The next day was the funeral. David put on his best suit and pinned his medals to it. The church was awash with white lilies. He sat on one side of the church. The crippled remains of his regiment in black suits with carnations in their buttonholes sat on the other. The vicar read out a short piece in the man’s honour.

‘He was a well loved member of our community. As so many like him, war took its toll on his mind. We cannot begin to imagine the horrors he must have seen. Latterly he frequently returned home in a dishevelled state, having taken to late night wandering. He will be sadly missed by all who knew him. Life eternal grant to Thee O Lord, may light eternal shine upon him that he may rest in peace.’

‘Let us pray.’

David stood up and walked down the aisle towards Sylvia. Everyone turned and stared. There was a terrible silence.

‘He never loved you. No wonder he was mental!’

Images of the man floated through David’s brain, the warm blue eyes gazing at him, the empty sockets, and then images of the Somme, his bayonet stabbing a German, the drawing of last breath, and the relief.

She looked at him stunned. Tears poured out of David’s eyes. Like a weeping child he was hushed and  escorted out of the church by the pall bearers. The prayers were skipped and the organ sprung noisily into ‘abide with me’ while the coffin was carried out of the church.