Home
Part of the Mary/Bert series that I wrote for 10_quotes. Not-so-subtle reference to Jeremy Brett included. Inspired by the quote "Well, when I think of home, I... I think of something specific. I think of my, my hammock in the backyard or my wife pruning the rosebushes in a pair of my old work gloves," from "Saving Private Ryan".
He had been in the trenches for three months now, and he missed his wife desperately. They had only been married for a year, and so much of their marriage had been spent apart. Oh, how he missed his wife!
Soon after they were married, they moved into Mary's childhood home. She had been raised by her Uncle Alfred, as her parents had died in an accident soon after they were born. As a wedding present for the two of them, her uncle had given them his house in exchange for Bert's flat.
The house was quaint and cosy, set on a quiet London street, but had the advantage of a spacious garden. Mary was as magical in the garden as she was in the rest of her life, coaxing the most marvellous blooms out of the formerly neglected earth.
He'd set up a hammock on the verandah so that he could watch her in the garden in comfort. She looked so charming, the colour high in her cheeks – he half-believed that she had stolen roses, so bright was the colour of her lips and cheeks. She'd turn to him after pruning the roses, often with a smudge of dirt across her forehead, and smile. In those moments, no one else in the world existed, save the two of them.
She'd join him in the hammock, her body resting softly, warmly against his. He'd run his fingers through her hair, taking out her hairpins one by one. She'd smile as he kissed her forehead, nose, lips tenderly.
Those glorious days of summer were all that he had now as he sat in the trenches – memories, letters, and one pressed rose that he kept against his heart. The colour had faded, as had the scent, but if he closed his eyes he could conjure up those wonderful, carefree days.
"Wha' you thinkin' about?" his trench-mate, Peter Huggins, asked him.
"Home," Bert said quietly.
"What about, specific'ly?" Peter asked.
"Well, when I think of home, I... I think of something specific. I think of my, my hammock in the backyard or my wife pruning the rosebushes in a pair of my old work gloves. What about you?"
"Well, I have nothin' like that at home – no wife, no garden, nothin'," Peter replied. "I just have my neighbourhood and the people in it.
"So what's home to you?"
"The smell of fish 'n chips, the sounds of trolleys passing outside my flat, the sight of London at dusk... that's home to me," Peter replied.
Bert sighed wistfully and leaned back against the dirt wall of the trench, closing his eyes. How he missed his city, his home, his Mary! How much longer would they be apart?