‘That’s perfect, Marcus,’ Roger said. ‘Thank you. And Siegfried.’
Five days later, looking out of the window as the car approached Thiepval, Grace was thinking of this. Mametz was no longer just a word in the poem but a real place with signposts pointing the way; she had seen one a few moments ago.
They had driven out from Paris – Grace, her mother, Marie-Louise and her parents – in search of Will’s grave. This final day of their visit was being devoted to their personal First World War pilgrimage.
‘So many cemeteries!’ Mum kept exclaiming, as another one came into view. ‘My goodness!’
There were more and more, on both sides of the road: some with massive arches and walls, others only a few graves clustered around a stark, simple stone cross.
Grace looked out at stubble fields and grazing cattle, small villages, a roadside shrine, a stall at a crossroads selling vegetables and flowers. Only by the place names and the hundreds and hundreds of graves could anyone tell that some of the fiercest fighting of the war had been here, and the heaviest losses. Grace thought of the ghost soldiers Marcus and Jamie had seen at Liverpool Street, and the real owners of those names who’d headed here to die, all unknowing.
‘So this is where the Somme fighting took place,’ said Marie-Louise’s father, at the wheel. ‘Before the war the Somme was just a slow-flowing river that gave its name to the département. Now that one word has come to mean slaughter on a vast scale.’
Through Will and Christina and Mark, Grace felt a personal connection to the war, but now registered that a dull-witted part of her brain had expected the fighting to take place on something called a battlefield, marked out like a football pitch. Of course it hadn’t. The war had been fought over fields and woods like those around Flambards. It was as if enemy troops had camped by the lake in their wood, set up machine-gun posts at the edge of the trees and fired shells into the meadow, turning it into no-man’s land. The ground between the two armies had been churned and ravaged, as in the photographs she’d seen; the front line had shifted in one direction or the other, at terrible human cost. It was oddly familiar from the poems and photos, but also distant. The unthinkable numbers of dead were tidied into respectful neatness and measured now by these lines of gravestones.
Their first destination, the Thiepval Memorial to the Missing, was a huge structure of brick and stone, set on a ridge and visible for miles around. Grace thought of a Lego giant bestriding the high ground, massive feet squarely planted. They left the parked car, walked up and stood dwarfed beneath the monument, and she saw its complicated structure, arches within arches that made many stone-panelled sides. Each of these faces was carved with thousands of names: the names of soldiers with no known grave, who had simply been lost in the slaughter.
They all stood silent and awed. When they spoke, it was in respectful whispers. A line from the poem sounded in Grace’s head: Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you’ll never forget …
Except that it was autumn now, not spring. The sky was grey and overcast, the trees wind-tossed, fallen leaves strewing the grass like copper coins.
Do you remember? The words, repeated through the poem, tingled through her, as they had when Marcus read them aloud. In front of the huge memorial were a large number of gravestones with lettering that said simply, A soldier of the Great War or Known Unto God.
‘Graves without names,’ Mum said, ‘and names without graves. Imagine losing someone and never knowing what happened to them!’
Marie-Louise’s father took a great many photographs, and Grace took several too; Marie-Louise sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Grace did not cry. She felt a weight of solemnity too heavy for tears.
They returned to the car for the next stage of their journey.
Will’s grave was not in a place of stern grandeur like the Thiepval memorial park. Grace’s mother had found it on the Commonwealth War Graves website, and the sat nav took them northwards for more than an hour, then to a large village near Béthune, past a Super-U store and signs for école maternelle and Bricolage. Their destination this time was an ordinary cemetery, a large and sprawling one with an assortment of styles, grave after grave bedecked with urns, statues, photographs, real flowers, plastic flowers, even a teddy bear for a child – the bric-a-brac of mourning. By a wall at the back was a line of five war graves identical to the ones they’d seen at Thiepval and in every roadside cemetery on the way. Their simplicity was set against the clutter and fussiness of the rest: pale stone, cross and inscription, the headstones fronted by a neat strip of earth and closely mown grass.
