"Honest to God, Ron, I don't remember any of it."

  Pretty girls just didn't do that. Not for Wilfie. Not that he was ugly or anything. It was just that he was nothing special, him. So he'd keep his head down, scowling, hands stuffed in his pockets, and pretend he didn't care. But ... well, well, well.

  All this time, and he hadn't even realised!

  * * * *

  "She left a letter, shall I read it?"

  "Well, I bloody can't, now can I?” But for once there was no bitterness in Wilfie's voice. “What does it say?"

  "It says—” With a theatrical cough, Ron cleared his throat. “—Mon cher Wilfie, je tu souhaite un prompt rétablissement, et j'attends avec intéret de toi rencontrer, quand tu es assez bien, and it's signed Michelle.” Ron pushed the paper into his hand. “In other words, she—"

  "Hey, I'm not stupid! I don't need you to bloody translate it for me!"

  "Sorry."

  "So you bloody should be."

  There was an awkward silence in which Wilfie wished he'd bitten off his tongue, but then Ron said he had to rush, the doctor was doing his evaluation any minute, though he'd be back for when Michelle dropped by this afternoon. But Wilfie wasn't listening. He was too busy sniffing the letter, which smelled of disinfectant, but then it would. Everything that came into contact with this place did, and they'd probably made her wipe her hands before letting her pass it over! He waited until the squeak of the wheelchair had faded out of earshot, then called an orderly.

  "Don't suppose you could get this translated for me, could you, mate?"

  * * * *

  "Tell me again what her letter says,” he asked Ron that afternoon.

  Apparently, orderlies were too busy to do blind corporals any favours. Hardly took a glance at it, the lazy sod, and he was stuffing it back in Wilfie's hand, trotting out more excuses than you could shake a stick at. Well, sod him, Wilfie thought, and it wasn't as if he hadn't offered to bloody pay him for it, either.

  But as usual, Ron didn't mind a bit, and Wilfie decided he really would make a damn good teacher. He had patience, did Ron.

  "Your lovely Michelle wishes you a speedy recovery, and looks forward to meeting you once you're well enough.” Ron chuckled. “Looks forward, you notice, Wilf. Now, does that sound the type of girl who's going to drop you once you're up and running? I tell you, mate, she's smitten with you—and ho, ho, ho, talk of the devil. Guess who's walking up the path towards a certain young man's window at this very minute?"

  Wilfie felt his heart pounding. “What's she wearing? Is it that white blouse and pale grey skirt again?"

  Ron had described it to him in exquisite detail. The way the breeze would ruffle the lace around her collar. The way that single slit in the back of her skirt made it swish this way and that, to reveal her shapely ankles. The brooch she always wore at her neck, in the shape of a flying swan.

  "Tell me how she walks, Ron."

  He loved to hear about her. Every tiny detail. The long, slim fingers that spoke so eloquently through the glass panes that separated them. The eagerness in her wide, blue eyes as she drank in everything about Wilfie's family, the neighbourhood he grew up in, his friends, even his dreary old labouring job.

  Michelle...

  Michelle didn't care that he hadn't amounted to anything, but with her, anything was possible. For a start, with her, he wouldn't be so clumsy. She'd be there to help him and support him, and that was what had been missing in his life. The love of a good woman. My oh my, how he used to laugh at that old chestnut! Talk about corny, he would scoff. Oh yeah? Well, he wasn't scoffing now. It was early days, of course, and he wouldn't dare tell Ron, but—don't laugh—Wilfie thought he might, just might, be in love.

  "Dr. Mallory reckons I should retain partial sight in my right eye, what do you think of that, eh, Ron?"

  And the news just kept on getting better. Tomorrow he'd be out of traction and soon he would be able to hop over to the window by himself. He had no idea what kind of sign language crutches were likely to communicate, but the thought of waving them like semaphore made him laugh so hard that the night sister feared he'd taken some kind of fit.

  And maybe he had, at that.

  Daft, wasn't it, he thought? Him a half-blind, limping invalid, her all cool and elegant, but don't they say that opposites attract?

  "Ask her ... ask her how she feels about living in England."

  The answer, apparently, was a shrug, but it was accompanied by a coy smile.

