I heard the cries of the blackbirds sitting on the thick brick wall behind me. I heard my heart pounding beneath my papery skin. I heard the grass swaying in the relentless wind, each blade making a noise louder than ever before under the strength of the rough breeze. I heard the loud steps of the uniformed men marching into the courtyard in a straight line. I heard the trees groan with self pity, caught amidst the storm. I heard the grey doors open up, and heard his familiar footsteps walking into the centre of the concrete space. I heard the rain drops falling onto his skin. I heard every breath he took, each short and nervous breath. I heard the sky cry with anger. I heard the soft click of the uniformed men loading up their guns, ready for fire. I heard the hands of my pocket watch ticking too quickly, counting away the time. I heard him say the Lord’s Prayer under his breath. I heard his mother whisper his name under hers. I heard the thunder roll hysterically above me and then, with an inaudible whisper, I heard him die.

“When does your bus come, Freddie?" I asked, trying my hardest to be nonchalant. He slowly turned his face to mine, muttering his reply. I smiled at him, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. I felt my façade dropping, revealing inch by inch the apprehension I felt inside. I turned back to our wardrobe, pulling out more of his new khaki uniform to put into his duffle bag. He watched me silently, his brown eyes glazed over. I put his clothes delicately into his bag, sighing as I realised that there was nothing left to do, no tasks left to busy myself with instead of talking to him. The silence hung awkwardly as I tied the drawstrings of the bag together, and then sat down next to him on the bed. What could I possibly say now? He must know that I want him to stay, that I was faking all the smiles whenever he mentioned his ‘big day’, that whenever he left the house my mask fell and the tears that were constantly blurring my vision flowed down my cheeks like a salty river. He must know that. But there was nothing I could do; I knew as well as anyone else that a wife was supposed to support her husband in each and every one of his decisions. She was supposed to follow him and dutifully stand by his side. Up until now I had always thought that this unwritten rule was in place because the husband would only make decisions that benefitted him as well as his wife, but how could I be expected to smile by Freddie’s side if I believed him to be making a wrong decision?

I walked slowly into the dining room, pulling out a mahogany chair and sitting down on it heavily. I could feel the exhaustion running through me; my whole body ached from the inner turmoil I felt in maintaining a false smile in the weeks running up to his departure. I kicked myself inwardly, unable to comprehend why I had not spoken my mind. What was the worst that could have happened? Why hadn’t I just told him that the thought of him leaving makes me feel hollow? I wiped away a tear that had escaped from behind my closed eyelids as I heard his deliberate footsteps from the hallway. They halted outside the door, and I held my breath as I anticipated his arrival. The door’s handle twisted and the thin door squeaked open, and Freddie emerged from behind it, a drained expression on his face. Was he as scared as I was?

“Alice, I have to leave soon,” he said, “The bus will be here in less than an hour.” Was that really all the time I had left with him?

“I can make you some food for the journey, if you’d like.”

“No, thank you,” he replied politely. He sat down on the chair opposite me and took my hands in his. “I’ll be back home soon,” he started, “before you know it this whole episode will be over. I’ll be back in Surrey in no time.” I smiled in reply, for fear of crying if I spoke. He kissed my knuckles fervently, and we sat in silence until it was time to say our goodbyes. When he held me I felt the desperation boil inside me. I wanted to beg him not to go, to tell him that I wouldn’t be able to bear his absence, but I held my breath and told him I loved him. Who was I to cause him to feel guilty?

“Don’t forget to write to me as soon as you can, and tell me all about the women over there; I want to know if I have any competition,” I joked, using my fake smile once again. He brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear with his fingers, smiling half heartedly.

“I won’t even as much as look at another woman, Alice. You know me better than that.” He kissed my cheek and looked into my eyes, “I promise you that I’ll come home.” He walked away from me, his silhouette melting away into the horizon.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

