The Waiting Room
She did not know how he’d managed it but, ten days after posting the letter, he arrived. She wasn’t even sure if the letter would get through, knowing, expecting, that the troops’ mail would take priority. She’d felt ridiculous, imploring him to come in language she rarely – if ever – used in that way, especially not towards him. Not him. But she wanted him here, though how he could do it she didn’t know. Civilian movements were restricted. And yet, here he was, pushing open the garden gate, straw hat protecting his blond, almost white hair from the fearsome midday sun. He carried nothing except for a small bag, which he dropped when she threw herself at him, and bread – bread!
She felt, heard his gasp as she squeezed him and, sort-of-laughing, he pulled her arms from ar
