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Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Eight

I've grown accustomed to her face
She almost makes the day begin
I've grown accustomed to the tune that she whistles night and noon
Her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs
Are second nature to me now
Like breathing out and breathing in
I was serenely independent and content before we met
Surely I could always be that way again
And yet...I've grown accustomed to her looks
Accustomed to her voice, accustomed to her face
'I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face' – Rex Harrison

.:*:.

James let out a slow sigh past his lips and shrugged off his jacket, depositing it on the back of a nearby chair.

"Hello there, Blossom," he murmured wearily to the feline who had just trotted to his side, bending slightly to pet her as she rubbed herself against his leg, purring loudly.

It had been just over a fortnight since his spirit was released from the pocket watch and he was slowly becoming acclimatised to the dizzying wonders of the modern world. It was an extremely bewildering yet fascinating process.

However, not all of the things he had discovered were altogether pleasant. He couldn't quite believe it and was most distressed to learn that the Great War had lasted up to four years. And not only that, but there had been other wars over time, as well. Was it not supposed to have been "the war to end all wars", for goodness sake? Martha had mentioned about the Second World War in passing but seeing as at the time, he had just been informed that he was in the year 2012, the knowledge had not really sunk in.

While it was enlightening to discover that Britain had indeed triumphed in the war, phrases like "more than nine million combatants' lives lost" and "large-scale human wave attacks which proved extremely costly to in terms of casualties" jumped out at him off the page of the reference book he was reading. He had then shut the book with more force than was necessary, unable to read about such things any longer.

The world had dramatically changed since his day, and sometimes it was difficult to get his head around it all. But Martha was only too happy to help him where she could.

Martha...

James found himself smiling with something close to fondness at the thought of his new friend. How fortunate he was that the one person he could actually communicate with, felt as welcoming to him as a ray of sunshine after almost a century of being trapped in lonely, impenetrable darkness.

He had come to discover that she was a woman who appeared to be quite comfortable in her own skin. Unlike most ladies he had been acquainted with during his life, she did not seem overly concerned about her own appearance or what others may have thought of her. She didn't seem to have many friends, none that she was particularly close to. But for all that, she never failed to offer a radiant smile which lit up her entire face, and a cheery "Good morning" or "Hello" whenever she saw him.

As she had quite rightly said, she was terribly clumsy. He did not think that there was a day that went past where he hadn't seen her trip over her own feet, or there would be little telltale burn marks on her arms from where she had been baking. Whenever this would happen, she would use the most appalling language which would make a sailor blush. He also found that she loved to sing – even though, in all honesty, her voice was quite terrible. Not that Martha seemed to care. She would often happily sing along to songs on her radio, especially while she was cooking – which she was excellent at, as he could honestly attest to.

Apart from that unrelenting notion that he knew her from somewhere, James found it most intriguing when Martha could go from a happy-go-lucky disposition one moment, but then could be almost painfully shy the next. She would blush profusely or momentarily become at a loss for words at his gestures he considered as simple common courtesy, which he found somewhat amusing at first but also a little puzzling. Did not her young man, Elliot, treat her with such cordiality?

Some of Martha's musical taste, however, was a lot to be desired in his opinion. After some persuasion from her, he had bravely agreed to hear a favourite band of hers known as "Queen". In what way was that racket considered to be music, anyhow? As he sat there listening to a song called Somebody To Love, Martha had gone into such misty-eyed raptures over this Freddie Mercury chap and how he was a hero of hers, that James didn't have the heart to tell her his honest opinion of the music.

But each to their own, he supposed...

When he wasn't trying to get to grips with the twenty-first century, James had been doing a bit of detective work. He found himself at a bit of a loose end while Martha had gone to work, and besides, more than anything else, he wanted to know what had become of his dear fiancé after the war.

Using his new phantom skills of being able to disappear from one place, only to materialise in another, it did not take the captain long to locate the same little church where he and his beloved had originally planned to be wed. He was glad that not everything had changed.

Passing by, unnoticed by others who were lovingly tending to the graves of their dearly departed, James had strolled around the chilly little churchyard, inspecting one weathered tombstone after another, trying to discern the names through the lichen and moss; keeping a sharp eye out for any sign at all that his sweetheart had been laid to rest there. So far, he had had no luck...but then deep down he did not really expect to. She may not have remained living in Somerset. She may have moved to live elsewhere, perhaps with a new husband and a new family. There was every chance that she had remarried, so her surname naturally would not have stayed the same. James was determined not to give in, though.


