Heads up: There is a warning noted in the author's note. I put it at the bottom for no spoilers, but you can scroll down and see if you are worried.

Chapter 6 The Ever Changing World Beneath Us

'I just got plain tired, Belle, that's all.' Granny's tone with Belle was gruff, but Belle had known her long enough to distinguish between annoyed gruffs, and 'this is just the way I speak to you if I love you' gruffs. Belle had stormed into the little restaurant when she had seen the 'for sale' sign up in the window. After getting Granny off to the side, it being a slow hour of the day, anyway, she had questioned Ruby's grandmother on what had happened, was anything wrong, was it to do with Ruby not being there, and probably a half dozen more questions would have been asked, had Granny not stopped her with her gruff reply.

Belle didn't believe Granny suddenly became tired of something that she had loved doing for the past twenty years only a couple of months after her daughter left-no, she imagined that Ruby had everything to do with her now lack of enthusiasm in her work and Belle decided that perhaps she was just trying to cover for it. Belle worried over how she would live and what she would do, and it seemed Granny could sense that.

'I put back a good bit, and now I can even get a check from the government monthly now-I'll do alright, focus on my home for once in my life and maybe have time for quilting like I always wanted to.

And it won't stop our chats, in fact, you can visit me much more often this way.'

Belle nodded her head and clasped her hands together, though she very much doubted it. She had barely gotten away to run a few errands. Her father was becoming harder and harder for her to handle. He had not even asked about going to visit Morris-he may have asked how she thought Morris was getting on once or twice, but he said it, never realizing that he hadn't been to the plant all week. Belle hugged the older lady, related some tidbit of silliness Ruby had said in her last letter and went off to go and try to buy a few groceries before her father destroyed the house in one of his rages of frustration.

Granny was quitting the place that had always felt like her second home (the little house on the outskirts of town wasn't that far, it just wouldn't be the same), her father was becoming more erratic, and because of that her usual ways of getting out of the house and volunteering and interacting with her fellow man were becoming less frequent and she was feeling even more alone than usual. She wished Ruby was there to talk to, but she wouldn't begrudge her the help she was providing to those in need for such selfish reasons, so she tried to convey it in her last letter, while also trying not to sound like a whining child at the same time. She wouldn't burden Roger with it, though she had a strange desire to confide in him. She actually did write it out as a letter to him one time, when her Papa had a particularly bad outburst. He had tinkered on something unrecognizable to Belle for an entire day and then threw a wrench at a mirror and shattered it and cut himself on the shards. She had been out volunteering at the ARC that day and had come home to the blood and destruction. Her poor Papa was burying his head in cut up hands and crying-crying! She had hardly ever seen her Papa cry-not that he wouldn't shed a tear or two when speaking about her mother, or even Morris' mother, but he had never been given over to such a display of lowness of spirit before. It had scared her, and as she cleared the chaos she realized that something was wrong with her father, it had been coming so gradually now, but something was horribly wrong and she wouldn't be able to leave him alone for very long ever again. He wasn't that old, she reasoned. She had always thought of the sometimes elderly ways of forgetfulness to belong to those much older than her father. Granny was the same age and sharp as a tack. No, something was wrong, Belle could feel it in her bones.

So she had written out a letter to Roger, telling him her worries and hoping she could take him to the doctor without her brother knowing-for if it was some sort of mind disease, her father would be packed up and sent to an institution of some sort. She hoped the doctor wouldn't recommend it either. Either way-she had written it, and then crumpled up the letter knowing she could never send something so full of depressing worries, to a man who was burdened with so much already.

'Papa? I'm home!' She called out to the seemingly empty house. Thankfully she found her father asleep, the small radio she had wound up helping him buy, playing soft music in the background. There was no blood, no broken trinkets, nothing about him that would indicate anything wrong, and for a minute she thought she might be able to imagine that things were as they always were.

