‘Because I found what was left of him. I was ploughing the land and I turned over this.’ He reached into his pocket. He paused. With all the drama of a stage actor he pulled out a shining silver hand. The crowd in the bar gave a sigh. ‘I reckon it was on my land so it’s mine. All that silver. I’m rich, lads. Rich.’

A shrunken man in a black coat spoke up. ‘Let me have a look at it.’

‘It’s mine,’ Charles said and clutched it to his mud-stained chest.

‘Charles, you are too mean to ever buy jewels for your poor wife,’ the landlord explained. ‘So you won’t know this is Mr Garde... he has been a jeweller for fifty years. He will tell you what it’s worth.’

Charles slowly opened his hand and let the man take the metal hand. The jeweller’s mouth turned down. He weighed it in his hand and took out an eyeglass so he could look closely at the scratches in the metal. ‘My friend,’ he said sadly. ‘I do not need to test this. I can tell you it is not silver.’

‘What is it?’

‘Tin. Cheap tin.’

‘What’s it worth?’

‘Nothing.’

The farmer sat down heavily on a chair. ‘But the soldier’s story...’

‘A lie. The man was a liar. A fraud,’ the jeweller said gently.

‘The silver hand?’ the farmer said.

‘Give it to the town museum. It’s a lie. A lie.’

Chapter Ten: ‘Friendship increases happiness, and reduces misery’

Chapter Ten

‘Friendship increases happiness, and reduces misery’

11 November 1923: Bray

Aimee Fletcher walked through the streets of Bray. She tried not to slip on the icy cobbles. The town was patched and mended now but the new bricks showed like fresh scars on old wounds. The town was repaired but not healed. There were blood-red poppies standing frosted on the war memorial. 11th November had been the day the town remembered the dead.

The children in the school had been told about the war that day. The youngest ones couldn’t remember it. Even some of the older ones had forgotten what had happened five years before when they were so young.

But Aimee was able to tell them about war balloons, the aeroplanes and the famous Red Baron who had died so close to their town. She told them about the tanks and the gas, the refugees and the rain. The story of the White Lady group she told with pride; the story of the traitors, and Sergeant Grimm, she kept to herself.

The cat that was the colour of rust and ashes followed her up the lane to the farm. It was getting old now. It still sat guard at the school gates during the day but went back to the Fletcher farm with Aimee every night to sleep by the log fire.