Dead Man's Embers by Mari Strachan Page A

the sugar bowl and a jug of milk she hopes has not noticeably soured, and deposits it on the table next to Davey. ‘You can pour, Meg.’
    Meg busies herself, and Non sits and waits for Davey to begin.
    â€˜We’ve got to get this right first time,’ he says. ‘No blots, no crossings-out that suggest we’re incapable of it.’ He picks up a pen and dips it in the ink. ‘The example they’ve given shows that I have to put my name first, then yours, Non, then you children in order of your age, then Gwydion last because he’s a visitor.’
    â€˜I don’t suppose it matters as long as they have the information,’ Gwydion says. ‘Does it?’
    The pen shakes in Davey’s hand and a drop of ink falls on the table. ‘Quick, a cloth!’ he cries.
    Non fetches a cloth and mops up the ink. The tremor in Davey’s hand is something as new as the attacks that send him under the table to fight his war all over again. Why have his nightmares turned into something so physical? Surely he had done his duty, more than his duty even; he had been made a corporal, he had been mentioned in despatches. Why does he have to bear it allagain? She wishes she knew if any of the other men who returned suffer in this way, but no one talks of the War: they all want to forget it, to leave it safely in the past where it belongs. She wonders how many others find it erupting into their present.
    â€˜Non, you fill in the form.’ Davey has moved to sit on her chair while she was returning the cloth to the kitchen. ‘Your writing is much clearer than mine. I’ll dictate what you have to write, so I can sign the form knowing they are my words on it.’
    Non sits and takes up the pen and looks expectantly at Davey. He avoids her gaze.
    â€˜First, David William Davies,’ he says. ‘We’ll do a whole column then go on to the next one, Non, rather than travel across. I think that will be easier. They need to know so much.’
    Non scratches away with the pen, dips it in the ink, scratches some more.
    â€˜It doesn’t hold much ink, that nib,’ Davey says. ‘Try the other pen.’
    She could do this in quarter the time, left alone to do so. She waits for Davey to tell her what next to write.
    â€˜Rhiannon Davies,’ he says. ‘What am I doing? Just write our names in age order, Non . . . but leave Gwydion till last.’
    Obediently, Non writes their names in the first column. There we are, she thinks, together for posterity on this piece of paper, that much is true – we are all here physically in this parlour on this sultry evening in June.
    â€˜Next column,’ Davey says. ‘Head, Wife, Son, Daughter—’ He stops and looks at Osian. ‘Son.’
    â€˜You can’t say that,’ Meg says. ‘He’s not your son, is he? That would make him my brother, and he’s not actually, is he?’
    â€˜Surely you can say son if he’s your adopted son?’ Gwydion says. Non and Davey have never admitted to anyone that they haveregistered Osian as their natural son. Osian sits to Davey’s left, unconcerned by all that is happening around him, his face and the way his hair grows so like Davey’s that Non cannot believe she has never noticed it before.
    â€˜Son.’ Wil’s voice is strong and sure. ‘He is your son, Tada. What else would you put?’
    Before anyone can argue about it, Non writes
Son
against Osian’s name, and wonders exactly what Wil can have meant by stating so strongly that Davey is Osian’s father, whether he meant more than she would have seen in his words only yesterday morning. She puts
Visitor
against Gwydion’s name and blots the column to dry the ink before moving on to the next one.
    Here, their ages are required. ‘Meg, we need years and months for this. You’re very good at your numbers, so will you work them out for me?’ Meg does the