I should have known better than to cut through the churchyard, on my own late at night, with the last of the storm swirling the leaves around my head. Even in 2018 it wasn’t suitable for a fifteen-year-old girl but it was a short cut to safety in the warmth of Mum and Dad’s.
Not
far to go now, but suddenly the bells began to ring. The church was in total
darkness but still they tolled and I began to be spooked. It was almost pitch
black and the wind was howling but I could just make out the shape of the litter
bin lying on its side on the path. A newspaper was sticking out waiting to be
blown to pieces amongst the headstones. Instinctively I pulled it out and saw
the date, 11th November 1918. Was I dreaming? What was going on?
A
chill ran down my spine as I pulled my collar up. Something made me tuck the
paper under my arm as the bells carried on. Why was the paper there and why did
that date bother me? Of course, it was the date my great grandfather died in
France, and later that same day that the Germans finally surrendered. If only
he had survived one more day, he too would have been heading for safety.
The
noise behind me broke the spell. Don’t stand here you fool. I just ran like the
clappers…
Phil Fricker
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