Home Fires. Elizabeth Day

      Andrew, sitting across from Caroline with a file of papers in front of him, nodded at the officer absent-mindedly and made a note of something on the uppermost sheet of typed A4. Sandy was looking at her expectantly, clearly worried that Caroline wasn’t taking anything in. ‘The army will pay for the funeral, for everything,’ she emphasised, enunciating each word with extra care.

      Something about the way she spoke, in that patronising, slow voice used by teachers when a child is failing to grasp an elementary fact, made Caroline snap.

      ‘Am I meant to be grateful for that?’ she said. Andrew looked at her cautiously.

      ‘The army will pay for his funeral? Well, that’s terribly good of you,’ Caroline continued, her voice squeezed tight. ‘How kind. Still, I suppose it’s the least you can do given that you were the ones who killed him.’

      Sandy coughed uneasily. Andrew reached across the table and put his hand over Caroline’s. She snatched it away.

      ‘They are doing the best they can, Caroline,’ he said in a level voice.

      She stared at him. She could not understand why he insisted on being so reasonable.

      ‘They killed our son.’

      He shook his head. ‘No, darling, no they didn’t.’

      ‘They sent him there.’ Caroline could hear her words getting higher and more frantic. He had never listened to her, ever. He had never believed her opinions were worth having. She felt that she had to shout, to be louder than he was, just to make him hear what she was saying. ‘They ordered him out on patrol so that he could step on a fucking landmine!’

      The swear word sliced through the room. Sandy put her mug of tea down carefully on a coaster.

      ‘Mrs Weston, I didn’t mean to . . .’

      ‘Don’t . . .’ she said. And then, more quietly, almost apologetic: ‘I’m sorry, but you have no idea.’

      She stood up with such a jolt that the chair toppled over and clattered against the floor.

      ‘Caroline,’ Andrew said. ‘Calm down.’

      It was those words that tipped her over the edge. Arms crossed, she dug her fingernails into the fleshy part of her bicep, to stop herself from letting go, to remind herself that she must act appropriately. But inside, she imagined lifting up her mug and hurling it at the wall. It would shatter on impact and spray the room with porcelain shards. She imagined a brown trickle of tea streaming down the paintwork and gathering in a pool at the skirting board.