It’d been almost two months since Freddie had left for France before I got his letter. When I read it I couldn’t help but feel so relieved; Evelyn’s Ralph had signed up for the army shortly after Freddie’s unit had been deported, and he’d died not long after arriving. Before Ralph had gone I’d tried to block thoughts of Freddie being killed from my mind. Now it was all I could think about. Ralph’s death had triggered my nonstop visions of Freddie’s lifeless body lying in a battlefield, cold and alone, with no one left to care about him. Whenever my letterbox was creaked open by the day’s mail, I ran to it hoping that every letter I’d receive would be from him. Bills arrived; letters arrived, but still nothing from Freddie. My hope in his survival was becoming weak, weaker than it had ever been. The day it had finally come I almost threw up with nerves. I was so terrified he would tell me that he had seen all of the images on the television in real life, so afraid that he would have changed. I slowly ripped the envelope open, careful to preserve the return address. I ran my hand over the familiar writing, pressed the paper up against my face to try and breathe it all in. In his letter Freddie told me how he missed me. He said that to him each day passing was a day closer to coming home. He never once mentioned the war. I wasn’t surprised; I knew he would try and censor any upsetting images from my mind; he would try and save me from his surroundings. He told me that he loved me. He told me that he’d made some friends there, Michael and Tom, who were also from Surrey. I stared out of the window and let a solemn tear fall down my cheek. Why did he have to leave?

I walked through the spacious park, looking around me; everything looked so new-like I’d never seen it before. The thick green grass looked like a vast ocean, with families picnicking on their blanket ships. I listened to the high pitched squeal of children’s laughter, and heard the heavy patter of footsteps on the pathway. I held onto my school books tighter as I yawned, not wanting to drop them. I watched as the roads became less and less busy, with the daily commuters having finished their rush hour. By the time I’d reached the upper end of the park, nearing my street, the sun was being hidden behind the dense shield of trees and the air had cooled dramatically. The families that had been eating in the park had since dispersed, taking their laughter and their shrieks with them; the park fell into a blissful serenity. I closed my eyes and carried on walking, not scared of getting lost as the route I’d walked every day for over two years was engraved in my mind.

“Excuse me?” I heard someone yell from behind me, “Excuse me?” I turned around to see who was calling, and saw a man walking up the path towards me. He was tall, taller than any of the boys I went to school with. “I was wondering if you could direct me to Park Lane,” he said. He was almost directly in front of me now, so close that if I stretched out my arm I could touch him. I studied his face as he was talking, gently analysing his features. He wasn’t as good looking as any of the men I’d seen around the park, but he was handsome in his own way. He had a long, pale face with freckles over his nose and cheeks. He had a slight flush about him, as if he’d been running. I looked into his eyes, almost melting into them; they were the softest eyes I’d ever seen. I felt a sharp spark of electricity run through me as we made eye contact.

“So, do you know where it is?” I heard him ask. I grinned sheepishly, embarrassed that I’d forgotten to answer his question.

“Well I’m going that way myself, I could show you the way if you’d like?” I asked, unsure of where my trust in this stranger had come from. My parents were firm teachers of never talking to strangers, and I’d always ignored any shouts from people I didn’t know...but there was something different about this man. There was something relaxing about having him there, and peculiarly it felt as if I was safer now that I was with him.

I turned to walk down the path, with my soft eyed stranger in tow. The silence hung between us comfortably, neither one of us feeling the need to talk with useless banter. Too often I would steal glances as his face, and occasionally we would catch each other’s eyes, at which point my cheeks would flare red and the same jolt of electricity would run through my body, each time stronger than the last. We stayed in silence until we reached the crossroad from which we would have to go different ways. I had tried to prolong this moment for as long as I could, walking slower than usual to spend more time in his presence. We halted at the corner, and I sighed.

“Park Lane is just down that road and to the left,” I said, pointing the way.

“Are you walking that way, too?” I blushed at his question; did he want me to walk with him?

“No,” I breathed, “I’m going the opposite way.” Disappointment flooded across his face, and for a moment I was overjoyed that he would have that reaction to my departure, but then my thoughts turned grey as I realised that I wouldn’t be with him either.

“Well,” he started, “unless you have to be back home straight away, or if you’re not busy, or if you’d want to,” he stuttered, tripping over his words, “well, we could go to a cafe, if you’d like, and we could talk some more...” He trailed off, too nervous to carry on.

“I’d love to,” I replied. A bright smile lit up his face, and I couldn’t help but smile too.

“I’m Alice, by the way. Alice Dallimoore.”

“My names Freddie,” he beamed, “Freddie Wellington.”

