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I was five when the war started, living in the North Yorkshire countryside, far from the bombing and horrors going on in other parts of the country. My four brothers were all much older than I, and one by one they went off to join the Army, R.A.F. and Fleet Air Arm.

My second brother — tall, handsome, with the bluest of blue eyes which were always dancing with merriment — joined the R.A.F., flying Lancaster bombers over night dark skies to Germany. When he was home on leave the house rang with laughter and the jazz he played on the piano.

One morning my younger sister and I, dressed in our best clothes, were waiting to go off for the day with Mother. The door bell rang and Mother went to answer it. She came back into the room, holding a strip of yellow paper. Looking very white and strained she told us to go upstairs and change. We were to stay up there and play. Well, my sister and I moaned and whined, saying it wasn’t fair, but with bad grace did as we were told. That was the day the telegram came saying my second brother was missing, presumed dead.

Many months later, when I came home from school, I could hear someone playing the piano, the same mournful notes, over and over again. I ran into the room and there at the piano sat my brother. He was very thin and his handsome face was haggard, with lines etched into it which did not belong to the face of a twenty three year old. But it was the eyes which had changed most — they were still the bluest of blue, but the dancing had died.

Disclaimer: story submitted by Monica Murfin at Lanchester Library on behalf of Janet Tulip.

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