“Honestly, your writing’s terrible!”
Grandfather looks up from the fly he’s tying – a March Brown, he told me as he settled at a table covered in small boxes of silks and feathers. “What are you reading, lass?”
“It’s this” I waggle his Army Field Message book in his direction. Army Book 153.
“I had been shot in the shoulder when I was captured.” he reminds me, exasperated.
I sigh. “I know, Grandfather, forgive me. It’s just… well, I really want to be able to read it”. He looks at me – carefully excluding from his glance the book in which he’d scribbled bits of his life in 1916 . “I’d like to find out more about your time in PoW camp.”
“Well, lass.” His hands fall from his work. “I came back. It should rest there.”