  "But she's blushing, right?"

  "Very becomingly, in my opinion, Wilf.” Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “You're onto a winner, there, my boy."

  Oh, yes indeed. Michelle obviously liked what she saw even back when he was stationed in the village, although he wished now he hadn't been so bloody sullen. Lack of confidence was all it was, but suddenly, with Michelle, Wilfie realised that he wouldn't need to play the tough guy anymore. She was the kind of girl who could see through a chap's insecurities and just let him be himself, and for that he loved her, yes, he did and—there. He'd said it. Wilfie Baines loves Michelle.

  Crumbs. Who ever would have thought it! He lay awake all night thinking it was all very well passing messages to Ron to signal through the window, but what would he actually say to her when they finally met up? What would her hand feel like closed inside both of his, he wondered. How would her hair smell when he buried his face in it? Would it be warm and yeasty, from working so close to the ovens? Or would it be dusty with flour from the loaves, tickling his nose and making him sneeze? By the time the first cup of morning tea was making its wobbly way towards his mouth, he was picturing their initials carved in the trunk of the old plane tree where she came to feed the sparrows.

  W (heart) M

  It might be a little premature, but Wilfie couldn't help wondering where a man could buy engagement rings round here.

  * * * *

  What Wilfie hadn't bargained for, of course, was being moved. That between having his leg seen to, and then his ribs, then his burns and eyes sorted out, several days would pass. But at least it was still good news.

  "Exactly as I told you,” the surgeon said. “A clean and simple leg break."

  Six weeks and Wilfie would be running for the bus again, he quipped, and Wilfie could not believe his luck.

  "I thought this place was for the seriously injured?"

  "We don't have time to classify the maimed, Corporal.” The surgeon had already lost interest in his patient. “I'm just grateful to see you boys leave here alive, now who's next on the list, please, nurse?"

  Wilfie tried to think who it was who'd told him about this place, but then how often had the bloke beside you told you something, and by the time it reached the far end of the trench, the meaning had changed out of all recognition? Getting signals crossed was par for the course around here, and all that mattered was that Wilfie's luck was changing.

  "Mademoiselle from Armentiéres, parlez-vous—"

  "Oi!” somebody yelled. “Would someone put that flaming cat outside?"

  Wilfie grinned and gave him a cheerful V-sign. "—inky-pinky, parlez-vous."

  Funnier things had happened at sea, he thought, but he had a feeling that hanging on to that grenade was Wilfie's lucky day. Had he thrown it properly, he wouldn't have found Michelle, he wouldn't have run into his old school friend, hell, he might even be dead by now. Another lump of meat, bloating in the mud, trampled down by scores of frightened boots.

  Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile—

  "There you go, soldier. Put these drops in your eye three times a..."

  Wilfie was only half listening, though, because suddenly the world was a completely different place. He could see, he could see, and all right, his left eye was still covered by a patch and the right was weak and blurry, but as he was surrounded by daylight, faces, colours for the first time in God knows how long, Wilfie remembered hangovers that had left him with worse vision than this. He could see and he was free, and were it not for that stupid leg in plaster, he'd have clicked both heels together in the air.

  "Excuse me,” he asked one of the porters. “Do you know where I can find Lieutenant Tyler? He's an amputee—"

  "Ronnie?” The porter stood his empty stretcher upright and used it as a prop. “What a character, that boy, eh?” He sighed. “I mean, we all know what he did to earn that promotion to lieutenant, and he'll get a medal for diving forward to push three men out of the way when that ammunitions store went up, but to listen to him, you'd never think he was a cripple, would you?"

  "No. No, you wouldn't."

  "That lad'll have the same nightmares that you and all them other poor sods'll have, probably for the rest of your lives, you poor old buggers, but does our Ronnie let it show? Not him, and that's the point, innit? It's all a question of attitude, and I'll bet you're right proud to call that lad your friend."

  "I am.” He was.

  "Anyway.” The porter picked up his bloodstained stretcher. “Up them stairs, turn right, and you can't miss him, chum. Just watch for the gaggle of hens clucking over him!"

  "Thanks."

