Play@YSDC

The Red Lion, Severn Road near the river in the city of Gloucester, October 1943. For most people the dark years of Hitler’s war continue, however for two, possibly friends or associates currently on leave from the forces and enjoying the fresh taste of a local bitter, the pub offers a brief moment of peace and normality.

In the public bar of the ‘Lion’, a radio blasts out some tune by an American swing band and an accompanying female vocalist singing something about a ‘boogie-woogie bugle boy’.

To one end of the wood clad bar, near a much used darts board, a group of four ‘locals’, dressed for the season in tweeds and caps, are in deep conversation. Their voices rise and fall in the burr of the local accent,

“They say that you can hear noises like thousands of rats slithering inside the hill”

“Probably water flowing somewhere beneath”

“No can’t be since the hill has no history as a water source”

“They do say something bad happened up there some twenty years back”

“Who told you all this?”

“Comes from the local Home Guard, seems they were set guard over the road up to the hill to keep people away”

“And?”

“Young Harry Williams from Anchester was one of them. I heard it from his Ma”

“Probably some kind of soil disturbance caused by the bomb”

“Probably, still that’s what young Williams said, and his Ma says he worried about having to go back there”

“No one likes to go to that hill. I’ve heard its haunted or something”

“Ha, you and your ghosts”

At the mention of “Anchester” something moves in the memory of Oliver. It is a name he remembers hearing whispered amongst members of his family…

Oliver perches on a bar stool, a pint in his hand as he sings:
"Hitler...has only got one ball.
Goering...has two but ve-ry small.
Himmler...has something sim'lar.
And Joseph Goebbels...has no balls...at all!"

With that, he takes a deep drink from his mug and listens to the conversation around him. "Anchester," he says, stroking his chin. "I know I've heard about that place before." He racks his brain in an effort to recall what he has heard about it.

Maurice sits by the Oliver. Not joining in the singing, but listening, and drinking.

His smile is complex. On the one hand, he enjoys Oliver's good spirits. On the other hand, he feels incompetent beside him. He stifles a cough. The smoke in the bar is unpleasant. Unpleasant for him, anyway.

"Good to see your spirits are high. As are mine" he said, raising his own gin and tonic above his head before drinking it. A little pun.

"Don't mind the locals. The usual quaint ghost stories of the local, I am sure" he said. Although the truth was, they had an awful poetry to them.

Oliver Carpenter,Anchester, a vague memory of half whispered conversations when you were growing up. Conversations that ended abruptly with your entrance. As fast as the memory rises another obscures it, Uncle Stephen, a shadowy figure from your Mother’s family, never met and hardly mentioned. For some reason the two memories seem to fit together. An ice cold feeling trickles down your spine similar to that you had experienced while waiting your turn to exit that plane at the start of Operation Crusader. You finish your beer with a gulp and turn to the conversation at the bar.

Maurice Grey,Smiling at you companions singing of the well known song, you lift your pint mug and take a steady drink – it might be a long night so you stop and replace the mug on the table top. You notice that something in Oliver’s demeanour has changed, suddenly it looks as if he’s deep in thought as if trying to chase an elusive memory.

Previously Maurice Grey said:   "Good to see your spirits are high. As are mine"... "Don't mind the locals. The usual quaint ghost stories of the local, I am sure"

The conversation at the bar now seems to have moved to the price of sheep, but the atmosphere within the pub seems to have changed subtely, as if the temperature within has fallen slightly. If it has then the other patrons have noticed it too as several of them seem to have shrunken within their tweed coats as if suddenly subjected to a cold wind...

Oliver raises his own drink and takes another swallow. "No, I know I've heard of it before," he says. "I think it has to do with my Uncle Stephen, my mother's brother. My family has been involved with some unusual things, but they would never talk about it around me when I was a child. I must have heard them mention Anchester. There's something wrong about it, something...dangerous."

Maurice puts down his drink, sombre. Although bitter at the war, he found his invalidity away from it more vexing; a sense of futility that he would dearly shed if he could. Painting gave him some sense of purpose, but it was not enough.

And lately his paintings had felt bleak, as though some malign spirit infected the ink.

"I would have thought you thrived on danger, Sir" he comments, stroking the half-growth on his chin. Gods, how had he let himself go? A man should shave, or if not, cultivate a groomed beard.I must shave tonight, pull myself together!. He feels an acute sense of portliness; exercise was difficult for him, the long walks in the country that would have melted the fat away had been so short of late.

