Prologue (please tell me the option you prefer)

Prologue option 1. Happens in the middle of the book, I hope it makes people interested in continuing to read.

Prologue option 2. Explains why and who the author is, and why they have decided to write this book

Prologue 1:

After he was gone, the days passed slower. That morning when I awoke, pulling my thick cardigan over my shoulders as a defence against the cold breeze which permeated the thin and cracked walls of my dorm, I had a strange feeling that the sun had sensed my mood, and was growing as reluctant as I to get up in the mornings. We would both drag our feet until someone finally told us it was okay to sleep now. The warmth and joy of summer had slowly turned to fall, missing its iconic colour and light which had long been my favourite part about the changing season. The days gradually grew colder and harsher until it became clear that winter was upon us, bringing with it an icy cold that made my bones ache and my bitter heart weep.

Some mornings, I would wake from a disturbed night of tossing and turning and forget. I would rise as I always used to, excited and full of hope for the day ahead. On those days I would run straight to my mailbox, my heart thumping as I ran down the creaking stairs, missing every other step with the innocence of a child. I prayed, eyes closed, hardly breathing, for a message. Would he want to see me again? Was he to be at our hiding place on Friday? It would only be when my now almost skeletal hand reached into the cold metal box and felt the empty nothingness inside that I would remember that I no longer had a reason to be nervous. At those moments, more often than not, I would return back to bed with heavy steps and a heavier heart, pull the covers over my head and sob silently into my pillow.

Those days were not the worst times though, those came when I was walking the street, or at one of the dances I seldom attended now, in the post office, I would recognise the uniform. A similar hairline, that self assured, almost cocky gait which I had grown to love so quickly. My heart would skip a beat, my palms would grow sweaty and I would silently pray to God that I be given my light back. Alas, that was not to be. I grew use to the rise and fall of my hopes like the tide lashing against one of the pebble strewn beaches of my childhood, it gives and it takes, but never makes the mistake of believing that it is owed anything.

On the days where I could not find the heart to rise out of bed, my absence from work was noted, considered, but ultimately ignored. There were, as always, bigger problems to be dealt with. On occasion. a co-worker would come around after her shift finished, maybe carrying two coffees, a bag of pastries, a fresh orange or two when they were available. They would knock and call out hesitantly, as if half wishing I would not answer so they did not have to deal with me. Lucky for them, I usually didn’t. Eventually they always went away.

Emily would always run up to me the next day at work, a mixture of concern and curiosity pasted across her face, badly disguised by a weak smile. She would try, bless her, to get me to open up and "talk about my feelings.” Sometimes I would, sometimes I wouldn’t. Either way it seemed that the questions, whether answered or not, were unstoppable.

In that way I preferred Claudia. A quieter type like me, she was there when I needed her to be and handily silent when all I needed was a human touch. Although Emily was an older friend, having travelled with me from England 2 years before, Claudia understood me better. We had developed a complicit trust. The way she appeared to know what I was thinking before I even knew it myself, made me wonder if perhaps she too had been through something similar. She never spoke of a boyfriend or husband, yet when there was a man who expressed interest in her she would hang her head and fall silent, as if ashamed of his attraction to her. Sometimes she looked lost in thought, with a strong but indescribable sadness filling her eyes.

By the following Spring my frequent absences from the clinic were no longer tolerated, it had been a fine line I was tiptoeing across and even the most careful would have fallen in the end. On a fine Tuesday morning towards the end of March, I was called in for an interview with the Head Nurse. Sister Lottie was a wonderful woman, she cared for her girls like daughters despite not being that much older than the majority of us. I was nervous, of course I was, but I had always known that this day would one day come. I had missed 12 days of work in the last 5 weeks alone, no one could get away with it forever.

“I imagine you know why I’ve asked you in today Rose” Not a question but a statement, she spoke quietly whilst tapping the unpolished spoon against the twee tea cup from which she drank a brown tepid water. I had politely declined, wishing instead for the hot cocoa which as my mother had often said, could heal almost anything.

“I suppose this is a dismissal Miss. I just hope I could have some time to sort out my affairs before I leave.” I trembled as I spoke, suddenly regretting my childish display of self-centredness.

“Not exactly Rose. When you are here, you are an exceptional member of staff. I have never seen a girl so capable of holding her head in even the most difficult situations. You have real talent and obviously a passion for your work and for the patients. But you are also intelligent, so you must have realised that your on and off attitude to work at the moment can not be tolerated. I think it is obvious to both of us that I could not let you go, not only are we already understaffed but you are exactly the type of person we need here.”

Her eyes could read me almost as well as Josephine’s, and I felt honestly bad for the first time, not wanting to disappoint this wonderful woman who had already done so much for me. I remembered when I had first started in Angers, 18 months ago, and the overwhelming homesickness that had hit me like a train in the first month. It was she who had encouraged me to work through it, praised me, she had become my first friend here.

