On a cold and miserable November evening, Ernest arrived home, slapped the newspaper down on the coffee table beside her and said, without much cheer, ‘The war is over.’
His lack of enthusiasm was puzzling.
‘Over?’ she said. ‘Really?’ She glanced at the girls playing happily on the living room rug and drew the newspaper closer to read the headline.
‘We won,’ Ernest said. ‘The Germans have surrendered.’
He left the room. With another glance at the girls, she gathered up her knitting, bundled it safely away from little hands and followed him into the kitchen.
He went to the window and stared out at the street. Emma watched him, her balding, portly husband in his fortieth year, hands thrust in his trouser pockets, reflecting on goodness only knew what, but no doubt it had to do with him
