The Home Coming

England

Saturday 25th July 1915

I don’t like it down here. In the cellar.

With the bombs being dropped around us, and the whistling sound the shrapnel makes. It’s hateful.

It’s cold and dark, apart from the dim light illuminating from the candle that mum grabbed before we had to retreat in here. She couldn’t grab much, just a few special things of mine from when I was a baby, hers and dads wedding photo and a family portrait. It has all of us in it. Mum, Dad, me, Grandpa Don, Grandma Joan, though I only ever knew her as nan, Aunty Marge, Uncle Bill and cousin Rosie. We’re the only ones left, everyone else died last year at Christmas. We used to have a big family. It was wonderful. Everybody seated in the big dining room, the muted talk as Grandpa and Dad tended to the fire, a glass of something strong held firmly in their hands and the delicious smell of roast pork! Nan made the most amazing roast potatoes and gravy. Sometimes when we had a few extra shillings, we could afford applesauce! I remember that special time. It was probably the best time we have to remember. I would do anything to have all of my family back. Anything. Anything to have a new life somewhere that’s not in jeopardy. . .

25th July 1915

Later

The shelling has stopped. For sometime at least. So we can go back up to the house.

“You girls wait here, I’ll go up and make sure its safe,” Dad says climbing the small set of stairs.

“Be careful Jim!” Mum warns him with a worried look. Dad pats mum on the shoulder and opens the hatch above our heads. Dust and soil falls onto the cellar floor and forms a thin layer of grime on our clothes. Its still dark so I assume that its maybe nine or ten o’clock. We watch dad disappear around the corner. He comes back a moment later and motions for us to come out. I start to feel drowsy as dad ushers us both inside. The house isn’t damaged, thank God, and all of our belongings are safe. I take off the pajama’s I’m wearing and slide into a new pair of bedclothes. I crawl into bed and fall into an exhausted sleep.

Saturday 26th July

Morning

Mum and Dad are already up when I awake from sleep groggily.

“Morning Jane, how did you sleep?” Mum asks me, while reaching into the top cupboard and groping around for her favourite mug. A robin’s egg blue one with a pastel yellow chicken on the side. She painted it when she was a little girl.

“Morning Mum, okay I guess, I was a tad cold, where’s Dad?” I ask quickly glancing around the kitchen.

“Outside checking on the chickens and vegies,” she says.

I slip out the back door and immediately spot dad picking through the vegie patch, trying to determine whether or not our winter crop will survive.

“Morning Dad,”

‘Morning Jane, the vegies are unharmed,” he informs me warmly.

“The chickens?” I ask with hope.

“A bit shaken, but they’ll be fine,”

“Ok then, I’ll have some breakfast and then come out and collect the eggs,” I turn to go back inside.

When I get back inside. Mum is sitting at the kitchen table nursing a strong cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Is there any orange juice?” I ask her.