I. Sylvie
It is so peaceful that you wouldn't think there is a war on. Out here, in the patchwork embrace of the countryside, life goes on as it does every day. The cows still need milking, the crops need sowing, the vegetable garden still needs weeding. The only sign of the war currently tearing France apart is the clack-clack-clack of the doodlebugs high in the air with trails of exhaust fumes falling behind them, on their way to London.
Sylvie has never been gladder of her Ned's insane plan to move into the countryside five years ago as she sits in the rose arbour, watching her children run shrieking about the lawn with the three evacuees they've taken in. When the kids arrived at the nearby town train station, they had all been such skinny little things, and all from the same street in the blitzed East End, but she's loved watching the colour bloom in their cheeks like a flower unfurling its petals in the springtime, loved the way they've become rounder, less angular, the half-starved look disappearing with plates piled high with food from the garden.
(They're lucky, to have the garden. Rationing hasn't been quite so bad.)
So she sits, and watches, and when her husband comes home that evening and they say grace over the meal, she gives thanks for the people in her life.
War is a cruel beast that likes to drive wedges between people, but in her family, it has a funny way of doing the exact opposite.
A/N Last bit in the 'Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On' universe. Something I dreamed up whilst on holiday. Enjoy! (Reviews are golden sparkles and sunshine, so click that little button!) N xxx