‘Here. Here he is.’
They had found him.
There was Will’s name, on the middle headstone of five: beneath the regimental emblem with its soaring eagle and Per Ardua ad Astra.
CAPTAIN WILLIAM RUSSELL
ROYAL FLYING CORPS
28TH JUNE 1916 AGE 22
‘Hello, Will,’ Grace’s mother said softly. Grace’s throat was too tight to say anything at all.
Will Russell. Only twenty-two when he was shot down – just a few years older than Marcus and Jamie. The boy who had grown up at Flambards and found wings to fly had ended up here in the earth. Whatever plans or dreams he’d had for his future had been cut short. He’d died without knowing he had fathered a daughter, Isobel, continuing the line of Russells that led to Grace and her mother standing here.
‘He doesn’t know about us, does he?’ Grace said.
It sounded silly, but her mother understood, and put an arm round her. Grace had the swimmy sense of double-vision she had felt before. Will came from four generations back; he was her great-great-grandfather from another century, and Captain made him sound grown-up and important. But he was also Will from Flambards: the boy with the wonky leg, the smiling face of the photograph, ambitious, clever and bold; the young man who had loved Christina, and who she’d said was the love of her life, so soon lost.
If I were Christina, Grace thought, I’d have loved him too. He was so brave, so bold, and so frail.
She thought of Christina’s name carved on Mark’s gravestone, not Will’s, as Mark’s beloved wife. But she’d been Will’s beloved wife first, and they lay in their graves hundreds of miles apart, separated by the English Channel and by Christina’s long years of life. It felt as if Will was abandoned here. This version of Will.
‘What would he think of us?’
‘I think he’d be proud,’ her mother said, and gave her a squeeze. ‘And pleased we’ve come all this way.’
The village church bell sounded the hour with its resonant, distinctively French chime. Grace had brought a handful of conkers from the trees that lined the drive to the stables. It had been her mother’s idea to bring something from Flambards: but what, they had wondered. Flowers wouldn’t have lasted the five days since they left; berries would fade and wrinkle. Then Grace thought of the conkers, from the same trees Will would have known, walking past them many a time, maybe stooping to pick up a particularly shiny new conker from its split case – because who could resist doing that? And it was under those trees that she liked to imagine his ghost, almost-visible, as if he would have appeared if he possibly could.
He’d be there when she got back.
Carefully she placed the conkers on the well-tended strip of earth in front of the grave.
They took photographs; then Marie-Louise took several of Grace and her mother standing behind the grave, each with a hand resting on the curved top.
‘The three of you!’
‘The three of us. Three Russells.’
It was difficult to leave, but Grace knew she could bring herself back here in her thoughts whenever she wanted.
On this last evening they had dinner in a bistro, Grace’s mother’s thank you to Marie-Louise’s parents for their hospitality. Grace had been showing her photographs of Flambards and its people and animals to Marie-Louise. She flicked through pictures of Plum, Jamie and his family, Mum a
nd Roger in the garden; some of herself, in athletics shorts, with the new activity limb that meant she could run again. Run fast, like she used to.
‘One of the boys in my form asked to try it on and have a go … Well yeah, only you’ll have to cut your leg off first.’ Flick, flick: Flash, Cat Siggy. ‘And here’s Sirius, Charlie’s horse, with Marcus riding. Look – isn’t he gorgeous!’
‘Mmmm.’ Marie-Louise took the phone and gazed, deeply appreciative. ‘Yes, for sure. And the horse is also a beauty.’
Grace giggled, having set that up for her. ‘And this one’s of Skye. She’s my friend at school.’
‘She looks nice. Géniale.’
‘Oh yes, she is. You’ll meet her when you come to stay.’
Skye would never be a replacement for Marie-Louise, Grace knew that. Their friendship was special, and would last – for ever, she hoped – whereas sunny Skye was the sort of open-hearted, confident person who seemed to like everyone equally and was popular in return. Skye was going out with another boy now, while Jamie was keen on a girl in Grace’s year called Mia, but they were still on good terms.