“Yes Miss, I’m sorry Miss. I will try harder.” I think she knew I wouldn’t as well as I did as she rolled her eyes slightly and sighed softly.

“ Would you care to explain what’s been happening? You’re not the girl who arrived here so long ago. I know this war has changed everyone in some ways. You have experienced things no young girl should have to see, I know you are also worried about your brothers..You said Henry had been relocated to London? That must have been quite difficult for you. And John, do you hear from his often?” She petered out slowly, obviously expecting a response. Unfortunately the only one I had was to lower my head even further and bite my lip in an attempt to stop the flood of emotions. I shouldn’t have got out of bed today, my body was tired, my mind ached. I wanted the silence and peace of sleep to envelope me once more.

“Well if you’re not going to talk I suppose it could be worse than me just talking to you. Look Rose, I’ll be honest, I want you here and I want to make this easy for you, you’re not being fired.” I breathed out a sigh of relief at those words, but allowed her to continue.

“ Something is obviously bothering you and I know it will help you if you talk to someone about it. It doesn’t have to be me, it could be one of your friends, Emily always seems to care about you so much. You have a true friend there, at times like this our friends become our family. You do have a family here Rose, no matter how much you to try to stop it. Was there a man?” Am I that easy to read? Was it written across my forehead and I was just too blind to notice? My long hated blush rose to my cheeks and I knew there was no point in denial.

“Yes Miss.”

“And he died? I"m sorry to be blunt Rose but you can’t possibly think that you are the first person in France that this has happened to in the past 4 years.”

“I don"t know..”

“Was he English? If he was it wouldn’t be too hard for to find out for you, not strictly following the rules but I’ve done it for other girls. It would only take a call or two, I can do it now if you want, or whenever. Just let me know dear.” She was trying so hard to help, bless her, but I knew she could not.

“No Miss.”

“No to which part? His nationality? Or you don’t want to find out?”

“He's not English Miss.” I knew I was treading dangerous ground here, I knew if they found out I would be shunned and hated, treated like a betrayer.

“ Ah. So he's French then? There's not so much I can do there, I can try if you want, I know that often the worst part is not knowing. Anything would be better than the uncertainty, don’t you agree?”

And for one brief shining moment of honesty, I almost told her the truth, I almost admitted to it all. Almost told an almost stranger what I had been hiding from the whole world for so long.

“Yes Miss. From Toulouse.” At least Frederic was an international name. God how I missed him. The most beautiful man in the world. I needed to see him again more than anything else in my life, I could not bear the thought of passing yet another day without him, it would surely kill me.

Another half hour of mindless chit chat and it was finally over. Diagnosed with the vague illness of "Depression" I was given a three month leave to do with as I wished. Nurse Lottie's recommendation for me was to go home and spend time with my mother, but I could not do that. My room would be saved for me for three months whether I was there or not, and I was free to return early if I wished. I felt strangely empty as I walked back to my lonely flat, work had been my one place I could forget about him, now what could I do? It was not until I walked past my empty as normal mailbox that I realised what a three month leave meant for me. I closed my eyes, smiled, and felt hope for the first time in months. Nurse Lottie had given me my chance.

PROLOGUE OPTION 2

My full name, is Rosalyn Helena Partidge. I am not a writer, I am not an artist, and I certainly do not have a way with words. I am not sure exactly how my story will come out, the only thing which I am certain of is that it is a story which must be told, whether for my sake or the readers, again, I do not know. I have had an interesting life, although I suppose that all of those who have reached my age may say the same. I have experienced a great deal of things, both good and bad.

My memory is not as good as it once was, sometimes I boil the kettle and forget about the tea I wanted until an hour has passed, when in my youth I found it no trouble to recite 50 lines from heart. Age does strange things to people, perhaps the mental manifestations of this are not as obvious as the physical, as of course I have long lost my beauty. My hair falls white and wiry now, my face is lined from years of joy and sorrow, and I walk with a cane, when there is noone to support me. Those things however, do not bother me, but as my mind becomes lost in itself, not recognising the faces of my grandchildren is what hurts the most.

While I fail to remember the day of the week often, and am not currently aware of the comings and goings in the world, I retreat into the strong and sharp memories of my former life. These are what I cling onto in the dead of night, long after Frederic has left our conversation to enter the land of sleep, but I do not dare follow him. He will occasionally need something in his sleep after all, and I could never leave him wanting. He has only ever had me, and I have only ever had him. All we ever do these days is talk. He mostly stays silent, as he has heard all of my stories before I'm sure, and sometimes an indescribable sadness fills his eyes, and he looks at me with pity and love.

 Perhaps, dear readers, you do not care for the ramblings of a woman far past her prime, but allow me if you will, to tell you a tale of war, love and friendship.