  Hobbling through the crush of haemorrhaging humanity, joggled by muddy uniforms, shattered gas masks, and all the other horrors that he'd shoved to the back of his mind while he'd been wrapped up in his silent, white cocoon, Wilfie was suddenly gripped by a cold, hard rush of fear that made him stumble. Panic gripped him. He was slipping in the mud again, choking on cordite while cannons roared and bullets pinged around him He could hear the soft hiss of canisters of death. The crackle of machine-gun fire. The screams of men cut to ribbons on barbed wire—

  Then snap and it was gone. Over as quickly as it started, and although his skin was cold with sweat, it wasn't out of fear. Lying bandaged to the gills, Wilfie hadn't stopped to think about it, but now it dawned on him that these injuries, however minor, still meant he'd never be sent back to the front, and Ron was right. He was alive and yes, it did bloody count for something. War was not the Great Adventure that was being played out in the newspapers at home. It wasn't over quickly, as the pundits had predicted; in fact, this filthy war was claiming more young lives than ever, and in the vilest of ways. Wilfie only had to look around to see that he was one of the lucky ones, and it came as quite a shock to realise that the bitterness and rancour that had been eating him before was gone.

  He felt different, suddenly. Lighter. As though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and a whole new world was opening up before him. A fresher, cleaner world, full of opportunities, and he no longer felt ground down with envy, either. Sure, Ron had brains and looks and charm. All the things Wilfie didn't have and frankly never would, but surprisingly it didn't matter anymore. For the first time, Wilfie had someone in his life who wanted him. Who accepted him for who and what he was, with neither criticism or judgment. Today—today, from this day forward and in sickness and in health, was the start of a new life....

  It wasn't easy, shambling up the crowded stairs with blurred vision and a crutch, but even so, Wilfie could see the chateau steps had class. He couldn't tell whether they were stone or marble, but whichever, he couldn't help but admire the big, wide sweep. To be honest, he'd suspected Ron had been pulling his leg about the tapestries and pictures hanging on the walls. Wilfie thought they'd have been removed at the outset of the fighting, but perhaps there wasn't time to take them down, or maybe looting was the least of these Frenchies’ worries. Either way, though, he was glad. Wilfie couldn't tell his Titian from his elbow, but he'd bet his last pack of fags that Ron would know who'd painted what, and fancy being able to tell his mum he'd seen a real, live Rembrandt!

  It's a long way to Tipperary—

  Yep. Ron might have the brains, the looks, the charm, but Wilfie was in love. In unconditional, thrilling, can't-sleep-for-thinking-about-her love, and it wouldn't be long now before he got to meet Michelle and hold her hands in his, perhaps stand beneath the ancient plane tree and bury his face in her gorgeous, soft blond hair.

  "—it's a long way to go—"

  But first, yes, first he had to set things right. Throughout Ron's visits—visits which, quite honestly, were the only things that kept him sane—he'd been obsessed with nothing other than his own injuries. Now admittedly he hadn't known it at the time, but they were trivial, especially compared to Ron's, and it was high time he said the things he'd been too proud to say before. Words like sorry, thank you, and, who knows, maybe even owning up that he couldn't speak a word of French needed to be aired. No call to make a song and dance of it, just a few words, man to man, to set the record straight. As he approached Ron, engulfed by hordes of laughing staff, Wilfie knew that, wheelchair or not, he really wouldn't have any trouble finding himself a wife. It was exactly as the porter said. A question of attitude, and he had Ron to thank for his. That grenade might not have killed him, Wilfie reflected happily, but Ron had surely saved his life. Him, and his sweet Michelle.

  "Ron?"

  Oh, wasn't that just his luck? The minute he opened his mouth, some bloody bell goes off and drowns him out, and suddenly nurses, orderlies, doctors, the lot, were rushing off in all directions to attend to this latest crisis on the battlefield.

  And that's when Wilfie saw her. Blond hair, swirled up and round on top, it couldn't be anyone else. Even with his fuzzy vision, how could he miss that long grey skirt and lacy blouse, and though he couldn't quite make it out from here, he'd bet his pocket watch that that brooch glinting at her neck was a swan in flight.

  "Michelle!” His heart was pounding. "Michelle!"

