hidden scars, he could now lean on the ship’s rail and appear as though he’d never seen a gun in his life. It was a past worth turning his back on, and Dublin waited for him beyond the shoreline, calm and soft and familiar.
Courtesy of the British government he’d been given a civilian suit, a few months’ wages, and his medals, in acknowledgement of his services to the Crown. He was wearing the clothes now—white shirt and grey flannel jacket and trousers, black shoes grimy with deck water. The bundle of money was in his back pocket, a little lighter for having caroused his way round London for several weeks until they fixed him a passage home. And the medals . . .
He groped in his pocket and fished them out. The British War Medal, the Victory Medal, and the Silver War Badge, inscribed with Georgivs V Britt : Omn : Rex Et Ind : Imp : —George V, King of all the British Isles and Emperor of India. They’d proved useful trinkets in London when trying to impress fawning women or win a free drink, but that was also the past, and he had want of them no more. Turning to the rail, he hurled them high over the waves. Three separate splashes and they sank beneath the waters of Dublin Bay.
Once docked, the soldiers filed one by one off a gangplank and were embraced on the quay. Adam said goodbyes to a few, shook hands, clapped backs—sure, we’ll definitely meet up for a pint soon and all that. Then he strode alone up a set of stone steps, passed a bandstand on the pier, and headed for the village. He was thirsty, and a decent pint of stout might help him establish what on earth he was supposed to do now. Aye, and perhaps a second one to keep it company.
“Adam!”
He stopped and twisted round.
A man hurried over the boardwalk, pink-faced with exertion. He was middle-aged, tall and thin with finely crimped hair. When he reached Adam he doubled over and wheezed for breath. “Goodness, my lad. What a devil you were to find!”
Adam finally recognised him. “Quentin? Where the hell did you come from?”
The man straightened up, still panting, and smiled. “Come now, lad, you didn’t think I’d miss my stepson’s return from the war, did you?”
“But how did you know?”
“Oh, it wasn’t easy, I assure you,” Quentin chuckled. “I’ve had a contact in London the past few months, scouring the records for your name. We finally pinned you down to Brighton, and then after to London. I received a telegram only last week to say the War Office was putting you on a packet to Dublin on the seventeenth. And so here I am.” He erupted into another fit of coughing.
“Calm down there, Quentin.” Adam grinned and took his arm. “You’re all right? It’s good to see you.” He’d always liked his stepfather. An Englishman and a professor at Trinity College, Quentin Aubrey had married Adam’s mother ten years before.
“Your mother,” Quentin recovered his breath, “will want to see you. I was told to take the motorcar here and fetch you back to Dalkey.”
“Mother’s still giving the orders then, is she?” Adam smiled without enthusiasm. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Now, Adam, she loves you. She’s only seen you a handful of times in five years, and she misses her son.”
Adam glanced towards the dockside taverns a little farther on. He’d planned on returning home, of course, but . . . “It’s just that I wasn’t quite ready to go yet.”
Quentin saw the direction of his gaze, and he shook his head in alarm. “Oh, dear me, no! You know she wouldn’t like that. You must arrive home sober.”
“I wasn’t planning on getting drunk. Just a little something to rinse out the sea salt.”
“I promised I’d have you home by afternoon.” Quentin pouted unhappily.
“An hour, that’s all. I promise. Tell you what,” Adam clasped his shoulder, “I’ll even let you buy the war hero a drink.”
The Bowen familial home was situated south of the bay, a few miles outside Dublin City, on a
Courtesy of the British government he’d been given a civilian suit, a few months’ wages, and his medals, in acknowledgement of his services to the Crown. He was wearing the clothes now—white shirt and grey flannel jacket and trousers, black shoes grimy with deck water. The bundle of money was in his back pocket, a little lighter for having caroused his way round London for several weeks until they fixed him a passage home. And the medals . . .
He groped in his pocket and fished them out. The British War Medal, the Victory Medal, and the Silver War Badge, inscribed with Georgivs V Britt : Omn : Rex Et Ind : Imp : —George V, King of all the British Isles and Emperor of India. They’d proved useful trinkets in London when trying to impress fawning women or win a free drink, but that was also the past, and he had want of them no more. Turning to the rail, he hurled them high over the waves. Three separate splashes and they sank beneath the waters of Dublin Bay.
Once docked, the soldiers filed one by one off a gangplank and were embraced on the quay. Adam said goodbyes to a few, shook hands, clapped backs—sure, we’ll definitely meet up for a pint soon and all that. Then he strode alone up a set of stone steps, passed a bandstand on the pier, and headed for the village. He was thirsty, and a decent pint of stout might help him establish what on earth he was supposed to do now. Aye, and perhaps a second one to keep it company.
“Adam!”
He stopped and twisted round.
A man hurried over the boardwalk, pink-faced with exertion. He was middle-aged, tall and thin with finely crimped hair. When he reached Adam he doubled over and wheezed for breath. “Goodness, my lad. What a devil you were to find!”
Adam finally recognised him. “Quentin? Where the hell did you come from?”
The man straightened up, still panting, and smiled. “Come now, lad, you didn’t think I’d miss my stepson’s return from the war, did you?”
“But how did you know?”
“Oh, it wasn’t easy, I assure you,” Quentin chuckled. “I’ve had a contact in London the past few months, scouring the records for your name. We finally pinned you down to Brighton, and then after to London. I received a telegram only last week to say the War Office was putting you on a packet to Dublin on the seventeenth. And so here I am.” He erupted into another fit of coughing.
“Calm down there, Quentin.” Adam grinned and took his arm. “You’re all right? It’s good to see you.” He’d always liked his stepfather. An Englishman and a professor at Trinity College, Quentin Aubrey had married Adam’s mother ten years before.
“Your mother,” Quentin recovered his breath, “will want to see you. I was told to take the motorcar here and fetch you back to Dalkey.”
“Mother’s still giving the orders then, is she?” Adam smiled without enthusiasm. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Now, Adam, she loves you. She’s only seen you a handful of times in five years, and she misses her son.”
Adam glanced towards the dockside taverns a little farther on. He’d planned on returning home, of course, but . . . “It’s just that I wasn’t quite ready to go yet.”
Quentin saw the direction of his gaze, and he shook his head in alarm. “Oh, dear me, no! You know she wouldn’t like that. You must arrive home sober.”
“I wasn’t planning on getting drunk. Just a little something to rinse out the sea salt.”
“I promised I’d have you home by afternoon.” Quentin pouted unhappily.
“An hour, that’s all. I promise. Tell you what,” Adam clasped his shoulder, “I’ll even let you buy the war hero a drink.”
The Bowen familial home was situated south of the bay, a few miles outside Dublin City, on a
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