A Medal for Leroy

“Good. You don’t need to, you know,” she said, “because you’ll have all these medals when I’ve gone, so you won’t ever need to go to war to get them, like your Papa did.”

“Oh Martha,” Auntie Pish said. “Don’t go on so. You’ll upset the boy.”

“And you will keep them polished for me,” Auntie Snowdrop said, quite ignoring her sister.

“Course I will,” I said.

“He’s a good kind boy,” Auntie Snowdrop said, reaching out and touching my hair. “Just like his Papa was. He has the same face, same lovely hair, just the same.” She glanced up at the photo, and then back at me again. She took my hand, gripping it tight as she spoke to me. ”But always remember, Michael, it’s not the face that matters, not the skin, not the hair, it’s what lies beneath. You have to look deeper, Michael, behind. Look through the glass, through the photo, and you’ll find out who your Papa really was. Remember what I said now, won’t you?”

We were driving back to London an hour or so later when Maman told me. “Auntie Snowdrop’s not very well. She’s going to have to go into hospital in a week or so for an operation – I think Auntie Pish is very worried about her.”

“She didn’t sound like it to me,” I said. “She was horrible to her, she’s always horrible to her.”

“I know,” Maman replied. “But you have to remember, chéri, those two, they’ve been together, lived together, all their lives. They need one another. I doubt they could ever live without each other, not now. Auntie Pish is an hour or so older, that’s all. No twins were ever less identical, that’s for sure. Your Papa used to say to me that they were like two sides of the same coin. And he knew them better than anyone.”

I looked down at the snowdrop I’d been given when we left and remembered how long and tight Auntie Snowdrop had hugged me when we said our goodbyes, how she’d stood there waving us off, how frail she had suddenly seemed.