  She couldn't hear above the piercing shrill, so he waved his crutch, and it was due to the combination of excitement and fighting to stay upright that he hadn't quite realised what he'd been looking at.

  Where all the other staff had rushed away, Michelle remained beside Ron's chair. She was laughing—so help him, he could see her white teeth shining when she tipped her head back—and then bending down to whisper in Ron's ear.

  Nah. Don't be daft, Wilfie told himself. Of course she'd have to lean down close, he couldn't hear her otherwise, could he? Not with this flaming racket going on. All the same, he stopped. Watched while she ruffled Ron's hair with genuine affection. While she laughed again, in the way that only close friends do. And when she walked away, Wilfie watched the slit in her skirt swishing this way and that, to reveal her shapely ankles.

  Stop it. Stop it, Wilfie, don't do this. They're friends. Good pals, that's all, and what do you expect after all that signalling through the bloody window? It's you she wrote to, remember? You she came to see each day, and you, Wilfred Herbert Baines, that she wanted to hear about, not Ron, so don't you go making a damn fool of yourself. Not this time. You've screwed up enough already in your life, so you get this bloody right for once.

  But then it happened. As Michelle strode off down the corridor, she turned and glanced at Ron over her shoulder. Not a quick glance, either. A direct and lingering look, probably the very one she'd given Wilfie when she cycled through the village. Except this time there was someone to acknowledge her. Someone to wave back...

  Oh, yes, Ronnie Tyler had the lot. Courage, brains, good looks, and charm; he was popular with both sexes of all ages, and could have any girl he wanted.

  Yet the minute Wilfie's back was turned, he'd stolen his.

  * * * *

  In the end, it was very simple. Everyone had gone, even Michelle, God love her, and the corridor and the stairs were deathly quiet. Only Wilfie, Ron, and the ghosts that stalked the chateau stayed, frozen in some kind of limbo in which the passage of time was marked by dust motes dancing in the air.

  "Wilf!” Ron turned, his mouth breaking into a grin. “Congratulations, mate! Wasn't expecting you back until tomorrow."

  "So I gather,” he growled, knocking the brake off the wheelchair with his crutch.

  "Look, Ma,” Ron laughed, throwing both arms in the air as Wilfie gave the chair a good, hard shove. “No hands!"

  The stairs were stone.

  The drop was steep.

  Those were the last words that Ronnie Tyler ever spoke.

  * * * *

  And the weird thing was, Wilfie didn't even feel bad about it. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, he'd broken free of his cocoon, and he didn't mean his bandages. The clumsy, sloppy, sullen Wilfie had emerged into a poised and confident individual, and ironic as it was that Ron had been responsible for that transformation, you can't go round stealing a man's only chance of happiness and not expect to pay the price.

  Wilfie didn't blame Michelle for what had happened, how could he? She'd never even met him, and even though he'd only been gone a day or two, this was war, where time was measured on a different scale, and in any case Ron could charm the birds down from the trees.

  "Oh, fancy, would you look at that!"

  He couldn't make out sister's expression as she ran towards the jumble of twisted metal at the bottom of the staircase. But Wilfie could hear the sorrow in her voice.

  "I told him,” she sniffed. “I told him time and time again not to go wheeling himself about on his own, and now look what you've done, Ronnie Tyler! You've gone and killed yourself, you silly fool."

  See? Even in a place that was hardened to tragedy and carnage, Ron was still their darling. But what the hell. Wilfie let him have his triumph, and why not. He couldn't say whether he and Michelle would make it as a team, it was still very early days, but he didn't see why not. Because while Wilfie could never be a teacher (and nothing in the world would keep him stuck inside a bloody bank all day), Michelle worked in a bread shop, didn't she? Who better to teach him shopkeeping skills, and what was to stop them from opening their own little baker's shop back home?

  He would love her, cherish her, devote his whole life to her if she would only let him, because this was the new Wilfie now. Hadn't he already proved that he was no longer that sloppy worker who lost his concentration? It was a pity, in a way, that he could never tell her that he hadn't just committed murder, he had committed the perfect murder. No witnesses, no weapon, no clues, no motive, it was absolutely textbook, but the point is, if a man can get away with that, he can do anything he puts his mind to.