Ghost Swifts, Blue Poppies and the Red Star by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

Author:Nathan Dylan Goodwin [Goodwin, Nathan Dylan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-11-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

12th September 1919, Boezinge, Belgium

There it was again: a sort of tapping sound. This time, Harriet opened her eyes, having absolutely no idea of where she was. She followed one of the squiggly lines above her head until it met with another line. She followed that one to the floor and abruptly sat up with a start, remembering, with a suddenness which made her flinch, exactly where she was. ‘Goodness me,’ she mumbled, her heart thumping inside her chest. Daylight streamed in through the windows. What time was it? Was it morning? It must be.

On the bed beside hers, Fraser was on his side, his legs curled up to his chest under the woollen blanket, sleeping soundly.

A knock came from the door and Harriet recalled that familiar tapping sound, which had woken her.

She cleared her throat. ‘Yes?’

Fraser stirred at the sound of her voice.

‘Mrs Tillens is doing breakfast,’ came Joe’s voice from the other side of the door. ‘And Arthur’s ’ere. You both comin’ down?’

‘Lovely, thank you,’ she croaked. ‘Yes… Be right there.’

Fraser groaned and tugged the blanket over his head.

Harriet swung her feet down onto the floor, quickly retracting them, when she remembered how filthy it was. She carefully slid into her shoes and stood up, detesting the feeling of having slept in her same clothes. She longed for a hot bath and a clean dress, but that would just have to wait. First, they needed to get out of this condemned place. She pulled the blanket away from Fraser’s face. ‘Come on. Wake up. We need to get a move on. We’ve a busy day ahead of us.’

He grunted and sat up, looking dreadfully dishevelled, also having not changed out of his clothes. Harriet tentatively touched her hair, then promptly withdrew her hand, preferring not to dwell on her appearance.

Fraser exhaled, as he squeezed his feet into his shoes, evidently with some difficulty. He stood up, sighed again and walked over to the door.

Harriet followed him downstairs to the kitchen, where she found Mrs Tillens washing dishes in filthy grey water. She greeted them with a nod of her head. Joe was sitting at the table, pressing an entire boiled egg into his mouth. Harriet smiled warmly, thought of how Timothy would likely be doing the same right now at home, and said good morning.

Joe acknowledged Harriet and Fraser with a wave and pointed at the man sitting opposite him, chewing furiously on his mouthful in order to be able to speak.

‘Please,’ Mrs Tillens said, thrusting two tin cups at Harriet and Fraser, which looked suspiciously as though they might have been retrieved from the trenches.

‘Thank you kindly,’ Harriet said, staring at the muddy liquid.

Fraser thanked her, seeming not to have noticed the state of the receptacle, and sipped the drink with slurps of enjoyment.

Harriet tried, with a subtle nod of her head and a widening of her eyes, to point out the poor condition of the mug, but he was blissfully oblivious.

‘Mrs McDougall,’ Joe finally managed to say, ‘this is the one and only, Arthur Dooley.

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