Redfyre had seen many war memorials put up in the years after 1918 in France and England, and, unsurprisingly, they had all been sorrowful and restrained. Some were sculpted with such a depth of feeling and personal involvement that their beauty brought tears to the eyes of battle-hardened men. Nearly every family in the land had its known warrior, its own story of loss, injustice and sacrifice and their grief found expression in these respectful works of public art. But this one was the exception. Every time he passed the jaunty figure of the young soldier up high on his slab of Portland stone, Redfyre caught his eye and returned his triumphant smile. Sometimes he winked.

The private was striding out, bareheaded and rather dishevelled, with the joyous freedom of natural movement that could only have been captured by a Canadian artist, Redfyre thought. Here was no stiff British solemnity, no elegant French ceremony. The lad’s helmet was in his left hand, held out in a gesture of offering to whoever was greeting him. It was decorated with a single rose and a garland of laurel leaves. Over his left shoulder, he carried his rifle from which swung a German helmet—the Tommy’s favourite trophy of war—and a second victory wreath. The handsome lad was loping eagerly towards the town, flinging a last look back over one shoulder at the railway station where he had just left the crowded troop train bringing him back from France. Flinging off his old life and eagerly confronting the future. Job triumphantly done. It represented, for Redfyre, hope, energy, and indomitable resilience.

“Taken some time after the third of July 1922 when the Duke of York unveiled it,” Redfyre commented, unsettled by the silence and the knowing eyes scanning him for a reaction. “And judging by the presence of ceremonial poppy wreaths, this would have been on or near the eleventh of November, Armistice Day. Before my time, so it must have been the same year—1922. Wasn’t there a bit of a problem with the ceremony? Troublemakers louting about with tomatoes and paint? An antiwar group? Communists?”

MacFarlane nodded. “They had a point to make. Usual boring, naïve rubbish from inexperienced young twerps. Away-from-home students, for the most part . . . They’d never try it on in their own hometowns. They were quickly seen off by a contingent of hot-tempered old survivors of earlier wars armed to the teeth with walking sticks and ear trumpets. A couple of our uniform boys judged their moment carefully, then strolled onstage and mopped up.”