The Dragonfly Pool

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I don’t think you ought to be crying at your age. People of fifty-two don’t cry,” said Aunt Hester sternly.

“I’m not crying,” said her sister, May. “Not really. And anyway, I heard you blowing your nose three times last night when you went to the bathroom.”

“Anyone can blow their nose,” said Hester.

“Not three times. And you’re older than me.”

But then they stopped arguing and clung to each other because the news their brother had given them the night before was so awful that they could only bear it if they were standing side by side.

“The house is going to be like a tomb without her,” said May. “She’s far too young to go away.”

“Of course we knew she’d go away to get married,” said Hester.

“But people don’t marry when they’re eleven years old.”

“Except in the olden days, perhaps. And in very hot countries.”

But England was not a hot country. Now, on a fine spring day in 1939, it was only pleasantly warm. The men digging trenches in the little park opposite had not removed their shirts, and a fresh breeze stirred the silver barrage balloons that floated over the houses. The government was trying them out to protect the people of London against enemy aircraft if the war, which everyone was expecting, really came.

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