Past by Alice Rowlands
November 1918 The streets of Covent Garden hadn’t been this hushed for as long as Frank could remember, save for the low, consistent thrumming of raindrops upon the cobbled streets. People scurried past, wordlessly, their eyes darting from face to untrusting face as if mere eye contact could be contagious. Leaving the house was a last resort, only to be done when absolutely necessary; to buy food or the morning paper; to check the post office for any news from the front. The flame of victory had been blown out like a candle by the swift, biting winds of the coming sickness. Frank could remember how fast the news arrived, faster than the troops, bloodied and battered, could stagger their way home or the commanders could pat themselves on the back. Alfred had said in his letter that names varied from one division to the next; ‘Flanders grippe’; ‘the Spanish lady’; ‘Blitzkatarrh’ as the Germans called it. ‘Blitz’ meaning ‘lightning’, given how fast it struck. A man could be standing in the morning complaining nothing more than tiredness and a headache, and within 24 hours he could be on the verge of death, his skin tinged a pale blue with a hacking cough. The infected were walking corpses, as if Death had showed up early for his appointment.
At least that was what Frank had heard from the letters that Alfred and James had sent. The paper was crumpled and ripped from the journey and held the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. He kept his brothers’ letters in a biscuit tin, blue with gold accents, on the top shelf behind a stack of books. He wasn’t sure who exactly he was hiding them from; it wasn’t like there was anyone around to find them. Maybe it was him, a desperate attempt to shield himself from the memories.
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