Harry turned to reply, but then a cry was coming from the hut. He recognized Armstrong’s accent. “No sign of Blythe’s kit,” came his voice in the dark, “but his brother has just turned up.”

“Lose sixpence and find a shilling, eh?” said Pembridge, patting Harry’s back. Harry couldn’t put into words the sensation that made the lights of the camp suddenly spin around him.

Chapter Forty-Five: Harry

Chapter Forty-Five

Harry

Ypres, September 1921

Image order: Mrs. Alice Gray would like a photograph of the grave of her husband, Pte. Percy Gray (46389, 15th Sherwood Foresters, died of wounds 30th October 1917). Grave number 153.

I BOUGHT IT,” EDIE SAYS. THE MEDAL IS THERE ON THE BREAKFAST table. He thinks it looks slightly unsanitary and moves his coffee cup away.

“How?”

“How? I didn’t have to slay lions or walk across bridges of fire. I just went over to the shop before breakfast and handed over money in exchange for it.”

“I shan’t ask how much money he made you hand over.”

“Don’t look like that. I’ll clean it up. You didn’t mind taking it off me once.”

“But it’s not yours, Edie. It can’t be. Don’t you see? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“There’s so much that doesn’t make sense,” she says. She takes a bite of her toast and turns away from him.

“Edie?”

“Do you always have to be right?”

“Hardly,” he says. “I lost mine fifteen miles west of here and four years ago. It’s probably been buried under mud since then, all rusted and flaked away.” He stares at the dull and grimed object on the white tablecloth.

“Probably, probably,” says Edie.

“What are the odds?”

The waitress hovers with a coffeepot and they silently watch as she fills their cups. Edie pockets the medal and apologizes.

“No, I’m sorry,” he says.

She shakes her head. “How’s your hand now?” Her cool fingers stretch across the table and take his, turning over his palm. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s nothing.” He might have believed that he had dreamed it but for the red handprint on the door and the disappearance of his reflection. “I cut myself more trying to shave without a mirror this morning.”

“I’ll ask if they can find you a replacement. I did notice that there was shaving soap in your ear.” She laughs at him and then stops. “Does it happen often?”

“Shaving misadventures?”

“That you have nightmares.”

“No.”

“No? I’m not sure that I believe you.” She narrows her eyes like she’s not convinced. “Seven years’ bad luck for breaking a mirror.”