Breathing in the rare moment of peace, she went to go read the letters she had received. Ruby's letter was full of hospital gossip, frightening emergencies she had experienced, and small flirtations she had with some of the men. She still mentioned Archie. He had promised to write to her after he was sent back into the fray of things, and she was not-so-patiently waiting on her first one from him. The letter was almost like Ruby was sitting in the room with her, and yet without the luxury of immediately being able to speak back to her-no shoulder to lean on or ear to confide in that tears spilled for not the first time that day.

Next was the letter from her Corporal (the Corporal-that was the most proper term, she corrected herself).

'Belle,

Thank you for your Christmas salutations and I hope you had a good one in return. While Scotland does not revel in the holiday like the States or England, I enjoyed my first real celebration of it with an actually good dinner and the company of the men around me. I'm not very social-I think I've spoken before at my lack of sharing things-this is due partially because of my distaste for it, and partially over my lack of social graces. And yet, being surrounded as I was on such an important holiday now belonging to me as well, since I'm now a citizen, was something better than I expected.

I also thank you for the Christmas gift that was your picture. You want a description of me? I'm afraid that not only will I be terrible at describing myself, but you'll be awfully disappointed if I get it near the truth. If you were picturing a well filled out, muscular soldier with blonde locks and the picture of a bonnie lad's face, you must shift your image. I think the term for what I am might be small and bony, I don't know. Small, bony, and dark-dark eyes and dark hair that would need more than the splash of water I get most days to try to slick it back to something resembling decent, however, it's all covered by my Army helmet, so there's no one to see nor care.

You spoke of being raised as an only child, but you mentioned your brother? Would you tell me about your family? Only if you would like-my own family is another point that I do not like sharing, so feel free to ignore me and tell me about your Christmas, the latest book you've read, whatever you care to share. I have enjoyed anything you've shared thus far

Your friend,

Roger'

The attempts of imagining his looks kept her in much better spirits as she went back down stairs once she heard the noises that her father was awake downstairs. The letters had thankfully given her enough courage to face what she must downstairs.

…

The battle for Rome and Italy raged on. Moving forward along the harsh terrain-all hills and steep inclines and small roads, the Allied infantrymen were often met by German defenses-one of the boys in their group had been injured and Roger in a constant state of terror that he could never show. He knew they were headed for something quite big, but of course, he didn't know what. The conditions that they sludged through were rough in the early January days. He didn't know when he had been colder, and he grew up in Scotland! It was the elements and being exposed to them for such a length of time that was the trouble, he was sure-being in them day in and day out and then trying to move their group a little bit further without hitting defenses and losing more men. It was miserable.

He looked around him at the bedraggled men, men who took step after cold, hard step, their faces in different states of misery. Some seemed more resigned to their fates than others, but they were all just trying to survive the elements as well as the Germans defenses together. He wished them in that dirty townhouse again, at least the walls made them feel slightly safer than where they were.

Mailbags would come up with more ammunition and he kept that in mind as took the steps needed to continue along the path he was ordered to go. Belle and her letters were the only things that kept him going sometimes. He had a realization, one day, he had the thought that the thing he was involved in, in all its horrific glory, was so that Belle could be safe. Safe to do family dinners, and grocery runs, and peacefully scan the corners of the library without threat of death and destruction. When he woke up feeling terrified of the day ahead, and the day after that, and the day after that, he could only think that he had to stay alive, if only to see Belle's bonnie face at the end of it all (if there ever was an end, he was beginning to despair of that), even if it was just to shake her hand, thank her for her letters, and never see her again. He just wanted to see her. To see her as flesh and blood and everything that was real. These were as fanciful as his imagination would take him, he could not imagine anything grander. He inwardly laughed at himself for even the imaginings he did have. They were only a little more than strangers, really, but she already knew so much more about him than anyone else in his life that it had put her somewhere in his empty heart, never to leave, he was afraid.

