December 1914Ellen Fletcher stood sentry in the doorway at the far end of the hallway. ‘What time do you call this?’ she asked, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. ‘Where have you been?’
Harry halted, alert to the meaning behind his mother’s words. She was accustomed, if not to getting her own way all the time, at least to having plenty to say about it. Her very blood spoke ‘Fighting Irish’.
‘Work. Met a friend,’ answered Harry. ‘Where’s everyone else?’
‘Holy Mary! I’m not talking about the others, am I now? It’s you I want words with. You just come here a minute.’ Ellen’s brogue was dense with accusation.
Harry strode past her into the kitchen. So she wanted to have her say. Fair enough, it couldn’t be avoided forever. It made no odds. Let her say what she wanted. He glanced
