Saluting soldier silhouette and quote on forearm

The ovens are up to heat and the first tin loaves are cooling on the rack by the back door, so I have a few minutes before the van comes for the rounds. Mrs Pargeter's order is chalked on the slate: four cobs, one split tin, and a bag of seeded rolls she pretends she doesn't want. The hill is still black outside the window. I can just make out the stone soldier on the rise above the church, his arm up at his brow the way a sentry does when he has spotted someone coming a long way off.

Dad used to say he was the only man in the village who never looked tired, because he had nothing to do but stand there and watch the road. I told him that was the worst job in England. He laughed and said the worst jobs were the ones where nobody bothered to salute you back.

Yesterday a boy came in with a grazed knee and a face like thunder, and asked whether I'd ever been up to the soldier. I said I had, when we were small and climbed the rocks at the foot of the hill. He wanted to know if the salute meant the war was over. I told him it meant somebody was still keeping watch, and that bread doesn't rise for anyone who doesn't.

The light's coming now. I've left the last of the fruit loaf under the cloth, and there's a jar of your favourite damson jam beside it. Come home at Easter and I'll let you shape the cobs properly this time.

Love, Nell