‘The wrong boys died at Gallipoli,’ he said, ‘why couldn’t it have been him?’ Shocking words, unforgiveable words, but at least he does not say them in Bartholomew’s presence – for that I am thankful. It is grief speaking of course: Jim remains inconsolable. As indeed am I. Every day that passes is empty without my two beautiful boys. But I must continue to be strong as I have these past months, for it is my strength alone that will save Jim from the blackest of despair that threatens to destroy us all. And there is my darling Bartholomew, whom I must protect at all cost, and his dear wife, Mary, and their baby son. We still have a family, if only I can convince Jim of this. There is a reason to go on. Big Jim Durham had been inordinately proud of his sons when they’d volunteered. And they’d done so without his bidding – they’d surprised him with the news. ‘We’re off to war, Dad,’ they’d announced, and Big Jim had been fit to burst. In his opinion every able-bodied man in the land should enlist.
