Molly Cottle was burying stolen spoons in the garden.

Silver spoons and gold ones with pictures painted in their bowls of sunflowers and bagpipes, and Blackpool Tower. Spoons with handles twisted like barley sugar. Fat spoons. Tiny spoons. Spoons made of horn looking like smoke and honey.

Molly was using the fat spoons to dig holes in the soil for the littler ones. She dug in silence, broken from time to time by birdsong. It was November, cold and damp. The earth steamed steadily at her feet.

Her mum had dressed her in two jumpers and a scarf, telling her to go and play in the garden. ‘You’ll hear the church bell at eleven o’clock. That’s how you’ll know the Two Minute Silence has started.’

Remembrance Day was for all the brave men and boys who battled in the wars. ‘All of them,’ Molly’s gran repeated. She always repeated things but she hardly ever answered questions. ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ she said.

Read on by following the link to Smokelong Quarterly