Mrs Eliza Smith sighed to herself, feeling quite content. It was the 20th of October 1918 at eight o’clock in the morning and she had been quite cheered up. A seven year old boy with a curly mop of black hair came running into the room with some wooden soldiers.
“Are we still winning Mummy? My soldier, general Jim beat the Germans in my room this morning so I know we must be winning!…” Then he went off into a long and complicated description of the battle that his wooden soldiers had fought on his bedroom floor. Eliza listened to his voice but not to what he said. She just looked impressed and when she thought he had finished, commented on how bravely the soldiers had fought. This satisfied him and he turned his attention to the bacon she was putting on a plate.
She heard sobbing behind her. “Tommy,” she said sternly “stop making your sister cry!”
“I was just tickling her!” explained Tommy. Eliza scooped up her marmalade coated baby. “How beautiful you are my ickle girl.” Eliza murmured. Then another child walked in, a 5 year old girl with dark brown hair that was currently not brushed and looked like a lions mane but when it was brushed it was sleek and wavy. She walked in yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Maisy, why aren’t you dressed?”
“Because night clothes are comfy. They are so soft an’ warm!”
“Maybe, but night clothes are night clothes and are meant to be worn at night.”
“pwease let me wear my nighty until just after breakfast? Just this one time?”
Eliza had to give in. something about the way she said ‘pwease’ made it impossible to refuse.
The war was nearly over and she could not wait until the day her husband came home and met his baby daughter. Eliza had last seen him eighteen months ago when he had come home with a wounded leg. They had moved him out of the hospital as soon as they could to make room for more. He had not met his baby daughter yet but Eliza hoped he would be back for her first birthday.
Just that afternoon the telegram came: ‘Mr James Smith missing and wounded’. The blood drained out of her and lay in a puddle at her feet. She did not cry. She was not suffering nearly as much as her husband, so crying would be selfish. But he is still out there, still suffering, for her- for his children. Wounded and missing is not dead. Please. Please. Not dead! Her head was spinning with nightmares but not the kind you can wake up from. Would she faint? ‘No!’. ‘Everyone was suffering from the war, now it was her turn.’ She told nobody, however it did not go unnoticed that Eliza Smith was looking pale and weak lately.
Eliza Brown plumped the cushions on the sofa for the fourth time that day even though no-one had sat on them. But she must do something. Being idle was not an option. She paid little attention to what she did now anyway.
One day little Thomas Smith was sat at his desk staring absently at the teacher when a note was passed to him. ‘My mummy says your mummy is dying from heart break’. He looked up and saw Emily King had watched him read the note. He understood this meant she was the one who had sent it. It made perfect sense, Emily King was a girl who had her mothers habit of enjoying gossip and her fathers habit of inflicting pain. Altogether not very likeable. Tommy folded up the note and put it in his pocket then turned and formally stuck his tongue out at Emily. After all, how could his mummy die of a broken heart when she did not even have a broken heart? At play time he saw Emily King whispering to a group of children and overheard his name. As he approached them they scattered and backed away. Some looked at him with disgust but others looked ashamed of themselves for being there at all. Then Emily stepped forward. “I was just saying how you don’t even care that your father is dead and your mummy is dying!” she said accusingly. ‘He would not cry!’
“You, you mean hateful girl! You know nothing about my family.” He yelled. He would have loved to say that he knew she was wrong but he realized that he knew no such thing and he had a sinking feeling that perhaps she was right.
As soon as he saw his mum he flung himself into her arms and made her promise him she would not die. Normally Eliza would not have promised such a thing but it appeared to be the only way to stop him from sobbing. “Now tell me, what has upset you?”
“Oh mama! Is papa dead?”. Eliza went cold. What should she do? She was in the middle of a school playground! What could she do? Tommy saw the look in her eyes. Perhaps it would be best if he waited till they got home. They walked home in silence. Eliza was facing life as a widow; she had not come to terms with it until now.
It was when they got home that the phone rang. Eliza ran to answer it, leaving her terrified boy alone. He could hear her tslking through the jarred door. “yes, really? Oh thank god! Of course, I understand. Thank you! Good Bye!” She came back in. Her eyes were sparkling with tears. The man on the phone had told her that James Smith had never been missing. There had been a name mix up and nobody had thought to check. ‘It is such a common name.’ He explained. But now James Smith, her James Smith was wounded and would be brought back home. ‘likely the war will be over by the time he is recovered.’ He’d added. She was alive again! She had been half dead in the agony of suspense but now she could live forever! Then the telegram arrived.
‘I’m coming home! I’m blind now but that’s all. I love you’ Is what the message read.
