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There’d been a mistake. He hadn’t been killed, he’d been lost somehow, maybe captured, and now they’d found hi— then she saw the small box in the soldier’s hand and her legs gave way under her.
    Her vision sparkled at the edges, and the stranger’s face swam above her, blurred with concern. She could hear, though – hear her mum rush through from the kitchen, slippers slapping in her haste, voice raised in agitation. Heard the man’s name, Captain Randall, Frank Randall. Hear Roger’s small husky voice warm in her ear, saying ‘Mummy? Mummy?’ in confusion.
    Then she was on the swaybacked davenport, holding a cup of hot water that smelt of tea – they could only change the tea-leaves once a week, and this was Friday, she thought irrelevantly. He should have come on Sunday, her mum was saying, they could have given him a decent cuppa. But perhaps he didn’t work on Sundays?
    Her mum had put Captain Randall in the best chair, near the electric fire, and had switched on two bars as a sign of hospitality. Her mother was chatting with the captain, holding Roger in her lap. Her son was more interested in the little box sitting on the tiny pie-crust table; he kept reaching for it, but his grandmother wouldn’t let him have it. Marjorie recognised the intent look on his face. He wouldn’t throw a fit – he hardly ever did – but he wouldn’t give up, either.
    He didn’t look a lot like his father, save when he wanted something badly. She pulled herself up a bit, shaking her head to clear the dizziness, and Roger looked up at her, distracted by her movement. For an instant, she saw Jerry look out of his eyes, and the world swam afresh. She closed her own, though, and gulped her tea, scalding as it was.
    Mum and Captain Randall had been talking politely, giving her time to recover herself. Did he have children of his own? Mum asked.
    ‘No,’ he said, with what might have been a wistful look at wee Roger. ‘Not yet. I haven’t seen my wife in two years.’
    ‘Better late than never,’ said a sharp voice, and she was surprised to discover that it was hers. She put down the cup, pulled up the loose stocking that had puddled round her ankle and fixed Captain Randall with a look. ‘What have you brought me?’ she said, trying for a tone of calm dignity. Didn’t work; she sounded brittle as broken glass, even to her own ears.
    Captain Randall eyed her cautiously, but took up the little box and held it out to her.
    ‘It’s Lieutenant MacKenzie’s,’ he said. ‘An MID oakleaf cluster. Awarded posthumously for—’
    With an effort, she pushed herself away, back into the cushions, shaking her head.
    ‘I don’t want it.’
    ‘Really, Marjorie!’ Her mother was shocked.
    ‘And I don’t like that word. Pos— posth— don’t say it.’
    She couldn’t overcome the notion that Jerry was somehow inside the box – a notion that seemed dreadful at one moment, comforting the next. Captain Randall set it down, very slowly, as though it might blow up.
    ‘I won’t say it,’ he said gently. ‘May I say, though . . . I knew him. Your husband. Very briefly, but I did know him. I came myself, because I wanted to say to you how very brave he was.’
    ‘Brave.’ The word was like a pebble in her mouth. She wished she could spit it at him.
    ‘Of course he was,’ her mother said firmly. ‘Hear that, Roger? Your dad was a good man, and he was a brave one. You won’t forget that.’
    Roger was paying no attention, struggling to get down. His gran set him reluctantly on the floor and he lurched over to Captain Randall, taking a firm grip on the captain’s fresh-creased trousers with both hands – hands greasy, she saw, with sardine oil and toast crumbs. The captain’s lips twitched, but he didn’t try to detach Roger, just patted his head.
    ‘Who’s a good boy, then?’ he asked.
    ‘Fith,’ Roger said firmly. ‘Fith!’
    Marjorie felt an incongruous impulse to laugh at the captain’s puzzled