Unbidden, he heaves a heavy cough into his hand. A few flecks of blood are left on his palm. He many not have been getting worse, but he was hardly getting better.

"Dammit, Sir!" he blusters. "I have had enough of sitting around watching the world go by like some fool. If there is a story to be heard, I would hear it! If there is danger in the air, let us face it!"

He calls over to the young men who had been talking. "I say gentlemen! I could not help but hear you and your talk of ghosts and ghouls! Please, allow me to buy you a drink and let us hear more!" he suggests, tossing a liberal amount of coin to the bartender. He was far from rich, but he could at least afford a round of drinks.

At Maurice's words the group turn as if noticing you for the first time.

"Aye don't mind if I do. Mines a pint of mild and I guess the others will be having the same" The speaker, a tall thin faced man with features worn through long years of toil in the outdoors, was the one who had spoken last and poured scorn on his companions "ghosts". With a quick glance at his companions and a slow slide up the bar to where you sit, he politely tips his cap, "So you wish to know of ghosts and ghouls? Well you have come to the right place, old Clewy here can tell you tales to make your blood freeze"

One of the four an elderly chap and obviously the one called Clewy, nods eagerly. While the others await the pints of mild that the barman is pulling.

"Truth" says Clewy, the accent of the Welsh valleys strong on his voice, "Shall I tell you of the Trevor woman? Said to be so evil that she could make the calf to be dead in its mother's womb. She was known throughout the borderlands as "God's scourge", and the bane of all that was holy. It was said she had a mantle made from the skins of unbaptised children" he raises the pint of mild in your direction before taking a long drink that empties over half the glass. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "Aye pure evil she were, it is said that ten bishops came to watch her burn. They still sing of her throughout the land, and tell children tales to make sure they behave. Aye Lady Margaret Trevor burned at the stake in 1640 something"

Again he drinks this time leaving the glass empty. He puts in back on the bar top with a bump, "Or is there something particular you would know of?"

Oliver joins the group as well. "Have you ever heard of a chap named Stephen?" he asks, adding his mother's maiden name, which is her brother's surname as well. "He may have been around these parts years ago."

Previously Oliver said:   "Have you ever heard of a chap named Stephen Daniels?"..."He may have been around these parts years ago."

For a couple of seconds the thin faced chap rubs his chin, thoughtfully. "Tis a common enough name round these parts, but I cannot recall ever knowing anyone by that name" Again he runs his hands over his chin, "From around these parts you say? Several years ago? Hmmm"

"I seem to thinkl there was a Daniels involved with that thing up at Exham years back" Says one of the others.

The one named Clewy suddenly comes alert, "That'll be the Priory, or the priory as was. Twenty years ago, if I recall. Nasty buisness". He picks up his empty glass and holds it up to the light - suggestively. Around him the others nod knowingly.

Maurice puts down his drink - he has drunk a little too much a little too quickly - and leans in on the conversation.

He loved a good story. Always had. He was a poet at heart.

"The Priory? Sounds enthralling. Please, tell us the tale!"

"Well...Mr? I always like to know who's buying my beer" Clewy smiles at you and puts the glass in front of you.

"Legend tells of a haunted Priory up on the hill at Exham. Haunted not just by ghosts, but, according to some, the devil himself. It was even said that the notorious devil worshipper Margaret Trevor lived there for a while, when the Priory was owned by the de la Poer's a family said to be accursed and steeped in the blood of innocents"

He pauses as another pint of mild appears in front of him, "Your health" he raises the glass and in one swallow seems to drain a third of the contents. "Now where was I? Oh yes" slowly, his voice droning slightly like some venerable school teacher, he begins to recount a story of a family called de la Poer who it seemed had held the lands around Anchester for the Kings of England for many centuries. It would seem from the tale that the vile practices of the de la Poer's were overlooked as they made such a splendid job of keeping the peace on this often violent border. However during the reign of James I, the excesses of the family resulted in the murder of most of the family. As a result the land reverted to the crown and it was rumoured that the murderer, a member of the family, fled, unopposed to the American colonies and disapeared.

From that time the Priory, or rather the ruins of the Priory, were said to be cursed and avoided by the locals after dark. Then following the 1914-18 war a rich American had arrived with plans to reconstruct the Priory as it must have looked before it was abandoned. He had all but finished the reconstruction when something, obviously to do with the curse, dark happened.

