Eleventh Hour by Vivien Teasdale

She walked past the grey-white memorial, draped now with flags. Soon it would be surrounded by a field of poppy wreaths. The cenotaph, the empty tomb for lost boys who have no known burial place, nowhere for their family to tend over the lonely years. Millions of red poppies laid only to be swept up in the rubbish and discarded like the lives they represented.

Then on down Parliament Street, turning left towards Big Ben and Westminster Bridge. It was cold, now, clouds gathering together in mourning colours, throwing shadows onto the surrounding buildings.

She looked down into the dark swirling waters, where someone had already thrown a wreath. It swept past like a strange sea creature riding the waves, bumping into the arches and twisting onwards.

Dad had often talked of Uncle Will. ‘On the minesweepers, he was. Dangerous job. He’d had three ships went down with him on board. He never could understand why he’d survived so many times, when so many were lost. And then the last time, there was just Will and one youngster, Arthur, his first posting. Uncle Will held the boy, clung to him as if the lad himself was a life raft, held his head above the freezing waves until a little fishing boat had spotted them, hauled them on board. They’d both made it to land, though Arthur died later of pneumonia.’

‘And Uncle Will got a medal. He was upset the lad had died,’ Mum had chimed in. ‘Arthur’s mother summed it up, though. Wept on Will’s shoulder, she did. He used to say she made it wetter than it had been in the North Sea. But when he said about Arthur dying, she told him, “At least you made sure I know where he is. I can still put flowers on my son’s grave, can’t I?’

The bridge was packed, she could hardly push her way through. Everyone was facing the cenotaph. Service men and women standing to attention, veterans in wheelchairs remembering old comrades, tears in their eyes.

She reached the far end of the bridge and stopped, clutching the cold iron parapet. No one took any notice of her, too busy, too interested in the spectacle taking place behind her. Below was the Thames, its muddy waters now blackened by the storm clouds above.

The bands ceased playing. A collective sigh, some shuffling and then silence. Everyone listening, ready for the first chime.

She took her phone out, staring at the screen. A deep note rang out across London, echoing in the cold air. She dialled the number.

The second chime sounded. The phone rang out: brr, brr; brr, brr.

The third, fourth, fifth chimes. Why was she bothering? No one cared. Not now. Just another lost soul.

Six, seven, eight. All around her heads were bowed, eyes closed, minds thinking of the dead, of relatives, ancestors, all the unknown soldiers. She leaned over the parapet, wondering what it would be like if …

Nine, ten. No one would know her. She had nothing, no papers to show who she was. She’d just be another body, known unto God.

Eleven. The sound seemed to deafen her. She couldn’t hear. What was that? A click, a distant sound.

‘Penny? Penny, is that you, love?’

‘Mum,’ she cried, ‘Mum. I’m coming home.'