When the letter was put in his hands, he no longer shook with nerves, or cast glances around to see who cared that he enjoyed his letter. The letter was his water in a thirsty dessert-or more accurately for the climate he was in, his warm fire on a snowy day. He opened it and prepared to warm himself by it.

'My dear friend, Roger,

You wanted to hear about my family, and there is nothing I would rather speak about more at this moment. I am the product of a second go at love for both of my parents. My Papa was married to what I have heard was a very nice lady, Mildred was her name. They had my oldest brother, Morris, who is a good twenty-two years older than me. I mentioned before that my Papa was an inventor, and he did his best to provide for his family, but they were poor and it wasn't until my brother was about my age that he began helping my father build his business, and helped him get the proper patents, and figure out how to produce them cheaply using assembly lines. Morris is smart when it comes to business, always had a knack for it, my papa would always tell me. My brother 'helped' create the inventions he would insist and wanted them in his name first as partners-my father was a kind soul and loved my brother very much and because he was the only child (at the time, and then the only son even after I was born) gave him whatever he wanted. The business prospered and both became financially independent. My father's first wife died during this time and only a year after, he met my mother Collette, who was also a widow. My mother was twenty years younger than my father (twenty six and forty six respectively), and tragically, she died a year later giving birth to me. My Papa mourned my mother's memory for so very long that I think it has made my brother a bit envious and resentful of the state of his mourning, when he married so soon after his first wife passed away.

My brother and I, due to our difference in age and personality, are not very close, though I have a good enough relationship with his wife and children. My papa loved us all.

A week ago I walked downstairs to begin the day, and found that my dearest Papa had joined his two loves in heaven.

I am packing now to go with my brother and hope to entertain you with tales of my nephew's antics shortly. And as a distraction, I am selfishly wondering, if you might tell me a little about those closest to you? I would love to hear about them, their personalities, or anything you might want to share. And as you so very kindly told me when giving your own request-please do not feel compelled to do so, if you'd rather not.

Your Friend,

Belle'

Roger's heart broke for his dear friend. Rereading the letter again, he could now detect pain and loss in each sentence. He was sure that she did not reveal her deep feelings over a worry at burdening him or something-worried to dishearten the soldier, he supposed. She made light of her moving to her brothers and yet also mentioned the distance in their relationship and the tension over the envy that it seemed her brother possessed. How was she, really? He so desperately wanted to know.

He sighed over the letter, rereading it for the third time and imagining Belle's childhood with the tidbits he had gathered through her letters. The way she spoke about playing hostess, planning out her father's day, etc. she had been princess of her castle, and had so many responsibilities at the same time. He could now see why it was that she was so keen on others seeing her as the little adult she had been made to be for so long.

He didn't know how to comfort people-with Cassidy and his homesickness, or bouts of worry, he had only told him that things were a'right and that it wasn't so bad and they could make it a little longer, and they would be home before they all knew it-they both knew these things were lies, but it had seemed to be what Cassidy needed to hear. He didn't think such empty phrases would be exactly the thing here, so he ran his hand over the growing stubble that resided on his chin and tried to write out something-just something, that would help his princess.

Author's Note:Warning: Minor Character death in this chapter

History stuff: I am doing a very abridged and probably not super accurate description of the continuation of the Italian Campaign.
Social Security was voted on, in the late 1930s and began in 1940 as a response to the plight of the elderly during the Great Depression.

Story things:
Belle's father had vascular dementia. I tried to do as much research as possible, but as always, I worry about accuracy. Life expectancy is shortest with vascular dementia because it affects the heart, and other organs as well as the normal symptoms of dementia.
Dementia was a known thing during the 1940s but the nuances of the disease were yet unknown.
Next chapter will go back to the day she wrote the letter with more explanation to what is going on

Next chapter may not be uploaded until Sunday. I will not have access to my computer until then. Sorry for the delay!

As always, thank you for reading and any comments that you give are such an encouragement. thanks!