The red hand gang

SHOULDERS TOUCHING, we sat side-by-side, the retired marine and I, under the russet leaves of a stunted oak. The clock in the churchyard had just chimed five and the last of the light was fading over the River Stour. One flask between us and two enamel cups, we sipped hot cocoa.

It happens sometimes; you’re waiting so intently for that unmistakable silhouette or the whistling pips of a drake on the wing that a bird comes low across the fields and drops onto the water unseen.

The first