Freda Emmerson, widow and mother, entered her parlour and pulled back the aging velvet curtains. Dust particles danced in the insipid October sunlight as she walked toward the unlit fireplace.
Glancing in the small oval mirror hanging against the chimney breast, her eyes stared tiredly back; her mouth set firm and proud. She patted a loose hair she teased it into place and stared, hardly recognising herself.
Her hand reached towards the mantle-shelf and touched the small brown envelope propped against a copper candlestick. She removed the small beige letter she read it without reading; knowing the words by heart. Letters from the front were pre-prepared and told mothers little. This one told Freda much. The options her son had taken with his crossing out simply confirmed he was well. His signature revealed more. It was signed “Second Lieutenant Joseph Emmerson”.
Joe and his brother Percy had always made her proud. She was proud when Joe qualified as a surveyor; proud when they’d both signed up to fight the Hun. Now she was proud that Joe had been promoted to officer in less than one year. He’d be able to look after Percy, make his life a little easier in the trenches.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the front door. She replaced the letter in the envelope and placed it against the candlestick.
She opened the door and her life stopped. A uniformed youth was holding two telegrams.
(Joseph Emmerson was born into a mining family in 1890 in the town of Bagsworth. He qualified as a surveyor before enlisting in the Great War as private with his brother in 1914. Awarded the Military Medal and promoted to officer on 8th Oct 1915. Both brothers were killed in battle five days later.)