As he finishes the last drop of beer in his glass, Clewy with a smack of his lips looks directly at you, "They say that on certain nights, when the moon is at its fullest and there is hardly a cloud to be seen, that you can hear a strange slithering sound coming from within the hill. Some say it sounds like rats, thousands of rats, sliding and squirming somewhere below your feet. Others say its 'Old Nick' climbing long forgotten tunnels from hell to snatch the souls of the unwary"

As he finishes the tale there is a low sound of aniggering from several of the group, thin face, slaps the Welshman on the shoulder, "Oh Clewy you and your ghosts"

Clewy turns towards him a look of mortification on his face, "If you don't believe me talk to Thomas Jones the shepherd. He knows more about that dammed hill than anyone else"

From the 'snug' bar the sound of a tinkling piano cuts the atmospher like a knife as several voices begin a beery rendition,
"Roll out the barrel, let's have a barrel of fun..."

Priest wrote:"Well...Mr? I always like to know who's buying my beer"

"Captain Maurice Grey, of the 42nd Royal Engineers", Maurice replies, giving a tired saulte and an eager smile. He didn't really feel that much of a soldier now, if ever he did.

Priest wrote: "Your health" [/color]

"And yours, Sir. May it fare better than my own" he replied, miserably.

He listens to the stories intently, lost in them.

"De La Poer? Sounds an interesting chap, as does this ghastly place, The Priory. Very gothic!"

He turns to Captain Carpenter. Although they were equal rank, he could not help but to defer to the man. Captain Carpenter always struck him as a proper soldier, a proper hero, whilst he felt an imposter. Of the two of them, he knew which held seniority, and it wasn't him.

"Sir...Captain Carpenter...I confess my invalidity here has left me bored to tears. I would very much like to see this Priory. And I'll bring my paints. Sounds very picturesque! Would you do me the kindness of aiding in my whimsy?"

"I'd be delighted!" says Oliver, full of cheer. "Besides, I want to get to the bottom of this mystery involving my Uncle Stephen. And no need to address me as sir, seeing as we're the same rank. You can call me Oliver." He introduces himself to Clewy and his mates. "Captain Oliver Carpenter. I'd best not say which unit I'm with." He raises his own mug and takes a swig, then joins in the singing:
"Roll out the barrel,
We've got the blues on the run.
Zing boom tarrarel,
Sing out a song of good cheer;
Now's the time to roll the barrel,
Cause the gang's all here."

One of the group, who had remained silent through Clewy's story telling perhaps happier to sip his beer, looks up from the bar and in a voice slightly raised to overcome the boistrous burst of singing, says, "If you're after going up on Exham hill, you won't be finding much to paint, or see. Story is that the Priory which the Yank had rebuilt was torn down. There is nothing up there now but shadows and memories" He finishes his pint, puts the empty glass back on the bar and turns to pick up his jacket, "Well some of us have work to go to in the morning"

He nods goodnight to his companions, "Thanks for the pint sir". As he turns away he stops, "Best you talk to Jones. You'll find him most nights over at the 'Feathers' in Anchester, he'll be best able to tell you more. I don't know if you are God fearing gentlemen or not, but in God's name stay away from that hill"

Without further words he leaves the pub. At his going Clewy nods, "Aye speak to Jones" he looks from Maurice to Oliver, "And pray that you do not bear the taint of the de la Poer curse"

The door to the bar bursts open and some ten uniformed RAF types, no doubt from the nearby airfield, enter the bar, probably drawn by the singing. One of them a tall curly haired individual with a fine bristling moustache, lurches up to the bar, "Pints, ten for the lads and whatever these good men are drinking. We are celebrating 'Stinkers' promotion..."

"I pray God indeed" answers Maurice, contemplative, although the Truth was his religion was eroded to the point of collapse. If there was a God, he had decided, said God would have much to answer for.

Let down by the lack of suitably gothic scenery, he turns to Oliver, still unable to let go out of his deference. "Sounds like the Jones is the chap to see then, Sir...I mean..."

He is interrupted by the boisterous RAF. He groans inwardly, and, in honesty, a little outwardly too.

"Cheers!" says Oliver. "I'm not one to turn down a free drink. Congratulations, Stinkers!"

