Waiting
Grace Sudlow
11th November, 1918. 10:55am
Feckenham, Worcestershire
I lean on the garden gate, looking out across the village green at the large church clock, high on the steeple. Its hands inch towards that important number: 11am.
The chill, autumn wind rustles through the trees, catching the hem of my dress and spreading it out like a sail. The wind also carries something else: the sound of a tiny beak tapping against the dry stone wall.
I watch the robin as it hops along to my elbow. I look down at it. “Hello, little fellow,” I whisper. “Waiting for the bells?”
The robin blinks solemnly at me. I look back at the church clock. The minute hand has edged closer to the all-important hour.
The robin hops up and down on the wall. Its beak opens and it gives a little squeak.
“Come on,” I whisper, willing the minute hand onward.
One minute to 11.
I take a deep breath, my mind flying to France, Tom, and all of Europe, waiting for that same chime.
Dong.
“One,” I count along with the clock. “Two…three…four…five.”
The robin seems more excited than ever.
“Six…seven…eight…nine.”
My hands clench.
“Ten…eleven.”
The minute hand lands firmly on 12.
“Yes,” I cry, clapping my hands. “Yes!!! At last!!!”
The robin begins to sing.