Past, Alice Rowlands

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.

It was almost funny, he supposed. Or maybe ironic was the correct word? If the whole thing were simply the plot of a play, he was sure that he should want tickets in a heartbeat. He could see the reviews now: “Two brave soldiers who survived the devastation of war, only to be smitten by disease. A masterpiece.”

The worst part was that they were almost safe. Frank could remember the wave of relief that head felt when the armistice was announced. ‘VICTORY’, ‘PEACE’, ‘WAR OVER’ plastered on every front page. When the sun rose on that day, it felt warmer, the sky seemed brighter. The desperate scurrying of the people on the streets became a leisurely stroll. Wives and children babbled excitedly about the soldiers’ return. The school children that Frank taught, at least those who had stayed in London, were lively and optimistic, barely allowing him to keep his lessons on track. News of the sickness was understated, even ignored, hailed as a thing of the battlefields and, very soon, the past.

But many of the soldiers never made it home. Frank was sure that if his mother was still alive, the shock of her two sons dying would just about kill her. Then again, he was lucky. Many families would never know what happened.

Now everybody was alone, too wrapped up in their own grief and fear, too scared of the future and too hurt by the gaping hole in their lives left by those lost to come together. So now it was just him, Frank supposed. He hung up his hat on his peg, the other two pegs left vacant, and closed his eyes, listening to the raindrops against his window. They were his only company now.