As he was sat at Martha's dining table, the captain could feel his artists fingers begin to twitch, impatient to be doing what they did best. On Martha's desk, he managed to unearth some blank sheets of paper and a number of sharp lead pencils. He was certain she would not mind his using them; Martha had already told him that he should make himself at home. They were not proper charcoal pencils which were the tools he would have ordinarily favoured, but they would more than suffice.

Before he knew it, his well-practised hand was sweeping the pencil over the paper in long fluent lines. He was in his element, and James felt himself sink into that certain blissful calm he was familiar with whilst he was sketching, forgetting about the rest of the world for the moment.

He was not even aware of how long he remained sitting there, so absorbed he was in his work, that he was quite surprised to hear the loud rumbling roar of a motorcycle engine coming from the street outside, heralding Martha's return home from her shift at the cafe. He had only just finished some last-minute shading in, when she came bustling in through the door, shivering like a whippet.

"Oh my days, it's freezing out there," she said through chattering teeth, stomping on the spot in an attempt to warm her numbed feet."Hello, you... I wasn't sure if you'd be here or not," she greeted James warmly, flashing him a smile as always, as she went to put away her coat and motorcycle helmet.

Martha, for her part, felt it odd that all of a sudden, she had to come to rely upon James being there. He had almost become part of the landscape now, so to speak, and when she returned home from work and he wasn't there, she found herself missing his presence a great deal.

He would often fill her thoughts during the course of the day. After all...how many people could say they were co-habiting with the ghost of a handsome soldier?

Although it did not exactly require a lot of concentration to serve people coffee, it didn't take long before Martha's thoughts had drifted to her new ghostly friend, leaving her in slightly embarrassing situations. Her boss had remarked with amusement that she had the starry-eyed look of somebody who was in love. Martha had wanted to laugh as her boss couldn't be further from the truth if she tried. At one point, she had been so preoccupied, that she had managed to pour scalding hot tea all over one very unlucky customer's lap.

The two of them were quite comfortable in one another's company now. Martha had eventually become accustomed to his disappearing displays and did not so much as flinch anymore when he appeared suddenly out of nowhere. Also, whenever they happened to brush against one another, his unnaturally icy-cold body temperature no longer bothered her, either.

Ghostliness aside, there was something wildly refreshing about this courteous, softly-spoken gentleman. He was (literally) a dying breed, and Martha did not think she had ever met anyone quite like him. She could safely say that her faith had been restored that the gentlemanly types did in fact exist and were not simply the stuff of fiction, like in a Jane Austen novel. She could not ever remember anyone else who spoke to her with such kindness and civility, who made her feel like a proper lady, as he.

However, when James thought that she couldn't see, Martha noticed at times, he looked rather despondent and he would become quiet and withdrawn, often deep in thought. She dearly wished to know what it was that was bothering him so, but didn't press him for fear of coming off as a nosy-parker.

So dominated were her thoughts of the ghost, she had very nearly forgotten all about Elliot. Truth be told, she hadn't actually missed her absentee partner as much as she should have, and Martha felt absolutely horrible for even thinking that.

She'd spoken to him on the phone a couple of times since his departure to New Zealand. Obviously, she did not even dare to breathe a word about the ghost of Captain Nicholls to him, and the fact that she was the only one who could see him. He would think she had well and truly lost the plot. Furthermore, Elliot did not even believe in the existence of ghosts. He was the sort of man who would call a spade a spade and he was firmly convinced that there was no form of afterlife; that when people died, that was it.

"You missing me then?" he had asked Martha when he had rung her during her lunch break a couple of days prior.

" 'Course I am, you daft monkey," she answered with a shaky laugh, feeling a squirm of terrible guilt in her gut as she spoke.

"Sooo...what've you been up to then since I left?" her boyfriend asked, totally oblivious to Martha's mental self-admonishment.

"Nothing much really. Things have been pretty quiet actually..." she answered as casually as she could.

More lies...a voice whispered in the back of her mind.

Ignoring it, she had then quickly asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from herself, "Enough about me, what have you been getting up to, eh? How's the land of hobbits?"

As Martha had listened to Elliot's tales from the other side of the world, she promised herself that she would make it up to him once he had returned home from his travels.

"I trust you had a pleasant day, Martha?" James enquired politely now, looking up from his artwork as Martha was unzipping her boots.

"Yeah, it was okay...you know...same old, same old..."

"Did you manage to get the gift you wanted for your father's birthday?" he asked her.

"I sure did!" she said, placing a brightly-coloured gift bag on the table.

