Underlined sparkling purple.

A confusing compendium of conflictual conundrums?

Certainly.

Jenny sat on the terrace trying to organise the in-orderable, seeking structure from a synchrony of sentences stretching in front of her like an unfinished symphony.

Then, looking up and seeing a toadstool pushing through the dew sodden grass with a suddenness that surprised her, she realised that her favourite colour was purple, not the orange crimson she had always Imagined but never seen in any living thing. 

Turning, she looked across the meadow and at that very moment, that three heavily camouflaged commandoes stumbled into the garden from the forest and her thoughts of colours fell into the dew along with the spiders now scrambling away for safety.

She stood up.

These men should not be there. 

They were heavily armed and this garden was a place of peace and tranquillity.

A place where spiders spun their webs unconcerned by the troubles of the world, where deer foraged in the pre-dawn and hedgehogs humbly hurried about their earth worm work without a care in the world. 

A place where a six year old boy could dream and marvel.

Jenny stepped off the terrace meaning to join her husband who was engaging the soldiers.

In conversation, not conflict.

She realised that they had not seen her and she felt a thrill at the revelation that they were unaware of their unguarded rear.

Position not posterior.

She was not a trained killer like them. Her father had been an R.A.F. pilot during the war but he had failed to pass on any warfare wisdom, preferring the science of planting flowers and raising vegetables to that of dropping bombs. Yet she took a certain pride in knowing that she was now out manoeuvring three of the nation’s finest.

It turned out they were lost, unable to make much sense of the map that one of them held in his hands. It did not augur well for their participation in any future battle.

They look tired too.

Sweat had left streaks through the paint covering the faces of two of them, orange and green daubs that looked as if a young child had clumsily applied them for a last-minute birthday party.

The third who was carrying a radio on his back in a pack that was big enough for Jen to hide in, had no face paint. 

It did not look as if it had washed off, though with the weight of the radio his efforts had surely been the greater. There were no coloured stains on his boots. His skin was as bright and clear as the night.

Jenny found this interesting, the cultural distribution of crayons, and realised her husband was thinking the same thing. Their eyes met and she understood that Jack was also thinking about the radio.

Surely an I-phone 14 to 17 would be easier to handle, would probably include a GPS option, and could be traded during hand-to-hand combat to save your life if push came to shove in a war zone somewhere other than where they stood.

“Can we have some water?” They asked. 

Much better than ‘hands-up’ and a lot easier for Jenny to accommodate. 

She handed out glasses, reserving the one featuring Tintin and Captain Haddock for the radio-mule. Static from the aerial became the only noise other than their glugs.

The leader (most groups have one) placed his loaded machine gun on the grass as he rummaged in his backpack, struggling to place his helmet among the extra ammunition.

Jen couldn’t help but think that military protocol was being ignored, surely the manuals insist that a commando never leaves a loaded weapon at the feet of someone they don’t know?

She looked at her husband; she knew what he was thinking, a long life together gave her that ability.

He was considering grabbing the machine gun and running towards the forest. 

He was calculating, probably correctly, that the radio carrier would be encumbered by the rustling antennae, and that her husband’s zig–zag run, coupled with the shock that anyone would be so stupid, would impede the soldier’s aim.

But the third combatant was an unknown quantity. He had said nothing, and had drank quickly. His gun remained on his shoulder.

Jen gave her husband a look.

One that he would recognise.

The one that said – ‘don’t! How old are you? Six?’

The ‘don’t !’ was underlined in a thick regal-purple line that sparkled in the afternoon sunshine.