Tom came home from leave, he’d taken over running Swansong missions since brass discovered that Harry was by popular definition a lunatic who ran into danger rescuing people, they needed someone steadier to run the ops. Harry was a mate, a real mate about the change.
“I hated planning, that’s more up your street so good luck to you.”
He’d not told Sonia that his new job was more dangerous than ever. She was so glad to see him, she prattled on about everything under the sun, her job, how business was booming, lighter news and of her new responsibility in organising accommodation for displaced families, she smiled a lot. Oh, how he loved her with her mixture of forcefulness in her business dealings masking the shy woman he knew well.
He’d promised to meet Evey on site, there he found her sat by the willow, cleaning a shotgun, her hair scraped back under a white standard issue peaked cap. He sat down next to her waiting for her to finish putting it back together, she looked over:
“You do realise you’re sat on your grave Captain.”
Puzzled.
“You’re not planning on shooting me, are you? I know contact is few and far between but that’s a bit steep a punishment.”
She fired off a blank, startling the local wildlife.
“I could, but no, this is an active graveyard now, part of the ministry, ten fresh graves by the verge, funerals last week. I’ve reserved under the willow for you in case you kick the bucket.”
Tom looked down, what should have been disconcerting, was comforting.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Evey put the gun down gently before flinging a clod of earth his way, hitting him rather comically in the face some of it landing in his mouth, spitting it out. he smirked, they were back to play fighting.
“What’s new with you Parkhurst Bride?” with mock seriousness and a face of hurt that would have rivalled any Oscar winner’s she spoke;
“You promised you wouldn’t call me that.” He surreptitiously picked up more dirt chasing her as she saw his intention.
“I’ll call you what I like after you tried to make me eat my own grave. It’s your turn.”
The clod flew at her hitting a grave stone as she dived behind it.
Gideon’s grave. Of course.
“Don’t hide behind your husband, come out and face me, you coward!”
An arm poked up from behind the grave waving a tissue.
“Truce, truce!”
Anyone watching would have thought them mad.
“No truce, surrender and you will be treated with mercy.”
“Sod off!” came the biting reply as she stood up from behind the stone. “The reason I’m calling a truce is I’m being kind; I have information that could break you.”
Intrigued Tom lowered his throwing arm a fraction.
“Oh do you now? Do tell and I swear I’ll not throw.” She patted the stone wearing the sort of deranged grin of a murderer.
“I know. You’ll be in shock. I give you permission to call me the Parkhurst Bride forever and ever to your heart’s content.”
Suspiciously the projectile was raised again.
“Oh?”
“Destiny is a funny thing Tom.” She raised her hand showing off her wedding band. “My name is Mrs D Parkhurst. Pleasure to meet you.”
The earth was dropped as Tom couldn’t contain his laughter.
“You’re pulling my leg, you’re married, to whom? You’re lying about the Parkhurst bit.”
He bounded towards her pawing at her hand squinting at the two rings. “Seems legit, Name? Now!”
Evey reclaimed her Hand:
“Captain Daniel Parkhurst.”
“An Officer, oooh look at you.”
“Well you never sent me one by post as you promised, so I went out and got my own.”
Pulling her in close. “Congratulations Evey, let me give the bride a kiss.” Her Cheek was proffered. Pointing downwards. “Do you think He’s a relation? Parkhurst Bride”
Clara Lucea
Missed the last instalment of We Six? Find it here: https://theiristribune.co.uk/of-baths-and-lipstick/
