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I remember the joy of your laughter as we escaped to our meadow. Up there amongst the trees and those grasscovered hills, we giggled and danced in the dappled sunlight.
With those mischievous eyes you would dare me, and I would strip off my dress and, laughing with delight, we would wade into the stream, splashing and yelling as we immersed ourselves in the icy water.
Afterwards, we lay on that tattered old blanket as we shivered and dried in the sun. The goosebumps slowly receded, and we would drink cider and feast on the bread and cheese we’d filched from my parents.
And then we would feast on each other. I would smile as you told me how much you loved me, and you would stroke my iridescent, glowing skin. I remember gasping as you gently explored me with your eyes, with your fingers and with your tongue.
It was exhilarating to watch you. To look at your naked body, to see how vibrant you were, how spirited, how alive!
Sometimes we had grapes as well, and we ate them with young, voracious appetites. But it was not enough to satisfy you. You hungered for more. You, you cheeky, bold rogue, wanted what only a girl could give you. And so I offered you my cherry. I gave it to you willingly in the lee of that big old oak, and you beguiled me, excited me and, eventually filled me with your hardness! And, oh my, what hardness you had!
I never knew it could be like that. Nobody tells you anything, do they? Ma and Da would have had a fit if they knew, and like as not Dad would have fetched his shotgun! But it was worth it. It was beautiful, and arousing and worth the risk and, yes, it was quite messy, too, what with the blood and stickiness and all. But I’d never felt like that before and all I wanted to do was drink you up.
I couldn’t believe you wanted to taste me like that, you cheeky sod! At first it didn’t seem fitting, but the things you did with your tongue made me realise it couldn’t be anything other than right. And I wanted to give you those same feelings. It felt so wicked, but so nice at the same time that I couldn’t stop smiling for two whole days afterwards. When Edie asked what was up with me, all I could do was blush!
God, we were so young. Young and exuberant and full of wonder. When I look back now, I cannot believe those days of happiness in that meadow. We thought the world was made especially for us.
But it wasn’t, was it? Because then the war came. The war came, and you volunteered. I could happily have fetched that shotgun myself, damn you, Johnny Fletcher! And in those days before you left, you became so much quieter. Quieter, but determined and kind of sad. Only those close to you could see the unease, the apprehension in your eyes.
I, too, was scared. Because somehow, I knew nothing would ever be the same again if you went away. And I was right, wasn’t I?
After our time in that meadow and the promise you made me to come back, it was suddenly so quiet when you’d left. Sometimes it was as if none of it had ever really happened. When I lay in bed at night, I tried to remember what it had been like. I confess I used my fingers to try and help me get that feeling. It wasn’t the same, of course, but it was all I had. All that I had to remind me of our passion and how you had beguiled me with your joy.
Afterwards, I would think of you and wonder. Did you think of me? Did you have a spare moment, or were you always busy?
You said you’d write, but you never did. Two years is a long time, my love. I would listen for news every day and the things that we heard, well, I cannot imagine what it must have been like out there. Out there amongst all of that chaos and confusion. We heard talk of the trenches, and the thundering of the guns, and the gas. God, how on earth did anyone survive in that gruesome horror?
Two years, and then one day you came home again.
But when you returned you were not the same. Not the same man who went joyfully with me to that meadow. You were young no more and all the life had gone from your eyes, the innocence ripped away by those things we read about; the shells and the barbed wire and the machine guns hammering away as men lay entangled, crying for their mothers and waiting for death to take them.
You had seen things, felt things that you could not explain. I had not shared those things with you, and you wouldn’t let me in. Wouldn’t let me help you face the demons that visited you at night, or hold you as you sobbed into your pillow.
But I had to try. And one day, when I thought the time was right, I took you by the hand and led you. I led you back to our meadow. I wanted to see if you were still in there somewhere, Johnny Fletcher. I wanted to see if the man I loved could be found again.
It wasn’t the same. Of course it wasn’t how could it be? But I wanted to try. I wanted to do something, damn you, and so I encouraged and coaxed you as best I could.
Our loving that day was gradual. You lay down on that same tatty blanket and let me take the lead. I tried not to rush you, and eventually you responded.
You responded to my mouth, to my kisses. Did you feel the love I had for you in every fibre of my being? I hope so. I just wanted you to be the man I used to know.
And somewhere, somehow, I lit a spark and I felt the first stirrings of something that had been absent for such a long time.
You were hesitant, and rough with lack of practice, but I welcomed you anyway. Anything was better than the apathy that had defined you for so long. And afterwards, you cried and talked about shame and finally let me hold you, and rock you as you dozed in my arms, the horrors temporarily kept at bay by my deep love for you.
Later, we walked back down the hill, hand in hand, and you were smiling and I had hope in my heart again.
I hoped it would begin the process of healing you; hoped it would help you to be whole once more.
And for a while, I think it did.
But then something happened. I don’t know what, but they found you in your room, the revolver still in your hand and that sad expression in your eyes captured once and for all.
I would have done anything to keep you with me, Johnny, but whatever I did, it was not enough. Is there anything more I could have done, my sweet? Anything to have kept you with me for one more day? I suspect not. I just wasn’t strong enough for you, and I am sorry.
We buried you yesterday, next to your two younger brothers – victims all. I hope the guns are silent now, and that finally – finally you can sleep, and the demons of the night will trouble you no longer.
Yet you are not completely gone. Know this, Johnny Fletcher. Through me – through our love, a part of you continues. For within me, something grows; something vibrant and exciting and alive! Something that will forever remind me of you, and the time we once had.
And hopefully, they will never have to suffer as you suffered. Hopefully, now that the war to end all wars is finally over, there will be no more pain, and they will dream the sweet dream of a boy and a girl together in a meadow.
