2.0 Whatever Doesn’t Kill You Often Hurts A Lot
Mrs French and Cyclops stood on the patriot’s pavement. Private French and the conscripts were gone. They were in the future now. Would they come home again? Mrs French did not know. Did not know if she wanted them too. She was so furious at them leaving.
“Get War Done!” Cyclops shouted. A gust of wind blew a leaf against his face. It stuck there. He giggled.
Mrs French smiled, if a thin drawing out of the lips and breathing through her teeth could be a smile.
“Did you see the way Private French thrust his stick into the air and twirled it like a cheerleader?” Cyclops gushed. “Control British Fish!”
“It was a stirring sight,” Mrs French agreed.
Mark’s marching feet weren’t in time with each other, let alone the lads around him, but the Churchill radios compensated by blasting out a recording of feet that were.
A cold wind blew as the patriots grew small in the distance. A dog howled. A woman was heard weeping quietly. A thousand children cried out as one in terror and then a voice boomed “CUT THE SIGNAL. It’s the wrong track on the radio. CUT THE SIGNAL!” and momentarily the Churchills fell silent.
“It’s not an omen,” Mrs French muttered. “It’s not.”
“They were a rag tag bunch Mrs French,” Cyclops grinned. He was shivering a little. Goosebumps on his scrawny legs. He mocked marching back and forth to warm up. Marched until Mrs French gave him a playful clip around the ear.
“Knock that off or some nosey parker will report you to the secret police,” she advised, pulling him close, into a hug.
“Now, what do you want to do first?” she asked.
“I was going to take first watch on Private French’s barricade.”
“You’re a good boy Cyclops. A good boy.” She gave him a squeeze. “How about we go and thrash the bigger boys for stealing your chocolate instead? Then you and me have a slap up dinner?”
Cyclops wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back as hard as he could. Mrs French wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought she heard him sniffling. Then his little, bony body heaved up and down and she was sure.
“Don’t worry about old Mark. The devil takes care of his own.”
“I’m not worried about Mr French,” Cyclops managed. “I don’t know the last time my mother hugged me.”
“Now. Now. I’m sure that’s not true.”
“How could she hug me?”
“Cyclops! You’re a smashing lad. I’d be proud to call you my own.”
“No. She’s in a re-education camp. She smashed our Churchill up with a brick on Land of Hope and Glory Day. She’s been gone for months.”
“Well, who’s been looking after you?”
“You, most days.”
Mrs French burst into tears. She knelt down on the pavement and fiercely hugged Cyclops.
“You silly boy. If I’d have known…”
“I was told I couldn’t tell anyone or I would be thrown out of Raylee. My mother has shamed us. I’m a rotten egg from a bad hen.”
Mrs French pulled back and cupped his wet face in her slab hands. They looked into one another’s eyes. It was not clear whose tears were fatter.
“I didn’t think Mr French would let me visit if he knew. The only reason it wasn’t in the paper is because my mother once had lunch with the second cousin twice removed of the Propaganda Minister.”
Mrs French shook her head and gave Cyclops another squeeze. She worried if she was in danger herself? To be seen in public with the child of traitors?
“Come on,” she extended her hand. “Let’s get you home and cleaned up. Afterwards we’ll have supper. You can stay with me now.”
Cyclops snorted up his snot and wiped the back of his nose with his torn sleeve. He took Mrs French’s hand with his own. She didn’t care that it was covered in snot.
“I’ve been saving some food in case the war goes badly,” she said in a hush. “I’m going to feed you until you burst.”
“But what about thrashing the bigger boys?”
“We’ll do that tomorrow. It will be cracking sport. They’ll have forgotten all about bullying you and it won’t half come as a surprise!”
They laughed and hurried on. Forgetting that most of the bigger boys were now in the army.
“Can we skip to your house?” Cyclops asked.
“I don’t see why not!”
Mrs French burst into a skip, still holding Cyclop’s hand and pulled him clean off his feet. After, when she had picked him up and dusted him down, they tried skipping again.
“One…two…three…”