For King and Country. David Monnery

sixteen-year-old brother had been an above-average footballer since he could walk, and most of the family were hoping he’d get a chance to turn professional after the war. The exception was his mother, who wanted him to go for something with a future. ‘If he hasn’t,’ she added, ‘he’ll just be bouncing that damn ball against the wall out the back all bloody afternoon.’

      McCaigh grinned.

      ‘You should be thinking about going to university when the war ends,’ she told him, the bit now firmly between her teeth.

      ‘I’ll probably be past thirty!’ he said.

      ‘Won’t matter,’ she said emphatically. ‘They’ll be taking all ages after this. And you’ve got most of the family’s brain rations – why waste them? I tell you, Mickie, there’s a lot of things are going to be different after this war, and a lot of opportunities. You want to be prepared.’

      ‘I’ll give you another lecture tomorrow,’ she said, laughing. ‘Now why don’t you catch up on your kip. I’ve made up the other bed for you, and I’ll wake you for lunch.’

      It seemed like a good idea, and his head had no sooner hit the fresh pillow than he was out for the count.

      Neil Rafferty had been lucky with his connection at Bletchley, and the sun was just clambering above the houses beyond the sidings when his train drew into Cambridge. There were no buses in the station forecourt but the house he and Beth had rented for the past two years was only a twenty-minute walk away, and it felt good to be stretching his legs after such a long journey.

      Even as a child he had loved this time of day, and the grandparents who had brought him up had never had any trouble getting him out of bed, or at least not when the sun was shining. He had never known his father, who had died on the Somme before he was born, and he had no memories of his mother, who had succumbed to the postwar flu epidemic. His father’s parents had taken him in and he had grown up in their Cambridge house, surrounded by his professorial grandfather’s books and the model cars and ships which his father had once laboured to construct.

      He would visit them later that afternoon, after spending the morning with Beth and the baby.

      The thought of his wife made him lengthen his stride. He hadn’t seen her for more than a month, and there hadn’t even been a letter for over a fortnight, but he was hoping that this visit would be special. It could hardly turn out as badly as the last one, which had coincided with her time of the month. In two days she’d hardly let him touch her.

      This time they had a whole week, and he felt better already. The last couple of months hadn’t been easy, but as he walked through the Cambridge streets in the early morning sunshine Italy seemed a long way away.

      Rafferty was not a man given to introspection – his mind gravitated to the practical, to problem-solving – but he had spent quite a lot of time trying to understand why those few days in Italy had affected him so deeply. No simple explanation had occurred to him – it had, he decided, been a combination of factors. The brutality of the Germans had shaken him, and he supposed that the deaths of the four SAS men had brought home his own vulnerability. Jools Morgan had always seemed so indestructible, then bang, he was gone. Somehow it had all become real in that moment – not only the war and soldiering but the life he lived outside all that. Beth and the baby. England in the sun.

      He passed the end of the road where his grandparents lived, resisting the temptation to drop in for just a few minutes. Another two turnings and he was approaching his own front door. The house was nothing special, just a two-up two-down, but the ivy they had started was already threatening to engulf the front room window. Too impatient to rummage through his bag for the key, he banged twice with the knocker.

      Beth opened the door with a smile on her face, and he reached forward to take her in his arms. She backed away, the smile gone, replaced by surprise and something else. ‘Neil,’ she said instinctively. ‘Don’t…’ And then she saw the expression on his face. ‘What are you…didn’t you get my letter?’

      There was suddenly a hole where his stomach had been. ‘What letter? What’s happening?’

      She just stared at him, as if she didn’t know what to say.

      ‘What letter?’ he repeated.

      She gulped. ‘I’ve fallen in love with someone else,’ she said, the words spilling out in a rush. ‘I wrote and told you. I’ve been waiting for a letter. I didn’t expect…’

      ‘Who?’ he asked, as if it mattered.

      ‘An American. His name’s Brad. I told you everything in the letter.’

      ‘I never got a letter.’

      She stood there in her dressing gown, a piteous look on her face. ‘I’m sorry, Neil. I couldn’t help it. It just happened.’

      He stared at her, and in the silence heard someone move upstairs. ‘He’s here?’ he said incredulously, anger rising in his voice.

      ‘I had no idea you were coming. I was waiting for a letter,’ she said again.

      They both heard the feet on the stairs, and Rafferty felt his anger spread through his limbs like a hot flush. As the uniformed legs came into view he took a step forward, fist clenched, impervious to reason.

      The American was built like a tank; but that wouldn’t have stopped him. What did was the child in the man’s arms, his own child, its tiny hand caressing the American’s cheek. The child looked at him as if he was a stranger.

      Beth’s small voice broke the silence. ‘Neil, this is Brad. Maybe we should all sit down and have a cup of tea.’

      Rafferty looked at her as if she was mad, and she thought better of the idea.

      ‘I think maybe you two need to talk,’ Brad said, handing the baby to Beth. For one minute Rafferty thought he was going to be offered a handshake, but the American must have seen the look in his eye. ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he told Beth. They didn’t kiss each other but they didn’t need to. Brad nodded at Rafferty and walked out through the still-open front door.

      Beth walked over and pushed it shut. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ she said quietly.

      He followed her through in a daze, and sat down heavily on one of the chairs they’d found in a flea market just before their marriage.

      She was putting on the kettle. ‘I am really sorry, Neil,’ she said, her back turned away from him, and for one mad moment he felt like leaping up and hitting her, hitting her till she changed her mind.

      ‘I didn’t want to put you through this,’ she went on, turning to face him.

      He tried to think. ‘How long have you been…how long have you known him?’ he asked, wishing he could think of something to ask which would make a difference.

      ‘We met at Christmas, but nothing happened until March, after your last trip home. I didn’t mean to fall in love with him,’ she said. ‘I tried not to, but…it just happened. And once it had happened…’

      He understood the words, but he still couldn’t take it in. ‘Do Gran and Grandad know?’ he asked. Another meaningless question.

      ‘They may have guessed something was wrong, but I haven’t told them. I thought you should.’

      He looked at her, shaking his head. ‘Why?’ he asked, and she knew he wasn’t talking about his grandparents.

      She put a hand over his. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It just happened.’

      He shrugged off the stranger’s hand and got to his feet. His son, now ensconced in the high chair, was looking at him with an anxious expression. ‘We’ve got to talk about Ben,’ he said.

      ‘I know…’

      ‘But not now. I need…’ He needed to get away, to run, to cover his head and howl. ‘I’ll see