Season of Hope

Stanley added, “At least Jack’s dad is spared our memories. That’s another blessing.”

“It certainly is.”

During the Great War, Stanley’s brother-in-law had been turned down by the military on account of his poor vision.

Not that he hadn’t done his bit on the home front.

Walter recalled sanctimonious individuals handing out white feathers to apparently able-bodied men of conscription age. He’d been appalled by their lack of insight to the recipient’s inner convictions or hidden health issues.

He wouldn’t resent any man spared from the hell of mass conflict. It was a miracle that he and Stanley had emerged relatively unscathed.

If there is a God, please let Jack come through this, he thought for the umpteenth time.

Stanley coughed. His slim frame shuddered as he covered his mouth with his hand.

Walter was reminded amongst the uncertainty of wartime, some things remained worryingly constant. They weren’t through the winter yet. He hasn’t got the strength to cope with another bout of pneumonia.

Walter kept his observations to himself. Stanley would brush off any concerns up to the point where he was struck down by a full-blown chest infection. Tactfully Walter kept to the subject in hand.

“I was chatting to Dad today. With Jack and the others away, it’s dawning on me how he must have struggled. At the time, I was too bloody busy trying to stay alive to think about how worried he must have been.” Walter added casually. “If anyone understands what you’re going through, it’s Dad. He said you could call round anytime.”

Stanley’s face brightened.

“That’s very kind of him. I certainly appreciate the offer. But I always have you to talk to.”

“Of course you do, love.”

Walter tried not to reveal the helplessness he felt at the worry that ate away at Stanley. “Dad thought a chat might help. You’ll probably be sent home with an extra sack of potatoes too.”

“He’s a good man, just like his son.”

Stanley smiled. Not the restrained expression of recent times, but a real smile, crinkling the skin around his eyes.

That particular smile never failed to pull at Walter’s heartstrings. It also provoked a reaction below the belt, even after two decades together.

“I’m not that good,” he said lightly.

Stanley’s smile widened.

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

Walter put his hands on Stanley’s shoulders, turning him around so they were face to face. He bent down and kissed him.

When they’d first met, Stanley had sported a pencil moustache. Walter had loved how it framed his lush lips and the feel of those coarse hairs against sensitive areas of his body had driven him wild.

Stanley had been clean-shaven for some years. This also had its advantages. Walter found the prickle of his five o’clock shadow equally alluring. He pulled Stanley closer, making him laugh, his damp hands either side of Walter’s waist.

Stanley’s body moulded against Walter’s as their kiss deepened.

What a difference a letter from Jack makes.

Walter pulled back slightly, before burying his head in Stanley’s neck. He kissed the bare skin above his shirt collar.

Stanley shivered appreciably.

“If we carry on like this, we won’t get to the pub,” he joked. “Only Monty, Sam and Jonesy can make it tonight, so we need to make up the numbers.”

Walter continued to hold Stanley, enjoying their closeness.

“If we turn down our homemade entertainment for the sake of a pint with the chaps, I’ll be seething if the landlord has run out of beer again.”