The Arrival of Missives Read Free Page B

glass.
    He is not a real man.
    I find myself on my feet, and he is moving also, pushing back the chair from the kitchen table as he rises with such speed, but I surge through the weeds, to the path, and then away: past the gate with pebbles crunching under my feet, in the direction of the river. I hear the front door bang and he calls my name, but I cannot risk turning to see if he follows. Besides, he will never catch me and I can hear the river now. I will cross the old stone bridge by the mill and loop back around the village to make my way home through the fields and I will never speak of what I have seen, never never never.
    'Shirley,' calls Mr Tiller, from far away.
    I start to slow.
    I find myself at a trot, and then a walk. My skirts are tangled around my legs; I shake them out as I reach the bridge. Up ahead is the mill, closed up tight for the night. And it is night, now; only the last rays of the sun provide me with the means to see my feet upon the stones. I reach the centre of the bridge and look down along the length of the river.
    Mr Tiller has fought a war, and he has returned from it a changed man. I did not truly understand that until this moment. Something terrible, beyond my experience, has befallen him. The shock of it is overwhelming to me. But I asked for the means to test myself, to be worthy of leading the coming generations, and I have been provided with those means. If Mr Tiller is brave enough to live with such an injury, then I will be brave enough to at least stand upright in his presence and acknowledge it.
    'Shirley.'
    He has come to stand at the start of the bridge, where it joins with the road. His shirt buttons are redone, although his collar and cuffs remain loose. He looks like a man once more, albeit a dishevelled one, and his expression pleads with me – it is an honest expression, the kind I have dreamed of seeing upon his features.
    'Come back to the cottage,' he says.
    I shake my head. It is not that I do not trust him. It is only that this seems to me to be a better place to have this conversation. He limps slowly across the bridge to stand beside me; I think his leg must be paining him after he has hurried upon it. Perhaps he is always in pain, from that heavy mass of rock within him, erupting from him. Now I know of it I can see the peaks, just visible through the material of his shirt. It is no wonder that he always keeps his waistcoat in place and buttoned.
    'You should not spy on people,' he says, gravely. He leans on the stone wall, and stares into the water that runs through the archways, and onwards to the wheel of the mill.
    'It was not my intention, and certainly not my usual pastime,' I say. I am pleased at my even tone. I sound cool and proper, like a lady. 'I wanted to talk to you. About a private matter.'
    'May I ask what was so important that you had to stand at my window and peer inside?'
    What a question. I can't begin to answer it. I find I am no longer sure that I want to speak my heart to Mr Tiller.
    'Do you…' he says, and then changes the direction of the conversation abruptly, to, 'Will you speak to no one about this? I think that would be for the best.'
    'No one but yourself.'
    He nods. I think he understands my meaning. I cannot simply be silent forever more, because the questions I have will plague me if I am not given the opportunity to voice them.
    'Shirley, there are some aspects of life that a young girl should not have to know about.'
    'You were doing your duty,' I commence. 'You were fighting for King and country. You plunged into battle. There were explosions, all around. Many died. There were pieces of men everywhere, scattered, and the smell of blood, the cries of anguish, were strong. I am not a child. My imagination will tell me what you will not.' He stood tall amidst the dead and the screaming, no doubt, with determination on his handsome face, streaked with noble tears. 'You were trying to hold a position, on a beach, backed against a cliff by