Soldier's Valentine Read Free Page B

where she really was. The lies rolled off her tongue.
    ‘Mostly the South of France and Italy,’ he told anyone who questioned the wisdom of wandering around a war torn Europe. ‘The war’s in the north. The south of France is a very different place hardly touched by any of the carnage. Thanks be to God,’ he’d explained jocularly in the mission hall on a Sunday morning.
    Henry Randall was one of the congregation listening to what the preacher had to say about war, life and the predilection towards gossip and lies rather than truth.
    He’d taken to attending a service on a Sunday morning in order to refill his soul with something that had been lost on the Somme and all the other battlefields he’d fought on. The mission hall was a calm place and the good words, the familiar passages from the Bible, helped him cope though not forget the terrible scenes he’d witnessed, the wounds, the horror of a war it was hoped would end all wars. He hoped it wouldn’t. He firmly believed that it was only in the heat of battle that boys really did become men.
    He joined in the hymns, not really making a sound, but just opening and shutting his mouth while his thoughts wandered.
    Since leaving the army he’d gone from job to job, his only relaxation the demon drink. Beer was something you could drown your sorrows in, though no amount of drinking would consign his old friend Lewis to memory.
    He’d been offered a job driving one of the blue taxicabs that plied around the city centre. He liked the sound of it. No being stuck in a factory for him. Driving around the city would suit him very well.
    Life began to return to normal, though Lewis remained in his heart. He would never forget the look on his face and those clawing hands as he slowly slid towards the ground. He would never forget his dying or, more specifically, the surprised look on his face when the officer had shot him.
    He would never forget the officer either and, although Lieutenant Ross was dead, neither would he ever forgive him. Damn him to hell. Damn him and all the officers like him.
    Although his throat was dry, on his way out, he managed to wish the preacher a good day. He prided himself on not drinking on Sunday. Let the Lord have his day; the demon drink could have the rest of the week.
    Mary Anne’s father noticed that Henry Randall never missed a Sunday service and mentioned the fact to his wife at Sunday teatime.
    ‘He’s here every week without fail whether it’s me doing the preaching or somebody else. Now that’s what I call a regular and respectable young man.’
    His wife sighed and shook her head sadly. ‘Like lots of other young men he served his country well. I expect after going through that he needs God more than most folk.’
    Her husband agreed with her. ‘So many died and those that survived are never likely to be the same again.’
    Mrs Sweet bustled around with the tea things. Sunday lunch was always relished after a good bout of sermonising from her husband. Teatime was more relaxed; there was always buttered bread, pots of jam and cakes. A large brown pot took pride of place in the middle of the table.
    Just two of them for tea this evening, though sometimes they invited guests, usually business people or those Mr Sweet thought particularly deserving of his charity and his wife’s home-made cakes.
    Mrs Sweet looked at the dining chair where her daughter used to sit, consoling herself that she’d be home soon.
    ‘No doubt she’ll come back with a bloom on her cheeks,’ tittered some of the old ladies who frequented the shop.
    ‘I hope not. I hope she’s taken my advice and used a sunshade and white cotton gloves. If you have a white skin, then keep it white. That’s what I say,’ Mrs Sweet had declared.
    The comment about how her daughter’s complexion might have been affected by continental sunshine alarmed her. It was something she hadn’t considered before. Luckily her retort about the sunshade and white cotton gloves