Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt this week is
Larry liked to be alone, not with the others. No show, no bloody bugle. The sun caught his spectacles and he was instantly transported back 70 odd years to that room, somewhere near Mannheim, Jock slowly dying in his arms as the sun filled the windows, defying the chaos outside. A tear slipped down his cheek, momentarily blinding him.
Larry jumped; something hit his chest and fell into his lap. A lad, maybe 8 or 9 gawped at Larry in horror while somewhere behind him a woman’s voice remonstrated with the youngster.
‘For heaven’s sake, Roly, can’t you stand still for a moment.’
Larry looked at the ball, nestling in his blanket. Roly. That was Jock’s real name. How odd.
‘I’m so sorry sir.’ The woman sounded mortified. ‘I told him it was 2 minutes but he can’t keep still.’
Larry looked at the boy, a mix of fear and apprehension in his expression. He held out the ball and smiled.
The woman continued. ‘I told him to be respectful. I suppose he’s too young to know what your generation did, the sacrifices you made.’
Larry nodded. He offered a gnarled hand which the woman took after a moment. ‘Thing is, love, that’s why we fought, ain’t it? To let kiddies like your lad muck about rather than worrying about stuff. Go on son. Show us what you can do.’
Roly didn’t need any more encouragement. He flicked the ball high in the air and volleyed it across the grass. His mother looked at Larry, a bemused expression on her face before she followed her son.
Larry turned his chair around and headed to where the crowds still mingled by the green. Jock enjoyed a kick about too, he thought.