I walked across the small space of our kitchen to our calendar, and crossed out the box for today. 7 months. Is that all it had been since Freddie had left? To me each day felt like a lifetime, each minute passing by too slowly, the hands on the clock mocking me, refusing to fast forward to the day when Freddie would return. My day consisted of waking up, running to the letter box, waiting for the postman to arrive, writing back to Freddie immediately if he had written, or alternatively looking through pictures of us until my mother arrived. She came every day at two o’clock on the dot claiming she was here to take up some of her time, but I knew she was there to take up some of mine. If it were up to me I would sit on the sofa all day, thinking about Freddie. She would make sure I had enough food in the fridge, cook me something to eat for supper, wash my clothes, and make sure I hadn’t cried myself to death. I wouldn’t do that anyway; when Freddie returned what would he do? Not to mention the fact that I’d never get to see him again. She would always give me encouraging lectures about how well the war was doing, and how certain it was that Freddie would soon be back. She told me that some of her friend’s sons had come back on leave, so Freddie was sure to have that soon. My fingers remained crossed.

But when she came to see me today, everything was different. She arrived an hour late, which was unusual as she hates tardiness, and the air about her seemed electric, tense. She pushed past me as I opened the door, running straight to the kitchen and spread out a newspaper across a table. She rushed through the pages, not saying a word as she did so. She took a deep breath and glanced at me sideways before she started to read from the paper,

“By using asphyxiating gas fumes the Germans north of Ypres have forced back French troops to the Yser Canal near Boesinghe,” she read, “Berlin's claim is that the Germans forced a passage across the Yser Canal, that Langemarck and three other places were captured, and that 1,600 French and British prisoners with 30 guns fell into German hands,” she paused, looking up at me.

“Carry on,” I breathed.

“To the north of Ypres the Germans, by employing a large quantity of asphyxiating bombs, the effect of which was felt for a distance of a mile and a quarter behind our lines, succeeded in forcing us to retire. In the direction of the Yser Canal, towards the west, and in the direction of Ypres, towards the south, the enemy's attack was held up. Many lives have been lost. Over half of the volunteers sent out there have died for England.” She folded up the newspaper and slumped onto one of the chairs surrounding the dinner table, leaning her elbows on her knees.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said sympathetically, “I know this must be hard on you. I thought you should know what was going on.” She looked at me expectantly, waiting for my reaction, but I couldn’t speak. My teeth were clenched, my palms were sweating, my whole body felt weak and numb. I held onto the wall to support me, suddenly unable to hold myself up. I could feel my face going white, could feel the air getting thinner. How could the war be getting worse? Freddie had said it was an easy win, why was the world so intent on keeping me and Freddie apart? My mother stood up from her position on the chair to my side, guiding me over to the sofa in the next room and lying me down.

“I know love, I know,” she kept repeating. But how could she know? She didn’t love anyone as much as I did, not since my father had died. She couldn’t possibly understand...she couldn’t possibly know how I felt right now. Emotions fell upon me in waves, each one stronger than the next. I was angry, sad, worried, confused...I needed to get out. I pushed my mother’s comforting hands off of me and walked swiftly to the door.

“Where are you going?” She called after me. I turned back towards her, watching her sitting on the sofa.

“I’m going out.” I replied.

“I know that, dear. But where are you planning to go?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Alice, listen to me, I think you ought to stay here.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your mother and I know what’s best for you.”

“How could you possibly know?” I took a step away from the door, into the room. “How could you even try to comprehend what I’m feeling right now?” I felt the anger boil up inside of me, ready to pour out. “I know you think I’m just a little girl, mother, but you need to understand that I have grown up, I’m in love, I’m married, I live with my husband, I am going to have kids, and I’m capable of living without you. I don’t want you here every day fussing around me and checking up on me. I’m a grown woman!”

“Alice, please, calm down-”

“Calm down?” I yelled, my jaw hanging open, “how do you expect me to calm down when my husband is out in some other godforsaken country fighting a war that is getting more and more dangerous each day! The war is coming to us, it’s moving on. Sooner or later it’ll be our friends who will be dying. Don’t think I haven’t heard what everyone’s been saying.” I was pacing around the room now, my hands shaking with anger, “Freddie might die, and do you know what that means? It means I will be a widow, it means I will be deprived of the one thing I want, no, the one thing that I need in this world! He’s all I have, because once you’re gone there won’t be anyone left. What will I do then? What will I do? I won’t have you to come around to make sure I’m still alive, I’m not going to have Freddie to look after me...I’ll be by myself.”

