She was watching me. It seemed that she had not moved other than to raise her eyelids. ‘You moved them.’ It was not accusatory, not panicked, no... sad. It was simply a statement of fact, which meant that she had been to the bathroom at some point and knew that the evidence had been moved. ‘If you mean your clothes,’ I said, ‘they’re by the washer. I’d planned to get them washed for you once regular electricity is restored.’ ‘What about a phone?’ ‘I’m sorry?’ Her question really surprised. We marched into our assigned village of Market Laverton one sunny morning in late June, and it appeared to be a pleasant and peaceful enough place, nestled in a fold of land on the edge of the great Plain. The company was billeted on land belonging to the Rector of Laverton, and I was invited to reside in the Rectory during the company’s stay in the village. I declined the offer as I did not want the locals to gain the impression the army was here solely to guard the Church lands, of which. More

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