George sat at the dining table
for evening dinner.
It was the first time
he had been down to dinner
in many months, since being sent home
with shell shock in 1916.
He sat quiet,
staring at his sister
who sat opposite.
Other guests
sat along each side
of the long table,
and his father sat
at the top end
and his mother
at the other end.
He wanted to shut out
the chatter; it grounded
on his fragile nerves.
The man next to him
(lord something or other)
tried to engaged him
in conversation
about the War,
but George turned
and gazed at the man,
gazed at his moustache
rising and falling as he spoke,
the words floating in the air
like wounded birds.
His sister said:
George doesn't talk of the War,
he finds it disturbing.
The man looked at the sister:
I suppose he must;
are on your leave then, Sir?
George turned away.
He wanted his wife.
Where was she?
He searched along the table
on either side, ignoring
the man next to him.
Where's Polly?
He said anxiously
to his sister.
His sister leaned forward:
Polly is busy, George,
you will see her later,
the sister said
in a soft voice.
I WANT HER NOW!
George bellowed,
his hands shaking,
his eyes staring
along the table.
His mother got up
from the table
and went around to George
who had pushed back his chair
and was standing shaking.
Calm, George,
she said.
She put an arm
about him
and began to lead him
from the dining room.
The guests stared in silence.
Polly who had been outside
waiting to take meals in,
came in and spoke quietly
to the mother,
and taking George's hand
led him from the room.
George is suffering
from shell shock,
his father said,
he has not quite
got through with it yet.
The guests nodded
and spoke in soften voices
offering apologises
and words of sadness
and such as guests do.
George held tight
to Polly's hand.
Who are those people?
He said,
his hands shaking,
his eyes staring around him.
Just dinner party guests,
George,
Polly said,
leading him
up the stairs,
wondering
what the butler will say
about her entering
the dining room
other than as a maid.
They climbed up the stairs;
George crouched down
thinking the bright lights
were flares.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC
George sat at the dining table
for evening dinner.
It was the first time
he had been down to dinner
in many months, since being sent home
with shell shock in 1916.
He sat quiet,
staring at his sister
who sat opposite.
Other guests
sat along each side
of the long table,
and his father sat
at the top end
and his mother
at the other end.
He wanted to shut out
the chatter; it grounded
on his fragile nerves.
The man next to him
(lord something or other)
tried to engaged him
in conversation
about the War,
but George turned
and gazed at the man,
gazed at his moustache
rising and falling as he spoke,
the words floating in the air
like wounded birds.
His sister said:
George doesn't talk of the War,
he finds it disturbing.
The man looked at the sister:
I suppose he must;
are on your leave then, Sir?
George turned away.
He wanted his wife.
Where was she?
He searched along the table
on either side, ignoring
the man next to him.
Where's Polly?
He said anxiously
to his sister.
His sister leaned forward:
Polly is busy, George,
you will see her later,
the sister said
in a soft voice.
I WANT HER NOW!
George bellowed,
his hands shaking,
his eyes staring
along the table.
His mother got up
from the table
and went around to George
who had pushed back his chair
and was standing shaking.
Calm, George,
she said.
She put an arm
about him
and began to lead him
from the dining room.
The guests stared in silence.
Polly who had been outside
waiting to take meals in,
came in and spoke quietly
to the mother,
and taking George's hand
led him from the room.
George is suffering
from shell shock,
his father said,
he has not quite
got through with it yet.
The guests nodded
and spoke in soften voices
offering apologises
and words of sadness
and such as guests do.
George held tight
to Polly's hand.
Who are those people?
He said,
his hands shaking,
his eyes staring around him.
Just dinner party guests,
George,
Polly said,
leading him
up the stairs,
wondering
what the butler will say
about her entering
the dining room
other than as a maid.
They climbed up the stairs;
George crouched down
thinking the bright lights
were flares.
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