It was 5 a.m. and dark. It was a bit of a leg but he liked the walk, and Mam’s scarf kept out the worst of the wind. It was 2nd January 1913, and he swore he’d heard a cuckoo yesterday on a walk, but Jack said it was a pigeon if it was anything. ‘It’s bloody winter, you daft beggar.’ ‘Is it colder this winter, do you think?’ Timmie pulled his muffler over his nose. ‘A bit, maybe.’ Jack sank a hand into his jacket pocket, his bait tin clattering as loudly as Timmie’s, his tools hitched over his shoulder. Timmie told him that he had just one more lead soldier to paint and then he’d have the whole regiment. There was no reply. ‘Did you hear that, Jack? Just one more to go.’ ‘Aye, I heard you, but it’s like walking next to an empty vessel, with all the chat from you. It’s before dawn for pity’s sake, man.’ Jack was quieter these days, he had been for months now, but perhaps Millie might make a difference. Timmie had grumbled that she was a bit of a feeble lass really, and cried a lot.
