Chapter 5
December, 1920
Sunday dawned bright and crisp, and George Johnson, né Roger Cottingham, felt almost queasy with excitement as he looked out of the hotel window for the last time. Was this how men in the trenches had felt in anticipation of going over the top? Of course, the danger, if any, that George faced was negligible by comparison. But God, to finally be able to do something!
He had little enough to pack and found he had time on his hands before he could start lugging his things over to Allen Street—Mrs. Mac’s exhortation to “come after church” not having been forgotten. By eleven o’clock, however, he was fed up with twiddling his thumbs, and made his way over there, hoping someone would be at home. His bags having appeared to mysteriously double in weight en route, he so
