War Remains

If Lilly was six inches taller, she could reach the root near the top of the hole and haul herself out. She shouts, making her throat hoarse. She listens. Faint sounds: old-fashioned music, laughter of men playing cards.

If Lilly ever gets out, Mam’ll tan her backside and give her chores. She’ll watch, will Mam, her long, black curls hanging over her right eye. Her left glaring enough for both. ‘Don’t ever play at that old gunnery again, d’ya hear?’

If Lilly was a soldier, she’d be a good one. She’d lead others, and wear medals with pride. For now she sits scrunched, contemplating crying. After all, nobody can see. Until a man looms over the hole; middle-aged, weary-eyed.

‘Here, take my hand.’

Lilly swipes it away. ‘Mam says weirdos come here.’

‘I’m Stan. I’m not weird, I promise.’

‘You’re wearing grandad clothes.’

‘I’ll have you know this is fine attire. D’ya want out or not?’

If Lilly takes the weirdo’s hand, she might get bundled into a car and never see Mam again. But she’d kick him in the balls and retreat. She’s fast enough.

‘Fine’

Stan pulls her out. She’s poised, but Stan studies her.

‘You’re the double of my granddaughter. You even have the same long, black curls and temperament.’

‘I bet she thinks you’re weird as well.’ Lilly sprints away. ‘Bye, you old grandad.’

If Lilly hadn’t heard the music again, she wouldn’t have looked back, calmed, seen no weirdos. Speechless, she sees only war remains.