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Authors: Mari Strachan
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bring one upon him. She remembers the way his hand trembled and swallows her tears. Tears are of no use to Davey or her.
She settles on her chair. By now, she has discovered the best vantage point for seeing Davey without being in his line of sight. She glances at the clock. Five past six, and the sun is already hastening over the back end of the garden. There is no coolness even at night, no dew to soften the edges of the heat. The clucking the hens make sounds cross already; they have become so bad-tempered that they will peck her hand at the least provocation. Only two or three of them are still laying; she will have fewer eggs than usual to give to Lizzie German today.
Herman waddles in through the door, skirts around Davey without looking at him, and flutters up onto the back of Nonâs chair. He pulls gently at her hair with his beak, cawing softly now and then. She puts up her hand to stroke his head; she has missedhim over the last few days and is glad of his company. He is almost the same age as Osian; she wonders if this is old for a crow. She remembers the tiny bundle of feathers Herman Grunwald had brought for her, jostled, he had said, out of the nest by his brothers and sisters as they fledged. The skills her father had taught her enabled her to mend the chickâs broken wing. Sometimes she thinks she lavished more care and attention on the crow than she had on Osian. Herman was the one who spent time with Osian, huddling up to him in his cradle or in his perambulator â much to the horror of the townâs women who peeked under the hood to catch a glimpse of the new and mysterious baby. Non had soon stopped wheeling the perambulator through the town and instead had taken the boy and the bird for walks along the roads and tracks that led up to the farms in the hills.
Davey is lying completely still under the table, except for a slight twitch in his shoulders and the tensing of his forefinger on the trigger of his imaginary rifle. Is this what it was like for him in the trenches? Did he have to lie as still as death in the mud, in the rain, in the snow, in the heat, in the stench? She has no idea what it was like.
No one had any idea what it would be like. Seven weeks after Davey brought Osian to her, four weeks after Herman Grunwald presented her with the crow, Britain had declared war on Germany. Some of the townâs younger men, mere boys, had rushed to join up immediately, sensing a big adventure waiting for them. Everyone said it would be all over and done with by Christmas, the enemy routed, the proper order restored. Weâll show them, the young men had promised, cheerfully and confidently, as they waved their goodbyes. Non wipes away a stray tear from her cheek. The War had gone on and on. Lloyd George had encouraged reluctant Welshmen who felt the quarrel was not theirs to realise it wastheir duty to fight. And Davey had always been dutiful, she thinks, always dutiful. It wonât be for long, Non, he had said as he held her close to him that last night before he left, Iâll soon be home. She had tried her hardest to be brave with him, for him, but already the lists of the dead were daily growing longer in the
Liverpool Echo
that the early evening train delivered without fail.
Herman is becoming impatient with her. He pecks more vigorously at her scalp, so that she moves her head away from him sharply. He caws his disapproval, and flaps his wings. Davey gathers himself into a crouch, shoulders his rifle and peers out through the fringe of the tablecloth. His head bobs like a kestrelâs as he searches for his prey, his eyes beady with concentration, his mouth contorting with unspoken words. Herman flutters from the chairback and lands on the floor in front of Davey who jerks backwards then strikes out with his arm and sends Herman bowling across the flagstones. Davey, Non thinks, who would not harm a soul. She jumps from her chair to go to Herman but he stands up and
She settles on her chair. By now, she has discovered the best vantage point for seeing Davey without being in his line of sight. She glances at the clock. Five past six, and the sun is already hastening over the back end of the garden. There is no coolness even at night, no dew to soften the edges of the heat. The clucking the hens make sounds cross already; they have become so bad-tempered that they will peck her hand at the least provocation. Only two or three of them are still laying; she will have fewer eggs than usual to give to Lizzie German today.
Herman waddles in through the door, skirts around Davey without looking at him, and flutters up onto the back of Nonâs chair. He pulls gently at her hair with his beak, cawing softly now and then. She puts up her hand to stroke his head; she has missedhim over the last few days and is glad of his company. He is almost the same age as Osian; she wonders if this is old for a crow. She remembers the tiny bundle of feathers Herman Grunwald had brought for her, jostled, he had said, out of the nest by his brothers and sisters as they fledged. The skills her father had taught her enabled her to mend the chickâs broken wing. Sometimes she thinks she lavished more care and attention on the crow than she had on Osian. Herman was the one who spent time with Osian, huddling up to him in his cradle or in his perambulator â much to the horror of the townâs women who peeked under the hood to catch a glimpse of the new and mysterious baby. Non had soon stopped wheeling the perambulator through the town and instead had taken the boy and the bird for walks along the roads and tracks that led up to the farms in the hills.
Davey is lying completely still under the table, except for a slight twitch in his shoulders and the tensing of his forefinger on the trigger of his imaginary rifle. Is this what it was like for him in the trenches? Did he have to lie as still as death in the mud, in the rain, in the snow, in the heat, in the stench? She has no idea what it was like.
No one had any idea what it would be like. Seven weeks after Davey brought Osian to her, four weeks after Herman Grunwald presented her with the crow, Britain had declared war on Germany. Some of the townâs younger men, mere boys, had rushed to join up immediately, sensing a big adventure waiting for them. Everyone said it would be all over and done with by Christmas, the enemy routed, the proper order restored. Weâll show them, the young men had promised, cheerfully and confidently, as they waved their goodbyes. Non wipes away a stray tear from her cheek. The War had gone on and on. Lloyd George had encouraged reluctant Welshmen who felt the quarrel was not theirs to realise it wastheir duty to fight. And Davey had always been dutiful, she thinks, always dutiful. It wonât be for long, Non, he had said as he held her close to him that last night before he left, Iâll soon be home. She had tried her hardest to be brave with him, for him, but already the lists of the dead were daily growing longer in the
Liverpool Echo
that the early evening train delivered without fail.
Herman is becoming impatient with her. He pecks more vigorously at her scalp, so that she moves her head away from him sharply. He caws his disapproval, and flaps his wings. Davey gathers himself into a crouch, shoulders his rifle and peers out through the fringe of the tablecloth. His head bobs like a kestrelâs as he searches for his prey, his eyes beady with concentration, his mouth contorting with unspoken words. Herman flutters from the chairback and lands on the floor in front of Davey who jerks backwards then strikes out with his arm and sends Herman bowling across the flagstones. Davey, Non thinks, who would not harm a soul. She jumps from her chair to go to Herman but he stands up and
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