With the pocket watch being no longer an option as a birthday present for her dad, Martha had instead bought him a vintage Peterson pipe which was an exact replica of one of the props which had been used in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. She felt sure it would go perfectly with the rest of his extensive collection of old treasures.

Once Martha was changed out of her waitress' uniform, and into a snugly-warm mauve jumper and jeans, she padded back into the living room.

"What about you? Where do you go when I'm not here?" she asked James curiously, leaning slightly on the back of his chair, "I mean – tell me to shut up and mind my own business but...do you go floating around to haunt creepy manors or something?" she joked.

James chuckled, catching onto her train of thought. "No, churchyards, actually."

"Oh, so not your stereotypical ghost at all, then?" she grinned at him, but James was spared having to answer for she had suddenly caught sight of the drawings lying on her tabletop. "Holy shiz..." she murmured, picking up one of them with something close to reverence.

James, who was getting used to these strange phrases she exclaimed from time to time, looked up at her awed expression.

"Did you just do these?" she asked him, gazing, wide-eyed, at the pictures. At his nod, she said fervently, "They're wonderful."

She had heard him talk about how much pleasure he found in drawing but until now she had not seen for herself just what an accomplished artist he was.

"They are only rough sketches," was the humble reply.

"Don't be so modest, you're amazingly talented..."

She looked at the "roughly-sketched" pencil drawing of a very attractive young woman with long hair and a gentle smile playing on her lips, and though her face was unfamiliar to Martha, she had an inkling she knew who she was.

"That is – was - my fiancé," James said quietly as though reading her mind.

Martha looked round at him, her hunch confirmed. This was the first time since the day they met he had ever spoken of his wife-to-be, and was keen to learn more.

"The one who gave you your watch?" she questioned, perching herself on a chair next to him.

"Yes."

"She's really beautiful," Martha smiled, and she truly meant it.

The young lady in the portrait was a true beauty in an understated way. With her soft elfin features, she reminded Martha of those she had seen in the illustrations of Flower Fairy books. With her fair hair spilling around her shoulders and a merry glint in her dark eyes, captured brilliantly even in pencil, Martha could imagine that she and James had made such a handsome couple before he was called away to war.

"And does she have a name, this fiancé of yours?" she probed him gently.

"Meg. Well - Margaret...but she preferred to be known as Meg," James answered her. After a moment, he added, "She was a good and kind person. The world was a better place with her in it."

A smile tugged at his lips; a smile so tender and so full of love, it was enough to make Martha want to cry herself that he wasn't to see his Meg again. James' eyes found hers.

"You remind me of her sometimes," he said abruptly, taking even himself by surprise. He realised he had only just come to this conclusion in that instant.

Martha blinked at him. "Do I?" she asked, also sounding highly surprised.

She looked back at the drawing of Margaret dubiously. In what way could she possibly remind him of this pretty Flower Fairy of a woman?

"Sometimes...when you smile, or when I hear you laugh...It's almost as if..." James trailed off, staring into Martha's freckled face, somehow unable to translate into words what he meant. "I'm not entirely sure, I cannot explain it. Perhaps I am imagining things... Forget that I mentioned it..."

James fell silent. He did not know what had come over him. Why had he said all of that? Martha tore her eyes away from Meg's portrait and looked over at him, to see him once again lost in thought.

"Penny for 'em," she said brightly, and James started.

"Oh, forgive me, I was rather away with the fairies..." he murmured.

Huh, speaking of fairies, Martha thought.

"So I noticed," she said, "I didn't like to say anything but those pesky little fairies do tend to steal you away quite a lot."

"I'm so sorry," James apologised, "How terribly rude of me – "

But Martha only waved his apology off with a dismissive hand.

"No, no, it's fine, don't worry! It's just that sometimes I wonder what goes on in that lovely head of yours." When he did not respond, she added, "You know, if you ever want to talk about stuff, anything at all... I'm here," she told him softly, clicking into her advice columnist persona.

James hesitated before he answered. When he was alive, he would have confided any troubles he might have had with his friends, Jamie, Charlie, or perhaps his sisters. He would even find himself talking to Joey whenever the two were alone together. As James had sat with him, sketching, the horse's calm, steady nature had been a great comfort to him, particularly when he was frightened of the prospect of what was to come, but wanted to hide his fear from everyone else. As much as he had absolutely hated being all alone trapped in his pocket watch for so many years, he had become rather accustomed to it. So it was small wonder that he forgot at times that he now had someone here with whom he could trust to talk to. For he did trust Martha, even though he had not known her for very long.

