Missus Wattle

Mary-Ellen Wattle poked the smouldering coals and from the flames he emerged: George Henry Wattle, Private, the Queen’s Own Fusiliers, resplendent in his regalia. "How do I look, Mary-Ellen?" "A picture, George, a picture." . . .

Called up on manoeuvres, he was told. Some manoeuvres! Manoeuvred him into an early grave. Mad keen to strike another blow for King and Country. Where are you now, George? Pushing up the daisies, that's where. "Should be home in no time, Mary-Ellen, keep the home-fires burning and the kettle on the boil." Sprinkling holy water over him, she'd prayed "God bless and protect you, dear George, and bring you back safely to me." . . . Next thing that telegram . . . "It is with the deepest regret . . . Died bravely . . ." A load of bullshit, she learned years later. As they approached the beach he jumped out . . . the water too deep for little George . . . sank like a stone. The boat sped on leaving him standing, his head just under the waves. His decoration for bravery and a small war pension all she had. So long ago and a lifetime of not much in between: neither chick nor child to show. As the flickering flames faded so did George Henry Wattle.