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‘How long have we been here, then?’ asked Harry, out of nowhere.

‘About half an hour, I think.’

‘No, here. At Graystairs.’

‘Seems like forever.’

‘As long as that?’

‘At least.’ George frowned. ‘The days run into each other here, don’t they? I can hardly remember what we had for lunch yesterday.’ He chuckled. ‘A blessed relief, if today’s was anything to go by.’

Harry laughed with him, watching Enid remonstrating with Megan. Megan had grabbed the handles on the back of Enid’s wheelchair, and was trying to steer her back towards the house; but Enid – good old Enid – was having none of it, and was stubbornly gripping the wheels of the chair, determined to enjoy the sunset for just a little longer.

Suddenly, Harry gave a gasp and his hands flew to his forehead. He moaned in pain, doubling up.

‘Harry – what is it? What’s up?’ George forgot all about Uberfuhrer Megan as Harry continued to groan. He shook his head, trying to clear the grey threads which were shooting across his field of vision, obscuring the vivid orange sky.

‘I... I... I’m not sure...’

George tottered unsteadily to his feet, glancing between Megan and Harry, wondering whether to call her. He looked down at Harry, whose hands had dropped to his lap and who was now staring away into the distance, his face illuminated by the fiery colours of the setting sun. A strange puzzlement was growing in his eyes, and George felt a chill ripple down his spine.

‘Harry? Are you OK?’

Harry looked up at him, as if seeing him clearly for the first time. ‘I remember,’ he whispered, reaching up and clutching George’s arm. ‘It’s suddenly there, all of it.’

‘Remember what? For God’s sake, Harry, what’s wrong?’

A stormcloud spread across Harry’s face, and George felt his guts turn to ice.

‘I remember the war, George. I remember all of it – the tanks, rolling across the countryside, screaming children raising their hands, their mothers wailing and clasping them to themselves, the stink of blood and burning.’ Trembling, he looked up at George, his eyes fever bright. ‘I remember it George – every last, glorious moment!’

Chapter Four

Claire glanced at the old station dock above the optics: it seemed like only a couple of hours since she’d started her shift behind the bar, and the dock confirmed it. The urn Foxes wasn’t so bad in the evening drink loosened tongues, and the conversation and atmosphere were much more amicable. The afternoons, though... Sad no-hopers whiling away their days, waiting for their wives to come home from work, waiting for their giros, waiting for... most of them had forgotten what it was they were waiting for.

But at least they were quiet. She glanced round, wondering if she could steal a few minutes to read another chapter of her sociology book, tucked away under the bar. But a couple of the farm lads swaggered in noisily, laughing at some private dirty joke, and Claire had to abandon sociology theory for practical.

As she pulled their pints, she winced uncomfortably at their frightening racism and unashamed glee at the ‘Argie-bashing’

down in the Falklands.

‘Scumbags,’ came a mutter from further down the bar, just a little louder than Claire would have considered wise, as the lads strutted over to a corner table with their pints slopping in their hands. A young girl with long, brown hair tied back, was perched on a stool at the other end of the bar. She had a round, pleasant face, but her eyes looked harder than they had any right to be in someone her age. Claire remembered serving her earlier, but she’d look worried, absorbed, and Claire hadn’t been in the mood to play agony aunt. She nodded back at the girl.

‘Racist scumbags at that,’ Claire sighed in agreement. ‘You get used to it. I try to think about it as coursework.’

The girl raised her eyebrows. ‘What are you studying?

Insects?’

Claire laughed and pulled out her book, slamming it down on the bar. The girl twisted her head to read the title of the book.

‘It’s an OU course,’ Claire explained. ‘Anything to