With the arrival of the airmen, the evening swiftly moves to one of beer and song. It seems that 'Stinker', as he is affectionately referred to, is being promoted and transfered to the east coast. Eventually the evening draws to a close and you find yourselves unceremoniously ejected from the Red Lion. The group of airmen slowly arm in arm weave their way up the street, following them into the darkness a last drunken chorus of 'Pack up your troubles'

OOC:   The evening has come to a close, where you go and what you choose to do is up to you. It is now eleven o'clock.

"Well, Sir, I mean...Oliver...I have had all I can consume for one night" says Maurice, in a bad mood for some reason. Stinker reminded him of some unpleasant archetypal school bully.

"Tomorrow, I would very much like to meet this Jones chap. Sounds like he has a tale..."

Of course, once he reached the small cottage he was staying in, trying to recuperate, he realised he had not consumed all he could for one night. Lying in bed, tossing and turning with violent coughing and vivid imagination, he took a more than liberal measurement of morphine "for the pain"...

And slumbered...

"Yes, I'd like to meet him too," says Oliver. "He may know something of my uncle and what he has to do with Anchester. Well, good night, Maurice. I'll see you in the morning." He returns to his lodgings and is soon fast asleep.

The following day, sore heads aside, you brave the rain in the small bullnose Morris and head to the town of Anchester. The town itself has little to recommend it and is one of those places which if you weren’t looking for someone you would never have had a reason to visit

The buildings are typical Anglo-Welsh border building, all wood and stone. Many look as if a strong wind might send them into collapse, but judging by the many plaques advising that this building dates from 1460, that one earlier and so on, it would seem that their ability to withstand all that time can throw at them is remarkable.

Finding the ‘Feathers’, or ‘Plume of Feathers’ to give it its full name, is a simple affair as it holds a predominant position in the small high street.

Questions soon reveal that Mr Thomas Jones shepherd for the Carnaby estate that has land around the town is well known and is easily found most nights in the small, but cosy, public bar of the ‘Feathers’, as you had been told.

That evening, with autumn rain persistently running in never ending rivulets down the small paned windows. The regular barman, Stanley Meadows wounded severely at Dunkirk back in ’40, looks up from wiping glasses and nods at a figure dressed in a long waxed overcoat drying himself beside the open fire.

“That’s Thomas over by there” As you turn to the steaming figure indicated he leans across the bar and puts a hand on your wrist, “I wouldn’t pay too much attention to his story’s, he has a fine imagination”

From a seated figure a few feet down the bar comes a snort of laughter, “Spends too much time alone with the sheep. If you know what I mean”…

Maurice had set out shedding his military costume. He wore a cap, a tweed jacket, and an old walking stick. After a moments deliberation he had left his service revolver behind. It was but silly superstition, after all. And Captain Carpenter...Oliver...was far more handy with a gun than he was.

The rain and the walk were unpleasant. he had to stop twice to catch his breath.

Sparing a thought for his fellow invalid, Mr Stanley Meadows, Maurice ignores the snort of laughter about sheep. It could be true, of course, but by his estimation such rumours bubbled up unfounded in rural areas; it was a sign that Mr Thomas Jones was a queer chap, or at least queer to the eyes of the rural.

"Mr. Jones? My name is Maurice Grey, ah...resting from the war..." he coughs, to emphasise. "And this is my good friend Captain Oliver Carpenter..."

"I was wondering if you could tell us of the Priory? we have heard queer and unnatural tales, and understand you are the man to speak to...?"

"Cheers," says Oliver, who has shown up in uniform. "I'll buy you a drink, Mr. Jones. What are you having? By the way, my uncle Stephen Daniels may have been around here years ago, and I was wondering if you'd met him or heard of him."

At the greeting, the wax coated figure, identified as Thomas Jones, turns and peers at you both. From the thick lensed glasses to the way he blinks as if to clear his vision it is obvious that seeing is not his forte.

“Priory? What Priory?” for several moments his face is a riot of expression mostly dominated by confusion, then recognition dawns as Oliver mentions the name Daniels.

“Oh you mean the old Priory up at Exham…Aint there any more, rebuilt and demolished some twenty years ago” He raises his almost empty pint glass to his lips and takes a swallow, all the time observing you both with a queer smile.

“Daniels? I knew a Stephen Daniels, something to do with the Church. But that was long ago too.”
He finishes his beer and looks expectantly, “Mines a pint of mild. And in exchange I’ll tell you a tale of madness, horror and death”

"I like a good tale" replies Maurice, shelling out coin. He has a slight inward sigh. He was from a lower middle class family, and his profession did not pay well, especially in wartime. His wallet feels light.