‘And this …’ Grace found what she was looking for, and held out her phone to Marie-Louise, suddenly self-conscious. ‘I drew this for Marcus. It’s his birthday today.’
It was the ink drawing of Flash, the one she’d worked and worked on and at last perfected, or at least made as good as she could possibly manage. Flash in all his Flash-ness stared out of the drawing, smiley-faced, prick-eared, rough-haired, caught in a moment of eager alertness.
Grace had given it to Marcus after the rehearsal.
‘An early birthday present,’ she told him. He looked at her, then down at the card protected by two sheets of thin paper. He lifted the top sheet and made a small sound of surprise, gazing at the picture.
‘You did this?’
She nodded.
‘Oh, Grace,’ was all he said. But the way he said her name, and looked at her, was more than enough.
Grace smiled, remembering.
‘That’s fantastic!’ Marie-Louise exclaimed. ‘You and Marcus are spending a lot of time together, yes?’
‘Mm. We’re good friends.’
‘Not more than that?’
Marie-Louise had a boyfriend now, Fabien, and was keen for Grace to have one too. There was a boy she liked, Patrick in Year Eleven, who seemed to like her in return … but that was too tentative even to tell Marie-Louise, just yet. And they were talking about Marcus.
‘Very good friends. But not the way you mean.’
‘No? But you like him very much, I think? Please don’t tell me he’s got a girlfriend?’
‘Nope.’
‘Boyfriend?’ Marie-Louise raised her eyebrows.
‘Got it. Someone in the sixth form.’
‘Aaaah. So you guessed right after all. That is just too unfair to girls.’
But Grace was content – more than content. It was odd now to remember her first days at Flambards, when Jamie had been her ally, Marcus distant and unapproachable, someone she’d never expected to get to know. Now both were important to her. Jamie was always around, at Marsh House and at school and at Flambards; his latest text was full of excitement about seeing marsh harriers in flight and a bittern in the reeds.
Grace had sent Marcus a happy birthday message earlier, but now she sent another, with photos of the Thiepval Memorial and Will’s grave. An answer pinged straight back.
Must be amazing seeing it all. Wish I was there.
How’s your day going? she asked. Has the Big Moment happened yet?
Not so big after all. Mum had already guessed.
Clever Sally! And your dad?
OK with it. Mega relief. (He’d added a whole row of grinning faces.) I’m even bringing Liam home to meet them.
Well done you! Grace returned, with a smiley face of her own. I want to meet him properly too. Home tomorrow. See you then. Gx
‘For goodness’ sake, Grace, put your phone away!’ her mother called across the table – as if she didn’t spend every spare moment texting Roger. ‘Typical teenager! Come on, Gracey, we ought to be practising our French. It’s our last chance. Parlons français,’ she added: so unmistakably English and self-conscious that Grace couldn’t help laughing.
Their remaining time ran out fast. At Paris Nord next morning they all said their goodbyes, exchanged hugs and thanks, made promises; Marie-Louise and her parents stood waving as Grace and her mother rode up the escalator to Eurostar departures.
Settling into her seat on the train, Grace felt a tearful mingling of sadness and happiness.
They’d be at Flambards this evening. Roger would meet them at the little station and drive them home.
It would be dark by then, but tomorrow was Sunday. She’d wake up with Cat Siggy on her bed (Mum disapproved, but Grace found ways of getting round that), and she’d look out of her window at the view she loved: meadow, autumn trees, sky in changing moods. She would cycle to Marsh House with carrots for Plum; she would ride across the fields, and maybe Marcus and Flash would run with her as they often did.
She thought of a phrase from Marcus’s poem: joy to spare. Yes. So much; enough to make her giddy.
Her mother was looking at her phone. ‘Roger says he’s making a special meal for us tonight. A surprise.’
‘Well, duh! How can it be a surprise now he’s told you?’
‘He hasn’t said what.’
