Wine-coloured leaves were scattered over the grass. Freddie stood with his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed. His parents stood beside him. Their local parish priest, an old family friend, stood a little to one side.

Freddie had motored down to his childhood home the evening before. He was due back in town later to meet an editor at a leading publishing house. After his return from France, Freddie had started writing short pieces on French history and travel articles for the newspapers. From time to time, he wrote something more hard-hitting about war or grief or death. The editor had written last week and suggested Freddie might like to put them together into a book.

On the strength of it, Freddie had handed in his notice at the school. He was no longer content to spend his life in a job he didn’t much like. Since his experiences in France, he was a new man. He wanted to do things, to make his time matter.

Freddie turned to his parents in turn and smiled. All that, a new career, writing, a break with the past, belonged to tomorrow. Today belonged to George. It was 20 October, George’s birthday. He had finally persuaded his parents to accept that George would never be found. But it did not mean they could not remember him.

In front of them stood a simple headstone carved out of grey marble. Shining, bright, the sun glinted off the surface and sent rainbow patterns on to the thick grass. They had chosen the place where George had played as a boy, beneath the trees where the robins and the blackbirds made their nests.

The lettering was plain, giving George’s name, his date of birth and the month and year of his death. They had never known exactly when he fell. Beneath that, carved in block capital letters, was a simple message.

‘We shall not forget.’

At a nod from Freddie, the priest stepped forward and said a few words. He told stories of George as a boy, and described the courage with which he had gone to war and the tragedy of his death. Beside Freddie, his mother sobbed. He reached out and took her hand.

The priest made the sign of the cross and said the final words of blessing.

‘Amen.’

He stood back. Freddie looked to his father, who gave a brief shake of his head. His mother looked up at him and nodded. He squeezed her hand, then let go.

As he stepped forward, he was thinking of Marie’s gravestone and those of her family in the tiny cemetery in France. Their names, too, would now not be forgotten. History is words carved on stone so that we should remember. Words endure when memories fade into dust.

‘Welcome home, George,’ he said.

In the branches of the tree above his head, the robin began to sing.