"Please, drink up, and spare no details. By my estimation, Captain Carpenter and I have seen enough war horror to steel our nerves for any unpleasantness"

Jones gesture towards a circular table in the window, still close enough to the fire to benefit from its heat.

“So you want to know about the Priory at Exham do you? It’s been a long time since anyone showed any interest in that place. Thought it long forgotten and properly so too.” He lifts the pint of mild and savours a little, then sighs as if ready to begin a long story.

“It was twenty years ago in August when it happened, me and a few others were rounded up to help find the Yank and his friends after they had disappeared somewhere below the Priory. We searched but it were the others what found the Yank and the captain”

He picked up the glass again and drank slowly, “I remember like it was yesterday the ravings of the Yank, de la Poer, as they dragged him to the waiting paddy wagon. Speaking strange thing he were, quite mad you know and they said how he had to be pulled away from the partially eaten body of Captain Norrys.”

For a moment his eyes darken as if remembering, “They spoke of terrible things down there below the Priory. Of ancient horrors best left undisturbed, of torn and eaten bodies, and strange half-human creatures” he shakes his head as if awakening from a dream.

In the course of his remembering he names the members of the party that had accompanied de la Poer on that fateful evening. Captain Norry’s, a retired soldier and member of the family that had owned the land prior to de la Poer’s purchase, two experts from Oxford Brinton and Trask, an estate worker named Thornton who fancied himself as some kind of ghost hunter, a Moreton also from the houses staff, and Daniels a Churchman who came to help.

He also tells of the subsequent demolition of the Priory and the destruction and following erasing of the site. He considered it at the time a strange thing to do, and was even more surprised when a group of experts was brought in a few days after the destruction to ‘salt’ the ground, at least he thinks that’s how they referred to the strange goings on that they carried out up on the hill.

He finishes by pointing out that, “The cursed hill is best forgotten and left alone, that’s what I told that Brinton fellow when he came sniffing around a few months later. Must have taken my advice as I never saw him again”. He points at the brooding bulk of Exham hill, visible even through the rain and the darkness some three miles from the town, “If not for that Jerrie plane, it would have remained forgotten, just a page in some book of local ghost tales alongside that of the Trevor* woman. But soon the place will be crawling with ‘experts’ eager to continue where de la Poer left off.”

He picks up the glass and finishes the drink in one go, then with excess liquid trickling from the corners of his mouth, his eyes glaze over,

“I still remember the words of de la Poer as they drove him away. Dhonas’ dholas ort, agus-leat sa!. this was followed by some other unintelligible gibberish, and finally as the van door swung shut. Rats, it was the rats I tell you. The Yankees ate Carfax and the rats ate Norrys!!!”

Story finished the small bar room lapses into a sullen silence, disturbed only by the crackle of the fire, the drumming of the rain on the window, and the steady tick of a clock near the door…

Maurice lets the silence fall over them like a cold wet blanket. It would not do to disturb it until it had laid upon them.

The clock ticking. He feels every beat acutely.

"The rats" he murmurs. He was not unfamiliar with the vermin. They fed on war.

"Mr. Jones, I thank you for your story, and confess it is an unsettling one. But it grabs me! And now I hear it, I do not think I can forget it, nor ignore it!"

Especially, he thinks, with all the stories floating around the locals at the moment. The rats. The scratchings.

"Perhaps we should take up some amateur vermin extermination, Sir..Captain...I mean Oliver..."

"Yes, perhaps we shall," says Oliver, deep in thought. As always, his mind turns to military matters. "What Jerry plane was this? When did they bomb Exham? It must have been some time ago, as they'd sent almost the entire Luftwaffe east to use against the Russians back in '41. There have been some air raids since then, but they wouldn't go this far inland when there are juicier targets much closer to the shore."

