pegged her as a probable Tory. He perched himself on the edge of the bench and extended his hand. ‘Gabriel Bryce.’
She took it, her hand dainty in his, her grip surprisingly firm. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. She didn’t offer her own name, which Bryce regarded as loose confirmation of her political loyalties. She was also unfazed by his company, which was a rare experience for the Prime Minister. He didn’t normally meet random members of the public and, when he did, they were carefully screened supporters or party members, sycophants in the main, the type of people who would queue for hours just to shake his hand or have their picture taken with him. This woman wasn’t like that, and neither did she seem as old as she’d first appeared. Her skin, though lined with age, was coloured a healthy pink by the sharp air, her brown eyes bright and intelligent. Perhaps it was bereavement that had aged her, knowing the debilitating effect that loss can have on a person’s health. Her clothing was smart but old-fashioned, the woollen coat and knitted hat neither waterproof nor insulated against the cold. Bryce guessed she was in her sixties.
He indicted the nearby headstone. ‘Your son?’
‘Gavin. An only child.’ The smile never made it to her eyes, Bryce noticed. ‘He’d be in his thirties now.’
The faded picture propped against the cold stone showed a young man wearing full dress uniform, his back ram rod straight, his hands placed stiffly on his knees, chin tilted upward towards the camera. His face was frozen in that serious boy soldier expression, pride and vulnerability all in one, his eyes barely visible beneath the gleaming peak of his service cap.
‘Afghanistan?’ Bryce asked.
The woman nodded. ‘Part of the peacekeeping mission. Such a waste, all those lives, don’t you think? You know, it still pains me to see world leaders fawning all over those Taliban creatures. Such a betrayal.’
Bryce felt a little uncomfortable, recalling last year’s visit to Downing Street by the robed and turbaned delegation from the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. ‘I know it sounds harsh, but that’s the reality of politics, madam. Every conflict ends with dialogue and compromise, if only to prevent more loss of life.’
The woman sniffed, sitting a little straighter on the bench. ‘I’m not a fool, Mr Bryce, I understand the way the world works. I just don’t think it was worth losing my boy over. Any of those boys.’ She nodded toward her son’s grave. ‘His best friend Miles ended up in a hospital near Birmingham, one of those ghost wards for veterans. It sounds like a terrible thing to say, but I’d rather Gavin be here, in his grave, than rotting in one of those godforsaken institutions.’ She turned and fixed Bryce with a cold stare. ‘You really should do something about them, you know. Disgusting places.’
Bryce knew about the ghost wards, where damaged and distressed servicemen and women lived out their days in NHS isolation units dotted around the country. The spectres that roamed their halls had been long forgotten by the media and quietly ignored by politicians, any political capital to be gained from their recognition spent long ago. Bryce himself had never visited one.
Before he could muster a suitable response the cell in his pocket began to vibrate. ‘Excuse me.’ He glanced at the screen, then up the hill towards the cemetery access road where Ella stood watching him. She held up her arm and tapped her wrist. Bryce waved and got to his feet.
‘Time I was going,’ he announced. ‘Pressures of work and all that.’
The woman looked away. ‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘And I for yours,’ said the woman, and Bryce thought she meant it. He’d only taken a few steps when her voice called after him: ‘Do you despise this country, Mr Bryce?’
He stopped and turned around. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Our culture, our values. Do you despise them? If you intend
She took it, her hand dainty in his, her grip surprisingly firm. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. She didn’t offer her own name, which Bryce regarded as loose confirmation of her political loyalties. She was also unfazed by his company, which was a rare experience for the Prime Minister. He didn’t normally meet random members of the public and, when he did, they were carefully screened supporters or party members, sycophants in the main, the type of people who would queue for hours just to shake his hand or have their picture taken with him. This woman wasn’t like that, and neither did she seem as old as she’d first appeared. Her skin, though lined with age, was coloured a healthy pink by the sharp air, her brown eyes bright and intelligent. Perhaps it was bereavement that had aged her, knowing the debilitating effect that loss can have on a person’s health. Her clothing was smart but old-fashioned, the woollen coat and knitted hat neither waterproof nor insulated against the cold. Bryce guessed she was in her sixties.
He indicted the nearby headstone. ‘Your son?’
‘Gavin. An only child.’ The smile never made it to her eyes, Bryce noticed. ‘He’d be in his thirties now.’
The faded picture propped against the cold stone showed a young man wearing full dress uniform, his back ram rod straight, his hands placed stiffly on his knees, chin tilted upward towards the camera. His face was frozen in that serious boy soldier expression, pride and vulnerability all in one, his eyes barely visible beneath the gleaming peak of his service cap.
‘Afghanistan?’ Bryce asked.
The woman nodded. ‘Part of the peacekeeping mission. Such a waste, all those lives, don’t you think? You know, it still pains me to see world leaders fawning all over those Taliban creatures. Such a betrayal.’
Bryce felt a little uncomfortable, recalling last year’s visit to Downing Street by the robed and turbaned delegation from the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. ‘I know it sounds harsh, but that’s the reality of politics, madam. Every conflict ends with dialogue and compromise, if only to prevent more loss of life.’
The woman sniffed, sitting a little straighter on the bench. ‘I’m not a fool, Mr Bryce, I understand the way the world works. I just don’t think it was worth losing my boy over. Any of those boys.’ She nodded toward her son’s grave. ‘His best friend Miles ended up in a hospital near Birmingham, one of those ghost wards for veterans. It sounds like a terrible thing to say, but I’d rather Gavin be here, in his grave, than rotting in one of those godforsaken institutions.’ She turned and fixed Bryce with a cold stare. ‘You really should do something about them, you know. Disgusting places.’
Bryce knew about the ghost wards, where damaged and distressed servicemen and women lived out their days in NHS isolation units dotted around the country. The spectres that roamed their halls had been long forgotten by the media and quietly ignored by politicians, any political capital to be gained from their recognition spent long ago. Bryce himself had never visited one.
Before he could muster a suitable response the cell in his pocket began to vibrate. ‘Excuse me.’ He glanced at the screen, then up the hill towards the cemetery access road where Ella stood watching him. She held up her arm and tapped her wrist. Bryce waved and got to his feet.
‘Time I was going,’ he announced. ‘Pressures of work and all that.’
The woman looked away. ‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘And I for yours,’ said the woman, and Bryce thought she meant it. He’d only taken a few steps when her voice called after him: ‘Do you despise this country, Mr Bryce?’
He stopped and turned around. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Our culture, our values. Do you despise them? If you intend
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