It got to seven o'clock and there was no sign of him. Chrissie told herself off for worrying; after all, he hadn't said what time he'd be back. Her stomach growled. She knew Tom would be cross if she didn't eat, so she made a salad sandwich and munched on it without enthusiasm. At half-past eight, her phone rang. At Tom's voice, she relaxed somewhat."Sorry, love. I didn't say what time I'd get in, did I? We're in the Colne now. I should be with you by midnight. Don't wait up, will you?"Half relieved to hear him, half cross he would be so late, she just said, "Take care, Tom," before hanging up. She covered the bowls of salad, made herself some tea and sat down with her guitar, a tune running through her head, words coming, unbidden, to fit it. Words written in the nineteenth century by Elizabeth Barrett Browning;How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.I. Time was to be the only healer and that, not very successful in its efforts.Every year, the ever dwindling numbers of ex-service men, filed along the Mall in a proud march, to lay wreaths of poppies at the Cenotaph and pay their respects. Each with his own story of his part in the last world war, Each holding their memories of fallen comrades, small and large victories, amusing anecdotes and tales to enthral young children, or bore the elder, young men. Not all of the war had been about blood and guts, mud, hard rations or killing the Germans and the Japanese. Some of it had lighter moments, but not much.Every year he stood apart away from the massed crowds and watched. Nobody ever spoke to him of the scene or of what it represented. He watched alone, and then left when it was done, back to his little flat in Chelsea, back to his loneliness and the memories of his lost love, dead these past forty-nine years, dead and saved from the possibility of execution, dead by his own hand. Each.
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