Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  (Memorial to Commonwealth servicemen killed during the Battles of the Aisne and Marne in 1918 who have no known grave. Soissons, France). She would have known. She was his mother. She would have felt his pain. Her mind held on to an image she had conjured of him. Dazed, lost, left by someone in a cottage or a farmhouse away from the guns. Foreign voices whispering questions he didn’t understand, unable to remember his name or where he was. Armed with the weapon of denial, she fought off despair and the lure of mourning. Weeks later, she saw him. Standing at the sink, she looked towards the gently rising Pennine hills and fields crossed by snaking stonewalls. He was there, at the bottom of the garden by the wall, his back towards her. When the sunlight caught the tips of his ears, she cried out and lifted her hand to knock at the window but the sun faltered and his image dissolved, extinguished by the late summer light. She turned to see if he had come into the kitchen. Wiping h

  A cold east wind, whistles and blows. It’s a wild and stormy night. I’m just about to fall asleep, when on comes the security light.   I’m not sure it was such a bargain - even though it was less than half price. It seems to shine at any old time, not so good for a brand-new device.   I climb out of bed. It’s freezing cold, and I peer through my windowpane. My eyes adjust to the darkness outside, ‘cos the light’s gone off again.   A lonesome fox swaggers by, eyes bright as it stares ahead. The security light should be on – but it isn’t, so I’ll go back to bed.   I twist and turn beneath the duvet, trapped in an endless dream. Then the light shines brightly yet again, and I’m caught in its eerie beam.   I don’t look out, though I sense someone close, voices are calling my name. Shadows are spreading across my room. Fingers scraping my windowpane.   I’m shocked and scared as I try to hide, my bedroom’s in darkness once more,