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The Old Lady Shows Her Medals
by
‘Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?’
‘I’ll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap–‘
‘Kenneth!’
”Tion! Have no fear. I’ll come back, covered with mud and medals. Mind you have that cup of tea waiting for me.’ He is listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee.
‘Hey! hey! hey! hey!’
‘What fun we’ll have writing to one another! Real letters this time!’
‘Yes.’
‘It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I’ve gone.’
‘I will.’
‘I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.’
‘You may be sure.’
He ties his scarf round her neck.
‘You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.’
‘Away with you!’
‘That scarf sets you fine.’
‘Blue was always my colour.’
The whistle sounds.
‘Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.’
She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but she does something that makes Private Dowey take off his bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is he laughing coarsely with Dixon.
We have one last glimpse of the old lady–a month or two after Kenneth’s death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; but let us rather peep at her in the familiar garments that make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her War Savings Certificates, Kenneth’s bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old ‘un; yet she exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day’s toil.