TEN
December, 1919
Mrs Harker welcomed us into her home with cups of strong, bitter coffee and some cold chicken sandwiches. Uncle Joe was already there, perched precariously on the edge of a steamer trunk that served the purpose of a sitting room table. The rest of the trunk was strewn with bits and bobs from Mrs Harker’s own kit, and the floor around was strewn with the papers that the bits and bobs must have displaced.
Three years ago, the house had been regimentally tidy, everything in its place, nothing out of order. But then her husband, Jonathan, came home from the Front in a box barely big enough to be a coffin for a cat, and overnight, the stacks of newsprint, correspondence, and miscellanea began to grow. Everyone had been worried, at first, about the sudden change in her habi
