by Neil Spring
He didn’t smile though, and I wondered if he still suspected me of working for the War Office.
At that moment, a string quartet – I heard later that they had travelled especially from Salisbury for the service – struck up a sombre melody.
Everyone sat. Even though it was bereft of any of its original pews, St Giles’ was full now for the first time in a year, every chair taken. Men and women sat with hands folded in laps. No one spoke. Price and I sat on the right side, a few rows back. The commander was with Sidewinder in the front row, towards the left, his gaze riveted on the reverend as the old man took his place at the pulpit.
For a man who had preached to this congregation for so many years, he looked curiously nervous. All these years later, I suspect that’s because the speech he gave was scripted for him by the commander.
‘Dear friends, welcome. I know it’s cold, and I’m afraid to say that the conditions outside are worsening, which means I am obliged to make today’s service shorter than I otherwise would.
‘We are here today to worship God, to remember those who served – especially those who made the supreme sacrifice – and to remember those who graciously and willingly sacrificed their homes, this entire village, to the war effort eighteen years ago.’
A pause. His gaze roamed the nodding faces below.
‘Sacrifice. That word holds a special meaning for us all, does it not? Christ told us, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Well, no one can argue that the sacrifice we made, as a village, as a community, was distressing and outstanding. We must take solace in knowing that we played our own role in bringing an end to the Great War, for the good of our nation and the Empire.’
Mutterings of support from the congregation; a few nods.
‘But’ – I noticed the reverend catching the commander’s eye – ‘we must never forget that members of our armed forces who train hard every day, year in and year out, here on Salisbury Plain are themselves called to a life of sacrifice, and we honour them. May we show our devotion to the heroism of all who fought to preserve a world of peace.’
He looked down at his bible and drew a breath.
‘I know that some of you are keen supporters of the noble Imber Will Live campaign. We have with us today a man who most of you know. A man who has worked tirelessly to keep the memory of this special village alive in our hearts. Oscar Hartwell, whose family has worked much of Imber for generations, has asked to say a few words, and I would like to welcome him.’
There was muted applause as Hartwell took his place at the pulpit, clutching a sheaf of notes, which he laid on top of the open bible.
The commander was watching him closely, I noticed. It wasn’t surprising that Hartwell had been allowed to speak. Most of the village had once belonged to him.
For a long moment, he gazed down at his notes, saying nothing. When he finally looked up, it was hard not to feel a pang of sympathy for the man. His eyes were glistening.
He cleared his throat and began.
‘Friends, it is a testing task for me to stand here in this battered church. You all know why. Most of you either worked directly with my family at Imber Court or knew someone who did. I will never forget the support you offered us that hard winter, when Rosalie was buried next to Lillian and Beatrice. It was snowing that day too.’ There was a sad smile across his lips. ‘Many of you knew how precious Rosalie was to us, and we will always be eternally grateful to you for your support.’
I couldn’t help but feel touched, and I wasn’t the only one. At the end of my aisle, a stout middle-aged woman with a downturned mouth and a shock of white hair wiped away a tear.
But not everyone was as moved. In the row behind me, a bald man with a weather-beaten face peered at Hartwell through narrowed eyes.
I recalled once more the funeral I had witnessed outside this very church, and remembered how some of the villagers had watched the proceedings with a mixture of suspicion and trepidation, very like the expression I was seeing on this man’s face now.
In the pulpit, Hartwell went on, ‘I don’t believe many of you ever met Pierre. My son . . .’
I glanced over at the commander and saw him shift uncomfortably in his seat. Price, next to me, was frowning. Why was Hartwell talking about his son – here, now?
‘My son,’ Hartwell repeated, and I heard the quaver in his voice. ‘Pierre was born after the evacuation. If he had lived, he would now be seven years old. But what five-year-old stood a chance against the clutches of the Strangling Angel? I would like to thank Doctor Mitchell for providing the best care available to Pierre. I know you did all you could for him.’
He smiled at a chubby grey-haired man in the congregation, who nodded back and dropped his eyes.