“Stop exaggerating, Freddie is going to be fine.”

“But how do you know? Is there some secret conspiracy that I’m not part of, looking after his wellbeing? Don’t tell me Freddie is going to be fine when I know damn well that you don’t know anything I don’t!”

“Alice, sit down, have some sleep, everything will be fine when you wake up.” She patted the sofa she was still sitting on, her face holding a small smile.

“I’ve been sleeping every night for the past seven months since Freddie left and things are not okay. You think you know everything, don’t you? You don’t, mother. You don’t know how I’m feeling. You don’t know that every day before I come downstairs I cry because Freddie wasn’t lying next to me. You don’t know the emptiness I feel when I walk from room to room and see pictures of us, pictures of him. You don’t know that I now talk to myself because I’m not used to the silence of being alone in this damned house. You don’t know that I still serve all meals for two because I still hope that he’ll walk through that door any minute. You don’t know how it feels to love someone’s soul so thoroughly and rigorously that when they’re not here you feel incomplete. So don’t act like you know everything because you don’t, mother, you don’t.”

Days, weeks, months had passed since Freddie had left. He had come back once throughout that period, three days out of over 10 months. He still wrote, but the letters were few and far between, often I would wait weeks until something arrived. The letters were slowly becoming less and less like Freddie, as if some imposter were playing some cruel trick on me, deceiving me for their own sick pleasure. The words in his letters were isolated; one might imagine that his cold words were not unlike the frost which bites the leaves on the trees in the winter. Every night I prayed for him to come home the next day, but each morning would come with no sign of Freddie’s return, and each evening would pass where I would sit alone, kicking myself inwardly for letting myself believe I could wish him home. Days would arrive where I couldn’t even bear to get out of bed, letting myself be overcome by my tears, too emotionally drained to do anything but sleep. That type of day had become far more common, as I had finally accepted the more than likely event of Freddie’s death. The images of a lifeless Freddie were imprinted into my mind, everywhere I looked I saw him, grey and cold, his once soft eyes now hard with pain and cruelty. Sometimes it seemed so real that I could even touch him, but I was always afraid to. Afraid that the body I knew I was imagining might turn out to be real, that Freddie might actually be dead-and what would I do then?

I had woken up one morning, a victim of yet another unwanted wave of concentrated emotions, but that one time, it felt different. It felt as if all the feelings suffocating me were there for me to break through, as if they didn’t want to crush me-they wanted me to realise there was hope. I decided to break the mould and I pushed through the barriers I had created for myself. It was the first time in a while that I’d felt refreshed; it felt as if there was new hope. A new beginning, almost. The weather had picked up since yesterday evening, and now the sun beamed proudly through my window and we revelled in our freedom together. The whole house seemed bigger than normal; I’d been used to feeling claustrophobic, like I was a prisoner in my own home. Everything about this day seemed to give me a new sense of direction, like there was a purpose of me waiting for Freddie...Like he was coming home.

I rushed to the mailbox, as had become my routine for most mornings, but there was no word from Freddie, still. I sat down at the dining room table, flicking through the newspaper. All of the content was still the same, about the food shortages and the disarray the war had put England into. I scanned the pages aimlessly until-no...It couldn’t be. I double checked what I had just read; surely I had to be imagining it? I read the words out loud, muttering them so quietly it would’ve been impossible to have heard it.

“September was one of the saddest months of this year,” I breathed, running over the words as I said them, “eleven soldiers were shot for desertion, all of them under twenty-five years of age,” I felt my breath hitch in my throat, “Among these men were John Sanderson, Matthew Jones...” My eyes welled up with fear, and I rushed through the names as fast as I could, “Peter Smith and Freddie Wellington-”

My breathing stopped. My whole body froze. The room surrounding me became a distant haze; tears were falling so rapidly from my eyes that it felt like I was drowning. The temperature seemed to get colder every second. I could feel the wind roar with anger behind me. I fell to the floor, screaming at the sky to take it back, to bring back my Freddie. I hit the ground as hard as I could, repeating his name, ripping it from my mouth with all the strength I could muster. My whole body was heating up; it felt like I was burning. My hands were as red as the fire which I was feeling. My throat felt raw from screaming his name. I lay down on the floor, curling up into a ball and shaking uncontrollably from the sheer force of my tears. How naive of me to have thought he was coming back, how ridiculous to have believed there was hope. What hope had I left? There was no future for me now. I was nothing without him...Without Freddie.

