The Wounded Thorn

by Fay Sampson

  ‘They have now.’ Suddenly the day’s events caught up with Hilary. She sat down suddenly. ‘It’s a long story.’ She drew David down beside her and lifted his right arm aside. ‘That was close,’ she said, surveying his bandaged chest.

  ‘There were others for whom it was too close. Two patients, one orderly.’

  She sat in silence, thinking of all the terrible maybes which had never quite happened.

  ‘We passed the Glastonbury Thorn today. Someone tried to cut it down, eliminate it. But it keeps on putting out shoots, however often the vandal comes back to cut them off. And people have planted slips of it all over the town. It’s still alive and blossoming.’

  David’s hand closed over hers. ‘I know what you mean. In all the bombing, the shelling, hope lives on.’

  ‘Well,’ said Hilary. ‘Veronica talked about cracking open a bottle of wine. That sounds like a very good idea to me.’