James looked into the young woman's earnest face, who was patiently awaiting his reply. He supposed that there was little sense in being secretive.

"I went to see if I could find any traces of what had become of Margaret," he confessed at last, "It is where I have been going for some days now."

Martha's mouth fell into an O shape in comprehension as she suddenly realised what he had meant when he had mentioned churchyards.

"And? Did you have any luck?" she asked eagerly, but he shook his head. Her shoulders slumped with disappointment on his behalf. "I'm sorry..." she murmured, resting a small hand on his forearm and giving him a sympathetic squeeze.

"I just feel that if I was to find out what happened to her, I could move on...I could..."

"Lay a ghost to rest? If you'll excuse the phrase," she added hastily. "Don't give up, hon," she said bracingly, patting his arm. "You're bound to find out something soon enough." She scraped her red hair back into a messy bun as she spoke. "Righto...well, I need to crack on finishing my dad's birthday cake..." she said, heading for the kitchen.

Humming a tune as she began to beat together the ingredients for some butter icing before piling the mixture into a piping bag, James followed and looked down at the near-finished sponge cake sitting on the counter which she had baked the day before, and couldn't help but smile. It was a bit skew-whiff and far from perfect, but what did that matter? It was obvious that a lot of love and effort had gone into this cake. In a moment of mischief, he dipped a long forefinger into the bowl of icing.

"Hey, I saw that, Soldier Boy!" Martha mock chided him, lightly swatting the offending digit with her spatula. James placed his finger in his mouth, shooting her a look of feigned hurt.

"Saw what, exactly?" he asked innocently, raising his eyebrows. Martha suddenly laughed. "What's so funny?"

"You've got a bit of icing – Come here... "

She reached up a hand to gently swipe away a little speck of blue butter cream from his top lip with the pad of her thumb. She had to stand on tiptoes because of their drastic height difference, but this unexpected and surprisingly intimate gesture caused James' face to flush (or as much as he could in his deceased state) at the feeling of her warm fingers on his cold face. Martha, too, seemed to have realised how forward her action had been and he saw her cheeks burn scarlet as well. She dropped her hand in embarrassment and turned back to her handiwork.

"Can you...um...communicate with other ghosts?" she asked him, changing the subject abruptly to gloss over this awkward moment between them.

James quirked an eyebrow at the change in topics but did not comment upon it. Clearing his throat a little, he confessed,

"I don't know, the thought had never even occurred to me. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I just wondered if there was possibly a way for you to contact your Meg or something. I wondered if it was a bit like Harry Potter and you ghosts got together for Deathday parties or something..." she added jokingly.

What an odd thing to say, James mused. He could not see why anyone would wish to hold a party to celebrate the day they had died... Instead, he asked,

"Alright...I give up. Who is Harry Potter?"

"What?!" she gasped, staring at him with an expression of complete shock, "But – but he's the saviour of the wizarding world!" she babbled, "I can't believe – I mean – How? Why? – Oh, right... of course... Oh my God..."

She looked like she was just about ready to cry and James panicked a little.

Goodness me...I might just well have said I didn't know who Shakespeare was...

He had not anticipated such an emotional reaction. He did not think, even in the afterlife, he would ever understand women. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Why don't you explain it to me?"

She looked at him, momentarily stunned. "You sure? It's a long story. Okay, here goes…"

He relaxed as she began to summarise the tale full of magic and adventure, proud to have averted any hysterics due to his time-travelling issue. As she was talking, Martha had dragged a stool over to stand upon to reach for a box on top of her cupboard, intended to carry her father's cake in. However, the stool gave an ungainly wobble... In a moment, James realised what was happening and dove to catch her before she ended up face down on the floor. Martha's body twisted around in surprise so that she was facing him. If he had been alive, James felt sure that his heart would have been pounding painfully in his chest as her hair came up near his face; he could feel her breath tickle his neck, and her breasts were pushing tightly against his chest, causing him to utter an almost inaudible sound of surprise and pleasure. She was warm. So warm...

Embarrassed, James shook himself mentally in order to rid the scandalous images from forming in his mind as he reluctantly lowered the redhead back to the tiled floor, trying very hard not to think about the lovely fruity fragrance coming from her hair.

"Thank you," she squeaked, her breath catching in her throat at this lack of space between them. Very much aware of his muscular chest against hers and the strong arms encircling her waist, Martha couldn't help but blush yet again.

James swallowed. "You're welcome," he answered quietly.

