“Bye, Maggie.” She clonked away from the boundary in her almost-red wellies, through the brighter, fresher grass. When she reached the forest, the brown of her dress and the yellow of her hair merged into the branches till I couldn’t tell what was Una any more, and what was trees.

I sat down on William Whittington, chin in hands, elbows on knees. I’d done it. I’d met with a wanderer. And I was going to see her again.

Mr Gebby clanked and clunked. The crickets buzzed and clicked and hopped.

The breeze shuffled the leaves: dead relatives whispering in their graves. Whispering and watching.

WEDNESDAY
3 SEPTEMBER

CHAPTER 9

Trig was bent over the kitchen table, his hand curled all the way round his pencil. Dad’s visiting bag was right next to his feet.

There must be some more antibiotics in there now. Can’t be only Elsie who needs them.

Trig’d been too slow at school again. His teacher had found him a piece of furry-edged paper and the stubby pencil so he could finish his work at home. So here he was, writing out Andrew Solsbury’s eldest edict in his very best handwriting. Taking ages. I could’ve done it a thousand times over by the time he’d reached the end of the first line.

From this day forth every eldest child, at age fourteen, will be awarded the privilege of attending military camp.

I don’t blame him for being slow, though. Probably would’ve been quicker if they’d picked something more interesting than an old politician’s speech from a million years ago. Like a poem or something? A song?

I sat on the end of the table with my feet on a chair. Put my fingers either side of my head. Tried to wiggle my ears.

Lack of strength, intellect or character will be no barrier.

Each one of them will fight for country and glory in this terrible war.

Their childhoods will be joyous; and a peaceful life is guaranteed for the rest of the family, who from now on will not see the war, nor hear it, nor touch it.

It will become the invisible war, the quiet war.

I call on you to support those who support the edict and punish those who do not.

Shame upon any who refuse to send their eldests to camp.

Shame upon them and their kin.

Trig finally finished. Weird thing was, he had the worst handwriting out of all of us if you made him hurry up, but if you gave him as much time as he wanted, it was beautiful. All ups and downs and tails and loops.

It always made his hand ache, though. He flopped his wrist in front of me.

“It hurts, Maggie. It hurts.”