“Freddie,” I whispered, “you promised you would come back. You promised!” I climbed up off the floor and walked into our bedroom, “why did you lie, Freddie? Why didn’t you come back?” I picked up a photo of him and held it up to my face, “you’re a liar, Freddie! You lied to me! Why did you have to die, Freddie? You didn’t even say goodbye! You haven’t said goodbye to me Freddie, how can you be gone?” The tears came flooding back, but with anger and not sorrow this time, “You’re a liar, Freddie! You’re a liar! You’re lying to me now! You can’t be dead, you can’t be! You’re supposed to be coming home; you’re supposed to be coming home to me...” I fell onto the bed, holding Freddie’s picture in my arms, letting my tears fall onto the pillow. “You’re supposed to be coming home,” I whispered to him as the darkness rolled in and swept me under its wing, throwing a blindfold over my eyes, lulling me into its thick blanket, pulling me to sleep.

I heard the cries of the blackbirds sitting on the thick brick wall behind me. I heard my heart pounding beneath my papery skin. I heard the grass swaying in the relentless wind, each blade making a noise louder than ever before under the strength of the rough breeze. I heard the loud steps of the uniformed men marching into the courtyard in a straight line. I heard the trees groan with self pity, caught amidst the storm. I heard the grey doors open up, and heard his familiar footsteps walking into the centre of the concrete space. I heard the rain drops falling onto his skin. I heard every breath he took, each short and nervous breath. I heard the sky cry with anger. I heard the soft click of the uniformed men loading up their guns, ready for fire. I heard the hands of my pocket watch ticking too quickly, counting away the time. I heard him say the Lord’s Prayer under his breath. I heard his mother whisper his name under hers. I heard the thunder roll hysterically above me and then, with an inaudible whisper, I heard him die.

Dear you,

So I started thinking about you the other day. It's been a while since I last spoke to you. I'm sorry about that, I've been busy. I still miss you. I've never forgotten about you, I never could. I have so much to say, I need some of your organisation to help me phrase it properly. Isn't that odd? I still depend on you to help me, even now. Well I guess my heart wants what is impossible to have - which in this case is you. Last week it was a piece of cake that I didn't have enough money for, but today it's you. But I guess I just have to power on through - after all, what's the point in writing to you if you're the one helping me write it? Okay I'm babbling. Sorry, I know you hated that.
So, I just wanted to let you know what was happening over here. I know how you hated to feel 'out of the loop'. Nearly all of your stuff has been moved out of our my apartment...it feels so empty now. I've redecorated too - remember how I used to always say that I wanted an apartment with an indian decor? Well now it is! I bought all new furniture, new bed (much to my distaste, but my friends insisted it was the right thing to do) new cutlery and plates, new everything. It doesn't even look like the same place. I'm sorry that you're not here to see it. I think you'd like it.

Jeremy and Theresa are getting a divorce. Unfortunately, it's very messy. I'm helping her look for a new place, though her standards are too high for her budget so I don't know what she'll end up buying. I remember when they had had that massive argument - right after we'd moved in together. I'm glad that never happened to us. I wouldn't want something like that to have happened to us. Well, I guess no one does, right?

I'm seeing a lot more of your mum now. I never noticed before, but she reminds me a lot of you...it helps. She misses you. I've heard so much about you from her - I feel that now I know you a lot better. Quite ironic, isn't it?

I wish you were still here. Everyone does, but no one wants to say it out loud. But this is'nt outloud - this is a secret that I've chosen to tell you. I'm getting so tired or pretending that I'm coping with everything, but everything reminds me of you. Every scent, every colour, every person. Especially your mum. I've had to ask my dad to sort out my money handling - I had to take out a loan to redecorate - which is something I never thought I'd been doing. You were always so good at that. I still don't understand it. I never will. But for now, my diet consists of my parent's leftovers and beans on toast.

I don't even know why I'm doing this. My therapist said it helps to write stuff down, but when I write to you it's like none of my problems are important any more. They seem so trivial now, so small compared to what I should be worried about. You were always telling me to prioritise. Maybe I should've listened to you.

I'm sorry. Sorry for everything. I love you. Goodbye.