of half a dozen letters and cards would arrive. He was not the best of letter-writers, but she had expected a little love to appear in his words. Maybe it was because for months he had to write in English to her, and the writing appeared stilted and formal, like that of a stranger. She would have been glad even of those, she thinks, when his letters became less and less frequent and more and more distant.
    A sound startles her from her reverie. Herman is rapping on the window pane with his beak. She has had to leave the window and door closed in the early mornings since Herman’s display last week. Now, the bird’s noise disturbs Davey who crawls to the side of the table