500 words a day

1117 words, 7th March 2010

They sat on the cliff top and watched the three warships as they moved slowly out of the harbour towards the horizon. She didn’t want to cry, it might make Claire cry too but she couldn’t help it, nor could Claire in the end. They both sat and cried as the ships became smaller and smaller.


It was the right thing to do, it had to be done, she was proud of him and she knew there was no choice. Look what happened to the Smithson’s boy when he tried to run away, tried to say he didn’t agree with violence. They had been merciless. They’d shown him that sometimes violence was unavoidable. You don’t want violence far away protecting your people, then you’ll get it right here at home. Maybe even worse than you would out there. Either way, he was dead now and nothing could be worse than that, so he may as well of gone. On top of that was the shame, not just his shame, he didn’t need to worry about that anymore, but there was the reflected shame onto his entire family. The younger boy Hugh, only 14 but already labelled as a coward and singled out at school, beaten up regularly, toughening up the mayor had said when she spoke to him about it when he came to visit their school. Toughening him up, they need it in that family, as we know.


No one could help them, they had to go through it alone and hope that the toughening up didn’t go one step too far. His father stayed in doors all the time now, he couldn’t bare to show his face. That proved his cowardice as far as the islanders were concerned but he couldn’t do a thing about it.





She’d tried visiting them and speaking to them. Told his wife that if he got back to work, did his share, took a bit of a barracking, a bit of roughing up maybe, it would soon pass, they’d get fed up with it. She wasn’t sure of that to be honest but what else could they do. If they tried to hide, then it was just setting themselves up.


People didn’t like it and they started to talk and plot and plan and before long, on a drunken Saturday night a crowds of about 30, came from the Kings head, where they’d been stoked up by that hot head Jack Higgins, and they told them to come out of the house or they’d die. They were gonna burn it down and this was the last warning.


She didn’t say anything , nor her old man, didn’t want to risk looking like she was on their side. In the end they came out, with the boy and the little girl, only 6 she was, and they had to run away while their house was burnt to the ground. She saw them occasionally on the outskirts of the village. She’d seen them catch the old man once in the  square. He’d grabbed a bag of potatoes and made a run for the forest, that’s where they were sleeping now, in this weather too. They caught him though and she’d watched helplessly as about 10 of them dragged him into the square and proceeded to beat him into unconsciousness while a crowd gathered round and cheered them on.





She was ashamed of herself, ashamed of her island and she wanted to leave to run away and live somewhere where this didn’t happen, but she knew it wasn’t possible.





So when the next draft was announced and his name was on it, they knew there was nothing they could do but hope he would be safe and would come back alive. Could be a year or more before he saw him again and she felt utterly alone as she stood on tip toes to see the ships disappear. He was gone and he may never ever be back. If she was lucky, he’d come home early with an injury. She felt bad but she prayed for an injury, nothing too bad but bad enough to make it clear he was no coward and he had to be sent home. Maybe he’d even get a bit of a hero’s welcome like that idiot Jerry Armitage who’d lost an arm, she didn’t want it to be that bad, but he seemed to do alright. Never bought a drink anymore, always had several waiting for him behind the bar.





He’d always been a bit of a creep she though but now, with only one arm, he’d become sought after. She watched the young women, hanging round him, sitting on his knee while he told them about his experiences, how it was out there. Terrible, frightening but he didn’t flinch, he said, he knew it was his duty to protect the island and he only wished he hadn’t got injured so quickly so he could be out there now, doing his bit.


Bloody liar, she thought, no one wanted to be out here if they could get away with it, and losing an arm was perfect. Better than a leg, with one arm you could do most things, and still get about and still get loads of sympathy and no chance of being accused of cowardice. It was perfect.


They’d talked about it before he left, ways eh could do it to himself, but he was adamant he wouldn’t go that far, it was about pride he said. First off, he was bound to get found out, they were bound to be looking out for that sort of thing and they’re not daft, and secondly, he might get away with it, maybe non one would know and they’d send him home, but he’d know.


He couldn’t live with himself he said if he’d done that, especially when the telegrams started coming, all his friends and neighbours dead, fighting for their liberty and him cowardly, wheedling his way out of it.


No I have to take my chance, he said, its a risk but its one I have to take, for all our sakes.


She wanted to bash him over the head when he spoke like that and she knew it was all bluff and bluster, she knew he was terrified and if someone told him he didn’t have to go he’d be the first to accept it. She didn’t say anything though, didn’t want to leave on an argument, it could be ages before she saw him again and she didn’t want bad blood all that time, she’d never forgive herself if, god forbid, he didn’t come back and the last words they’d had were cross words.











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Steve Wybourn





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