"This is starting to become a bit of a habit, isn't it?" Martha said, letting out a nervous laugh in an attempt to break this tension that was quickly forming, referring to the time when he had helped her from tripping down the steps.

Ugh, I have to get out of here before I pop a blood vessel in my face! That was all she could think as she pulled herself out of his grip as fast as possible.

"Right – I, uh...well, I'm off to my folks'..." Martha blurted quickly, grabbing her coat and boots again.

"Are you going to tell your parents about me?" James asked her curiously.

"And how am I going to explain that one?" she said, her tone light once more, " "Hey, Mum, Dad, guess what? I've got myself a new flatmate. No biggie or anything but he's nearly a hundred years old, and can turn invisible. Oh, and he's dead." Don't think it'll go down too well somehow..."

"Well, when you put it like that..."

Before she left, Martha pulled down something from her bookshelf and passed it to him. James looked down to see she had given him a slim paperback book. He looked at the cover to see it was entitled Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, along with a caricature of a bespectacled boy with scruffy black hair gazing up in wonder at a scarlet steam engine.

"I'm determined to turn you into a Potterhead yet!" she grinned at him, as she picked up the presents for her father. "Anyway, I shouldn't be too long... See you later!" she called, the door banging shut behind her. It was like she couldn't get away fast enough.

James felt they had both reached a new level of embarrassment right now. While they had spent these first couple of weeks in getting to know one another and just plainly talking he had already lost the count of how many times they either became flushed or embarrassed. He looked at the book his hand, and shook his head in amusement. He just hoped that Martha's taste in books was a lot better than her musical one. Making himself comfortable in an armchair, it wasn't long before the captain found himself lost in the fantastical world of the young lad known as Harry Potter...


Martha did not handle her embarrassment well, either. Once she was out of her flat and alone in the sanctuary of the lift, she took a few steadying breaths, willing her galloping heart to calm down. She felt a little unnerved, for despite her actions, she couldn't honestly say that she had disliked the feeling of the soldier's arms around her -

What the hell's wrong with you? You have Elliot! You shouldn't be behaving this way...he's dead, for crying out loud! Ugh, how sick and perverted am I?

"Stop...acting...like...a...teenager!" she growled to herself. Whatever happened, no matter how friendly they were with one another, she mustn't become too attached to the ghost. It wasn't like he was going to be there with her forever...

Martha's thoughts were so consumed about what had transpired earlier in her kitchen, that the walk to her parents' home did not seem to take her any time at all. In fact, she was very surprised to find herself already standing outside the red-bricked terraced house in which she had grown up in. Mentally berating herself to focus, Martha trudged up the garden path, and let herself into the house.


"Hellooo? Only me!" Martha called out as she stepped into the narrow hallway.

She could feel herself already begin to relax in the familiar, cluttered but cosy house in which she had been born and bred. It hadn't changed one bit since she moved out three years ago, how typical. So many memories here...more good than bad, she was happy to say. Martha knew that her mother would still be at work, so she left the gifts on the kitchen table before trooping up the stairs in the search for her father. However, upon reaching the landing, instead she was faced with the loft ladder descending from a hatch in the ceiling.

"Dad?" she called up, "You there?"

"Is that my little girl's dulcet tones I hear?" a distant jovial voice replied from somewhere above, and Martha grinned and began to clamber up the ladder.

"Nope, it's the friendly neighbourhood burglar!" she quipped, "Just thought I'd swing by to give the old man his birthday presents!" she said, scrambling over the obstacle course of boxes and plastic sacks to reach her father, who was riffling through a box of vinyl records.

"Hey, Carrot-Top!" he greeted, using her old nickname back from when she was a child, as Martha ducked under a roof beam so she could plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Happy birthday, Daddy!"

"Ah, thanks, sweetie... Here, pull up a box..." he added, hauling over a cardboard box so she could sit down next to him, "And less of the "old man" cracks, thank you," her dad reproached her half-heartedly, waving a finger at her, "Just because I've hit the big five-oh, I'm not quite ready for my Zimmer frame just yet, y'know."

" 'Course not. You don't look a day over twenty-one," Martha teased.

"Ho, ho," answered her father drily.

As a matter of fact, with his jet-black hair streaked with silver, and tall, broad-shouldered frame, Greg Burton didn't really look his age at all. He may have looked serious and the perfect corporate man, but underneath he was irrepressible. He loved silly jokes, chuckled for hours over Gary Larson cartoon books and could recite episodes of Fawlty Towers in his sleep. Martha's love for antiques was not the only thing she had inherited from him; they both shared the same green eyes and long nose, and generally easy-going nature.

