Page 41 of The Unknown Birds

His smile was a little sad. “I’ve had a good long time to get used to it. My old man did his best to be both mother and father, and when he passed, my organ teacher took me in.”

Ash wanted to ask more questions, but it was starting to make sense why he preferred to work alone. Perhaps he’d always had to.

“Back to the circus,” he sighed as they passed into camp and made their way towards their Nissen hut.

“Ashley, mail!” another private, Billy Merle, called, tossing her a parcel before continuing on to the next hut.

Ash turned it over curiously. In addition to letters, her mother had sent only one parcel, filled with sweets and extra bandages, but the address wasn’t written in her mother’s tidy hand.

Inside the hut, she sat cross-legged on her bedroll, carefully untying the string before folding back the paper. Out fell a pair of woolen mittens and half a dozen paper-wrapped pastries. The accompanying note ready simply, Happy Christmas.

“Croissants?” Rook asked.

Ash shook her head, a broad grin spreading across her face as the fragrant cinnamon and honey reached her nose and filled up her soul. “Franzbrötchen,” she whispered. He cocked his head at the unfamiliar German word.

She held the parcel out to him, and his eyes softened as he selected one of the precious treats. Ash picked one up too and held it aloft like a toast. “To mothers, and surrogate mothers and fathers, and happier days,” she said before biting into the delicious pastry.

Rook mirrored her. “Sweet Mother Mary,” he gasped, closing his eyes and savoring the buttery taste of heaven and of home.

Chapter 14

London, March 1939

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

—Wilfred Owen

Dulce et Decorum Est

The moment the dirt had shaken off winter’s freeze, Ashley helped her students transform their football grounds into a muddy mess of holes dug and seeds planted. Better a garden than the marching grounds of her youth.

“Leeks, Miss?” An eager student with dirt-streaked cheeks ran up grasping a fistful of seeds.

“Just there,” Ash pointed to the spot. “In between the peas and aubergines.”

“Shouldn’t we be digging trenches instead of flowerbeds, Miss?” an older boy asked. “For when we go to war with the Irish?”

A red-haired girl goggled at him, her head whipping between her classmate and her teacher.

“I don’t think we’ll be going to war with the Irish any time soon, Sarah,” Ash told the little girl, who smiled, turning back to her broad beans.

“My dad says they’re at war with us. Bombed two Underground stations just last week,” the boy insisted.

“All the more reason to plant food,” Ash told him. “That rhubarb won’t sprout in your hands, Fred, no matter how grubby they are.”

He laughed and turned back to his work.

Another little girl tugged at Ashley’s skirt. “My mum said if there’s a war, they’ll send my brothers away to fight it, and might even send me away too!”

“I wish I was old enough to fight,” a boy said.

“The Irish?” Ashley asked, trying to make her voice sound amused.