Yorkshire Daughter

by brightonsauce

My pal’s playing the ‘one sentence challenge’ on the forum.  So I sent him:

Yorkshire Daughter.

When she was little, father sent her away to big school because it was the right thing to do, and all that stuff were his thing, being a man of convention whom she loved, her daddy, she yearned for his attention, read in a letter the mention, a recollection his regiment might pass the gates of school, high among the hills, driving green tanks – she was thrilled that day when she heard tread from behind a fence, saw afar, sat in a turret Papa biting pickle, taking tiffin, his luncheon meat: a sandwich spread over a white handkerchief, for it was him, high here on the moors, she trilled her delight, expected a visit to the austere academy, joy, surrounding like Arnhem-on-the-Rhine with all the lonely, rather ugly girls gathered but his transport turned the other way at the junction, back to barracks, hussars never stopped, or popped by the school, though he was their captain, a caller he was not, no: another soldier; she faced humiliation see, this century asks me now, how, why did Daddy not come say hello with tanks for that was my wish: wish I had ever been champion of the world watching, wrapped arms (a)round my brave captain when I was a little girl.