"What're you up to, anyway?" Martha asked, looking around the musty-smelling attic which was full to bursting with her family's history. Over in the far corner, she spotted an old keyboard standing on its end, and also a large artificial Christmas tree.

"Your mum reckons she's succeeded in persuading me to kick a habit of a lifetime, and have a clear-out," Greg answered.

Martha couldn't help but roll her eyes and emit a little laugh of disbelief. Her dad was never one to throw things away. Just like her, he had the squirrel-like tendency to hoard everything instead of getting rid of it.

"And are you? Or did you just say you were to shut her up?" she asked, flashing a knowing grin.

"What do you think?" said her father, responding with a grin of his own, "It's amazing, you forget how much you've collected over the years... You okay, sweetheart?" he added suddenly, looking closely at his daughter's face.

Martha, whose mind had unconsciously wandered back to James, started at the question but she quickly offered an easy smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine!" she answered breezily, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno, you just seem a bit...preoccupied."

Martha hesitated. Usually, she was able to tell her father anything, anything at all. She was very much her Daddy's Girl, and more often than not, he would be the one she would turn to in times of need. But could she really tell him about the ghostly soldier who was currently reading in her flat?

"Is work okay?" Greg persisted.

"Yes – "

"Are things with you and Elliot alright?"

"Dad," Martha soothed him, "Everything's fine, I promise you."

He nodded, appeased for the moment. "Hey, you'll never guess who I found earlier..." he said cheerfully, and when Martha looked around, he had dug into a black plastic bag and held up what she immediately recognised as her old Peter Rabbit plushie. A huge smile of delight spread across her face.

"Aww, Peter!" she cried happily, reaching for him.

The little Beatrix Potter bunny was looking a bit worn and faded now due to years of constant cuddling and trips in the washing machine. He was even holding a little carrot in one of his threadbare paws. It was just a little in-joke in her family, for when Martha was born, she already had this coppery mop of hair, earning her the affectionate name of "Carrot-Top". Martha hugged Peter to her chest, breathing in that oh-so familiar musk of talcum powder.

"If you want to take some stuff home with you to keep, you can, y'know," Greg told her.

Martha already had enough antiquities in her home to be able to open her own shop, but she was suddenly overcome by a surge of nostalgia, so she decided to stay awhile to see what else she would come across.

Whilst she and her father were reminiscing over this and that, Martha heaved aside her old wooden doll's house, shrieking a little as some large spiders scuttled out from their hiding places, and found a number of framed pictures propped up in the corner. She felt a strange prickling feeling stir the little hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck... Curiosity quickly overpowering her fear of the arachnids lurking in the shadows, Martha ventured over to take a closer look.

One picture was a beautiful watercolour of an elegant Victorian lady in an orchard, a basket of fruit in one hand, the other reaching up to pluck an apple from a tree. It was a painting Martha knew well; it had used to belong to her grandmother. While her dad was happily chattering away in the background about something or other, Martha turned her attentions to the other picture. This one, however, she had never seen before...

Craning her neck in order to get a better look at it, she could see that it was a dusty oil painting of a horse standing in what looked like a stable. Martha reached out a hand to straighten up the picture, brushing dust away off the bronze frame. The horse was a handsome creature with a splendid, glossy russet coat; a white cross was emblazoned on his forehead and four identical white socks, gazing wistfully out of the picture at her. His ears were facing forward, alert, as though he had just heard his master's voice calling out to him. Even Martha, though she knew next to nothing about horses, could appreciate the creature's beauty and thought what a very fine animal he must have been in life.

She automatically scanned the bottom of the painting for the signature. In black copperplate writing, so faint that the casual passerby would have missed it, it read...

"Joey.

Painted by Captain James Nicholls, autumn 1914."

.:*:.


Alright, you can probably guess why Martha is familiar to James now. I know in the beginning of the War Horse book, it said that Nicholls' painting of Joey was hung in a village hall but just for the sake of this story, obviously it isn't.

Martha's dad; I modelled him slightly after Rupert Graves, hence calling him Greg after Lestrade in Sherlock.

Just out of curiosity, do you lovelies have anyone in mind when you're reading Martha? I've been trying to find someone who could be her 'face-claim' but had no luck so far, so who do you imagine could she look like?

Anyway, enough of my waffle. I hope you enjoyed the update and as always, a review or two would be welcomed and treasured. All reviewers can have their own William Buxton as he is such a cutie!