Those first three words hurt like a knife in his chest. He didn’t need more information, and was left stunned. But, as the days passed, he found he was desperate to know every detail of Gertie’s passing. He wanted to take his girl’s place, absorb her pain. His whole life had been spent fighting death, and he had won more battles than lost. Was this the grim reaper’s revenge? If he hadn’t been a doctor, would his three children be alive today?

This would be simple confirmation.

His heart squeezed. How would he tell Martha? She sat quietly in their empty home, torn between hope and despair, hardly having eaten or spoken for a fortnight. His throat stiffened again. He patted his pocket for the thickness of a freshly ironed handkerchief.

Albert skidded to a halt, his back wheel overtaking the front. He kicked out the bicycle-stand but after a tremulous moment, the heavy frame clattered to the ground. The boy ignored it and rushed up the path. ‘It’s just arrived, sir!’ He panted dramatically, delved under a clumsy gas mask in his box-satchel, then thrust a receipt book and pencil towards the doctor. ‘Sign here, please.’ The proud apprentice rubbed his knees, eyes sparkling with excitement, red cheeks glowing from his freckled face.

Hadn’t the lad realised, telegrams in wartime meant unwelcome news? Charles rummaged in his pocket for a halfpenny. Albert beamed.

‘Go!’ the doctor said, reluctant to read the dispatch while the boy gawped.

Martha appeared in the cottage doorway, her hair tied in rags and covered by a robust net that reminded Charles of the trout in Parley Brook. Her eyes had that same blank stare of fatality.

He would need to fish later, to be alone to cry, to come to terms, and to gather his strength to support dearest Martha.

‘Go,’ the doctor repeated. Albert lolloped back to his bike. As the gate slammed behind him, a cloud of pigeons took to the air, wings applauding. They circled, then settled in a discontented line on the roof, watching, waiting.

Charles ripped open the telegram, knowing it was futile to hope. He read the single line, then reached for his handkerchief.

Martha, face ghostly pale, rushed to his side. Her nails dug into his arm, clinging to hope and her husband. ‘It’s about Gertie?’ she whispered. Now, her eyes sparked with hope, or fear, he couldn’t tell which. She peered up into his face.

He nodded. His throat tightened so much he couldn’t speak. Despite his efforts, tears brimmed, then overflowed. Martha let out a howl so heavy with grief that the pigeons took to the heavens again.

Charles wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her fiercely against his heaving chest. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and forced the words he had to say.

‘Don’t, Martha. Don’t. She’s safe. Our Gertie’s safe.’

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

SHELLY