Jones glances at Oliver, not sure if he was speaking to him but all the same, "I've no idea. Local paper reckoned that the Jerry plane had been after some target near Birmingham and had chucked out the bomb to gain speed to avoid our fighters. It were coincidence that it hit the hill. Just ill luck I guess. Anyway if your uncle was the same Stephen Daniels who had been here in '23 maybe he would be able to tell you more about what happened at the Priory"

He turns and looks towards Maurice, his eyes behind their prescription lenses growing in size with a dawning look of horror, "Don't you be going up on the hill, sir. There are some things best left alone, and whatever secrets lie hidden beneath that hill" he gestures at the looming bulk of Exham Hill, "Are best left alone. They say that whatever de la Poer found down there destroyed his mind, and makes certain that he will never walk amongst sane folk again. Just as well really for if they thought him sane then he would surely hang for what he did to Norrys that August"

"Thank you," says Oliver. "You're right, I'll need to talk to my uncle to find out more. Do you know where I can place a trunk call?"

Mr Handy,You have had no contact with your uncle, at least none you can remember. However your mother is most likely to have an address for him.

Stanley, the barman, who like others in the room have fallen silent during Thamas' recounting of the affair at Exham hill, looks up from wiping a beer mug at Oliver's question, "We have a telephone here which you can use or there is one at the post office if you can wait untill Mrs Williams opens in the morning?" he nods towards the far end of the bar where the familiar black shape of a telephone can be seen.

Just then the clock chimes 8pm and as if that chime had broken some kind of spell, normality seems to return to the 'Plume of Feathers'. Thomas Jones stands, stretches noisily and pulls his cap onto his head, "Well gents, thanks for the drink. If that's all I'll be away, work in the morning"

He pauses for a few moments, just staring into space, "Dhonas’ dholas ort, agus-leat sa! he said as they closed the van door. Dhonas’ dholas ort, agus-leat sa! whatever that means?" Then obviously returned from where he had momentarilly been he walks towards the door to the bar, "Just stay away from that damned hill, no good will come of messing about up there"

As Thomas leaves Stanley smiles, "Don't pay hm too much mind, been out too long in the sun if you ask me..."

"I'm not sure where my uncle is at the moment, but my mum would know," says Oliver. "She's in the Women's Land Army, out in the countryside, but she'll have a telephone where she's billeted. She gets up very early in the morning to work, milking the cows and such, so this is probably the best time to reach her. It's evening, so she'll be done work for the day, and it's not too late to call yet." He goes over to the phone and places the call to his mother.

Oliver goes to the phone and begins the process of contacting his mother. After an hour, the phone rings and you are informed that there is a trunk call for Captain Oliver Carter.

Oliver,Your mother is obviously disquitened by your enquiries about uncle Stephen, you can teel from her voice and the way she seems to answer each question slowly and precisely. In the course of the conversation she tells you that her brother, your uncle, Stephen had spent most of your life working as a missionary in some unpronouncable place in Africa, and that is why the two of you had never met. Anchester? Why yes she recalls that Stephen had mentioned the town briefly, but she cannot recall what it was in connection with. Stephen, had unfortunately passed away last year. She and your father had attended his funeral but as you had been on a posting, they had decided not to bother you with the details. His belongings, the little that he had, had been left with them and now were stored in the attic.

As Oliver speaks in muted tones, Maurice can't help but peer through the window into the deepening darkness at the slowly disappearing bulk of Exham Hill. He feels a disquitening pull towards it, despite the lurid tales of the shepherd.

After he's done on the phone, Oliver returns to Maurice. "My uncle passed last year," he says, "so we can't exactly ask him anything. However, his belongings are stored in my parents' attic. Perhaps he kept a diary."

"Very well then!" said Maurice, keener than ever to unravel the mystery.

"Sir..I mean Oliver...I confess my heart and soul are aching for action, even if my flesh is ruined" he said, ashamed of his invalidity. "I think this is just the rehabilitation I need. Although if your parent's attic is dusty, I may have to give more spiritual than practical support in the rummaging..." he added, coughing once more.

"You may just have saved me twice. Let us proceed!"

"Glad I could help, Maurice," says Oliver with a grin. "I know what you mean. I can't stay away from action either. After I was wounded dropping into North Africa, I couldn't wait to get healed up and get back out there! If I'd had to stay in hospital any longer, I'd have gone spare! First thing in the morning, we'll head over to my folks' place and see what we can find."

"I fear I won't be seeing the front line again. Some wounds don't heal" replied Maurice dejectedly, his lungs wheezing.

"But, there is some steel in me yet. I may not march across Europe, but I can certainly take a walk to your parents with you. As long as we are in no rush!"

"Good to hear," says Oliver. "We'll take our time, then. There may not be a cure for what ails you, but I'll do what I can to help."