Grace reached for her own phone, thinking that she’d text Marie-Louise – missing you already – and maybe Skye. Rummaging in the front pocket of her rucksack, her fingers closed on the keyring Roger had given her. She pulled it out and held it in the palm of her hand.
He’d had a fob made with Jamie’s otter photo on one side and Grace riding Plum on the other. On the ring, as well as the small keys for her school locker and bike padlock, there were two house keys. One was for Roger’s flat, though he said she’d better stop calling it that now that she and Mum lived there too. The other was for the main door.
‘The key to Flambards,’ he said. ‘Front door. You need your own key, now that you properly live here.’
In the window, her reflection smiled.
She was going home. Home to Flambards.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, I’m deeply grateful to David Fickling, Hannah Featherstone, Anthony Hinton, Bella Pearson and Linda Sargent for their editorial suggestions and encouragement and to Trevor Arrowsmith for being my first reader. I’d also like to thank Yvonne Coppard and Sue Hendra for their insights, and Gillian McBain, ambassador to Ottobock, for her specialist advice on adapting to a prosthetic limb. Thanks, too, to Katie Hartnett for her beautiful cover design.
Of course, my biggest thanks are to Kathy (K. M.) Peyton, whose captivating Flambards books inspired me, long ago in my student days, to make a serious effort to write for young readers. I couldn’t have guessed then that I’d one day have the cheek to suggest this project to Kathy, or that she’d so kindly give me permission to use her characters and settings. I still can’t quite believe that this book is here and finished, as well as I can finish it.
It’s been a joy and a privilege to revisit the Flambards quartet and to imagine what happened to those unforgettable characters after the end of Flambards Divided, the final part. (Yes, it was tempting to call my book Flambards Revisited.) I hope admirers of Flambards will either approve or forgive. If, as I hope, The Key to Flambards brings new readers to K M Peyton’s wonderful stories, I shall be delighted.
Linda Newbery, February 2018
NOTES
The Flambards quartet is published by Oxford University Press:
Flambards
The Edge of the Cloud
Flambards in Summer
Flambards Divided
Set before, during and after the First World War, the stories follow Christina from her arrival at Flambards at the age of twelve as far as young adulthood, leaving her in her twenties and about to marry Mark, w
ith whom she’s always had a tempestuous relationship. The only one of these books not set at Flambards is The Edge of the Cloud, in which Christina supports Will through his ambitions as a pilot, confronting many tests of her own bravery.
The Oxford Companion to Children’s Literature describes the Flambards books as ‘one of the major achievements of modern British fiction for younger readers.’ K. M. Peyton was awarded the Carnegie Medal in 1969 for The Edge of the Cloud, and the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize in 1970 for the Flambards trilogy (as it was then). In the 2014 New Year Honours List she was appointed MBE for services to children’s literature.
To find out more about the ‘ghost soldiers’ Marcus and Jamie talk about on page 138, and to see them for yourself, visit https://www.1418now.org.uk/commissions/were-here-because-were-here/
On 1st July 2016, thousands of volunteers took part in ‘we’re here because we’re here’ – a UK-wide event marking the centenary of the Battle of the Somme. It was commissioned by 14-18 NOW and created by Turner Prize-winning artist Jeremy Deller and Rufus Norris, Director of the National Theatre. It was a strikingly clever and poignant way of remembering the huge losses of the Somme campaign and of reaching large numbers of the public.
The poet Marcus refers to on page 140 is Edward Thomas. Asked by his friend Eleanor Farjeon if he knew what he was fighting for, Thomas picked up a pinch of earth and crumbled it in his hand before letting it fall, saying, ‘Literally, for this.’ Edward Thomas was killed at Arras in April 1917.
The Patrick Ness book Grace and Marie-Louise have been reading is Release, published by Walker, 2017.
The readings by Grace, Jamie and Marcus for the Armistice weekend are from:
Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain, published by Virago
All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque, published by Vintage.
The Key to Flambards Page 23
