It was hard to believe it was July, even more difficult to believe it was 1919 and we were finally celebrating the peace. Ernest Greer stood on that makeshift platform in front of Luton Town Hall in a sodden straw hat, shaking his fist and preaching Bolshevism to the crowd. Greer wore my vestments and the dog caller torn from my throat. Such was the antagonism from the crowd that the attendant police were too pre-occupied in defending the Town Hall to worry about appearances. But I knew He would find it hard to accept the explanation of my drunken loss at the hands of so ungodly a man. Only He could let the heavens pore down in retribution. I sensed there was a lot more rain to fall on this land once fit for heroes. I only caught fragments of the Bolsheviks rant because the crowd was rowdy and numerous. Then I noticed I was almost sober and the rain was soaking through Greer’s thin municipal trousers. We were of a similar height and his working man’s clothes fitted well enough but with the moisture clinging to my thighs, I felt as though he was becoming absorbed into me, like some terrible poltergeist.
