The War was a big deal when I was younger. We celebrated all our family heroes, most of whom did not make it back.
This was reflected in our decor, where black and white photos of uniformed family members watched from at least one wall in every room of the house.
Many of these were of my Great Uncle, a Naval officer with big arms and gap in his teeth. At least that what the photos showed. We never met.
When they cleared out his bungalow, we ended up with a dusty trunk of his belongings. The leather was faded blue, the clasps rusted and loose.
For most of my childhood this trunk hid at the back of the attic, with a messy hill of old clothes propped against the side. I took a peek every so often. I liked the smell. Sort of earthy.
More photos lay within. These were faded, and creases formed a thick cross on each one. But there he stood on a deck. By a porthole, pointing at the sea.
The other photos lost the naval theme. A French farm house, each window broken. A grave-like hole in a garden overrun with weeds. The final one made almost no sense, just eyes and close up of pale skin.
Alongside the photos were some brilliant curios. His old prayer book. Some kind of woolen blanket, dotted with holes. Documents and papers, all typed and in French.
The vials were odd. Thick glass with crumbling stoppers, their contents still within. All contained what looked like mud mixed with sea water.
We liked the skull most of all. My guess was a fox's. The snout contained sharp teeth, and the hole in the top was wide enough for a candle.
We were kids. They should not have let us play with the trunk. We had no respect. But after he died, I think Mum wanted to get that old War crap hidden away, and be done with it.
I did not mean to break the vial. It slipped, and that old glass was so fragile. The air got so hot, and everything stank of seawater. Something clicked, and clicked qgain.
And I had the most terrible sense of loss for a man I never met.
