Saviour

Cecil leaned back in his chair, staring thoughtfully out of the window. It was days like these, with the sun shining down on the grateful earth, bestowing its beauty upon the world, that he thought of her most. Of her cheeky, dimpled grin. Of her free, cheerful laughter that echoed around his mind. Of her beautiful eyes, the colour of…

Cecil frowned. The colour of what? His already-wrinkled forehead furrowed with the effort of trying to remember. Blue… or was it green? Perhaps a mixture of the two…

Sighing, he rubbed his forehead with his calloused hands. It killed him that he could barely even recall her beautiful face. The years had diluted the memories he had of her, memories that once burned like a bonfire in his mind.

Almost automatically, he reached for the grainy, out-of-focus snapshot of them, from a time before colour photography. He stroked her face gently with his thumb, a faint smile on his chapped lips.

“Granda!” came the loud, exuberant voice of his six-year-old granddaughter, Tara.

Cecil put the photo away quickly, fixing a smile on his face. She barrelled into him and he hugged her small body quickly, before setting her back down on the floor.

“Mum was showing me pictures of you when you were younger,” Tara informed him, in that matter-of-fact tone all six-year-olds seem to share.

Cecil glanced at his daughter, a tight smile on his lips. “Did she, now?”

“Yeah, we had a grand time,” Michelle replied, sitting down opposite her father and placing the old photo album on the chair next to her. “You remember, Dad. From before you went to war.”

He nodded tightly. He remembered.

Michelle frowned, noticing a change in her father. “Tara, go play with your little brother,” she instructed.

Tara was perfectly happy to do so, and started skipping off before her mother finished the sentence. Michelle turned back to Cecil, her face creased with worry.

“Dad?” she asked concernedly. “Are you okay?”

But he was miles away. “I don’t hate you,” he murmured.

Michelle looked alarmed. “Dad?”

Cecil’s head snapped up. He looked right at her, but it wasn't her he was seeing. “I’m fine.”

She nodded, unconvinced. “I’m going to make us some lunch. Are bangers and mash okay?”

He merely nodded, turning back to the window. Absentmindedly, he stroked the photograph, his mind travelling back to a much more different time.

It was August, in late nineteen thirty-nine, just before the outbreak of the Second World War. But the inhabitants of the sleepy countryside village in South England knew nothing of war. Their lives were blissfully uncomplicated, their worries not extending beyond the borders of their land.

Cecil Whiteside was no different. He was eighteen, that dangerous age when children are thrust into the world of adulthood. He was arrogant in his assurance that he knew everything about life, love and loss, but his lesson was just about to begin.

Cecil snapped back to the present, shaking his head to rid himself of the painful memories. He’d already lived it once. He couldn’t relive it again.

Glancing away from the window, his gaze settled on the photo album Michelle had left. It was probably unintentional, but just looking at it made his throat constrict, and the memories flood back.

That day was hot, swelteringly so. Sweat dripped down necks, sticking shirts to backs and plastering hair to heads. It was one of the hottest summers England had ever known, but certainly not the hottest it ever would. But Cecil knew nothing of what would come to be. He knew only of the here-and-now.

The here-and-now consisted of a date with his glorious girlfriend, Avril McClelland. She danced just close enough for him to get near, but just far enough away for him to be running after her, not the other way around. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, with a shock of red hair that curled to her shoulders and eyes that enchanted all who dared to look into them.

Cecil smiled at the memory. Avril was certainly beautiful. But she was far from perfect.

Avril was the sort of girl who was always surrounded by an air of mystery, who trusted no one with her innermost secrets. She was an enigma, a riddle that could never be solved. That wasn't to say that Cecil didn't try.

That night, he was excited. He had something important to tell her, something that would change both their lives drastically. He only hoped – no, prayed – she would understand.

Cecil grimaced, remembering all too well how that night had gone. He didn't like to remember, but he had no control over his memories now. They spilled out of him like water from a dam that had just broke, pulverising all in its path.

“Avril,” Cecil grinned, tapping her on the back.

She turned round, cocking a hand on her hip, and regarded him coolly. “Cecil.” A grin broke out on her face and she threw her arms round him. “You well?”

“Aye,” he replied, still grinning.

“What are you smiling for?” she asked suspiciously.

“Why shouldn’t I be smiling?” he replied. “I don’t need a reason. I’m with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “ That sweet-talk will get you nowhere, you hear?”

“Fine,” he said, unable to contain his excitement any longer. “I’ve signed up.”

Cecil winced. He felt like smacking the younger version of himself upside the head for being so stupid.

Avril’s face was thunder. “Tell me you mean for knitting club.”

Cecil rolled his eyes. “No, for the war.”

“You stupid?” she screeched. “You must be! Jesus Christ, Cecil, I thought you had more sense! How can you even contemplate this? You’ve gone batty, you must have!”

“Avril, calm down,” he pleaded, glancing around them. “People are staring.”

“Let them!” she shrieked. “My boyfriend’s gone and decided to throw his life away for bloody Queen and Country!”

Cecil shook his head, planting himself firmly in the present. What followed was a lot of yelling, mostly on Avril’s part. Her fury didn't ebb away; if anything, it grew.

He was sent away soon after, before they had a chance to patch things up. The last glimpse he caught of her was when he was leaving the village for the first time in his eighteen-year-short life, a bunch of his mates in the truck with him. She was standing apart from the cheering crowd, an unreadable expression on her impassive face.

He blinked back the tears threatening to fall. Avril had been right, of course. Signing up for war was the stupidest thing he’d ever done, and ever would do. He probably would have been conscripted sooner or later anyway, but that was beside the point.

He was only eighteen. He was ill-prepared for the horrors of war. It wasn't glory and righteous battle, as the patriots would have them believe. It was hiding out in trenches, shitting yourself every time a shell shrieked overhead, wondering if this night would be your last. It was surviving on pitiful scraps that even the rats that skulked the festering trenches deemed unworthy of consumption. It was firing on the enemy while your comrades fell around you, wondering why the hell you kept on going when you had nothing left to live for.

War wasn't glorious. It was evil. If there was one thing Cecil had learned in those long six years, it was that.

He was luckier than most. He survived the war. Though, it depends on your definition of lucky.

Avril wasn't there when he got back. That was the worst part. He found out from someone that she’d upped sticks soon after he’d left. Word had it she’d gone to Scotland to stay with relatives. No one had heard from her since. It was like she simply disappeared.

Life went on, of course, but it wasn't the same. Not without Avril to brighten the dull days and fill his life with meaning. She was his first, but by no means his last, and he swore he’d never forget her.

He still remembered her last words to him, as clear as if she had spoken them yesterday.

“I don’t hate you, boy,” she’d whispered, her voice cracking with the tears she’d never shed, “I just want to save you while there’s still something left to save.”

Cecil closed his eyes slowly, the wrinkles cracking on his aged face. He saw Avril as she had been, some sixty years previously, that same dimpled smile on her beautiful face.

“My saviour,” he murmured, as the first of many tears started to fall.