Shrines of Gaiety

by Kate Atkinson

At least, she thought, the new Royal Artillery memorial had the guts to show a dead soldier. For that, if nothing else, she gave it respect. She refused to worship at these shrines to the dead and yet Gwendolen’s heart was moved by the sight of a small posy of withered flowers that had been laid on the memorial. A faded note declared simply For Daddy. What a wicked, wicked world it was that had allowed such a war.

He brought her a cup of tea, the first and last resource of an English husband.