No Fun At Parties

The less thought given to the enormous silence left in Tris’s absence, the better.

“Mrs. Hall?” he called, tentative. A half-sliced loaf of bread sat on the table, suggesting that she had been called away in a hurry. Never a good sign in this time of war. “Mrs. Hall?” he called again, toeing off his muddy Wellies.

There was no answer, not even a woof from Dash or the pad of Jess’s paws as she came through the house to greet him. And the air remained still and laden with something unfamiliar and unwelcome against the brisk and bright spring outside.

“Jess?” he tried, hoping that would get more of an answer. And it did, as the forementioned golden walked slowly from the dining room, her tail lower than usual, her bright eyes a bit sad. She greeted him with a slow wag of her tail, an impatient nudge with a cold wet nose against his hand. “Where is everyone, girl?”

Jess, clever and observant, seemed to understand his question and turned back towards the dining room, looking back to make sure he followed. He followed, a bit hesitant, not knowing what he might find there. The source of the unease in the home.

Mrs. Hall was sitting at the table, Dash next to her with his head in her lap. She barely acknowledged his comforting presence, her mind elsewhere. It was then that Siegfried noticed the open telegram on the table in front of her. A telegram that could only bring bad news. About her son.

“Oh…” he sighed, unable to stop himself. Mrs. Hall turned towards him, clearly surprised to see him standing there. Her eyes were dry, no sign of the tears he’d have expected, but her expression was one he had never seen before.

“Mr. Farnon, I…” her voice was rough, more from disuse than crying. He wondered how long she had sat in silence at their table. She looked back at the telegram and at him, though he could see words failed her.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” he said softly, as though speaking to River or another scared animal. “Is it Edward?” He came to her side at the table, not wanting to read her sad news before she was able to tell him herself.

“Robert.” She looked at Siegfried and back at her telegram. “He’s died.” She handed the telegram to him, but didn’t meet his glance even as their fingers gently brushed. “He were in hospital. Died last month.”

Siegfried scanned the telegram, brief and impersonal. Robert Hall died of pneumonia in hospital in Scarborough. The solicitors had been unable to contact her until now. Only the deceased’s personal effects to collect, she should contact if she would like to claim them. Buried in a pauper’s grave, an identification number and row given should she like to pay her respects.

“He were a good man,” she murmured, her voice soft and tired. She looked up at him with soft blue eyes.

“You don’t need to defend him to me, Mrs. Hall.” He put down the telegram, found that his hand had been snatched by hers, her grip strong and searching.