‘I’ve been asked to speak to you about my childhood,’ Hartwell continued. ‘My memories of the harvest, the endless summers when we picnicked on the downs. What it was like growing up with my sister in the rambling old mansion across the road. But I must tell you, friends, it’s not been easy to relive those times. Too much has happened in the intervening years.’
A little puff of frosty air escaped from his mouth; he drew in a breath. Passion, perhaps even obsession, stood out strongly in his voice. He was now glaring defiantly at the commander.
‘Around this time of the year – Imber Service Day – I confess that I lose myself in sadness for this wrecked village, which has become a place of ghosts. I ask myself whether perhaps I was wrong to insist that Pierre should be buried here.
‘But then I think, no. We all love this village; we were born here, some of us have roots going back centuries, and it is right that our families should be buried here.’
I realised that Hartwell was no longer reading from his notes. This part of his speech was coming from somewhere else, from deep within his soul. And that might explain why it suddenly felt so impassioned.
‘All we have left is the right to visit this church but once a year. And now even that right is in jeopardy.’
Price looked at me, tense, just as Hartwell got to his point.
‘My friends, you have a right to know: the army is considering moving this church, and the graves, permanently.’
A chorus of surprised whisperings rose among the congregation. In the front row, the commander leapt up with an exclamation of protest. ‘Enough! This is pure speculation. I demand, sir, that you sit down!’
‘But is it true?’ The question came from a young man with blonde hair. ‘Is this lovely church also to vanish from the map?’
Still standing, Commander Williams tightened his lips.
‘Yes, it’s true!’ Hartwell proclaimed, the veins in his neck standing out. ‘They’ll tell us not to worry. They’ll say the church must be moved, for its own preservation. And when we argue – which we will, most strenuously – they’ll fight back. They’ll tell us it’s in the interests of national heritage to “save” this cherished building. In short, my friends, the army will ask us, once again, to make a sacrifice.’
On one side of the church, a few of the soldiers who had been helping earlier stood with their backs to the wall, shaking their heads in disagreement. A few looked embarrassed, discomfited.
‘I said enough!’ the commander threatened.
‘This church still belongs to the people, Commander,’ Hartwell declared. ‘I have a right to be heard, and heard I will be!’
From the back of the church, the young man with blonde hair called out his support. When a few more members of the congregation followed suit, the commander returned to his seat, his face grey and impotent as he glanced nervously at Sidewinder.
Price gave me an apathetic look that suggested he wasn’t impressed with Williams’ efforts. In a sense, though, I felt sorry for Williams; as he sat down, I thought I had caught some defiance slip from his face. Perhaps half of him had
expected this. The other half hadn’t believed for a second it would happen.
From the pulpit, Hartwell scanned the sea of concerned faces looking up at him.
The woman with the white hair now had her downturned mouth wide open. She was shaking her head in strenuous disapproval. ‘Who decided the church should go?’ she asked. ‘On whose authority? When will it happen?’
‘Never!’ Hartwell said, thumping the bible in front of him. ‘This village already made its sacrifice. We were told it wouldn’t be forever. A temporary measure. But how quickly the months became years. How quickly promises were forgotten. Well, I say no more broken promises. No more broken hearts!’
He glared down at the commander and the commander glared back at him.
‘It wasn’t our sacrifice the army wanted, it was our obedience. And now the army want us to surrender this church and the people buried here – to surrender our dead! Will we tolerate that? Or will we, out of respect for the banished, the lost and the forgotten, and those who lie, along with my own son, in the untended graveyard beyond this church door, do something about it?’
A rising rumble of agreement from the congregation emboldened him.
‘They tell us we did the right thing for our country. That it was noble to help our soldiers. But the soldiers who fight here aren’t just learning to defend our nation; they’re learning to kill and maim, to shred other men with machine-gun fire. They’re learning to deprive families of their husbands, brothers and sons. I ask you, is that noble?’
At the side of the church, some of the soldiers looked sourly at Hartwell. The rest kept their eyes on the ground.
In the pulpit, Hartwell shook his head. ‘War dehumanises all of us, and it has dehumanised our little Imber.’ Again, he thumped the bible in front of him. ‘It doesn’t have to be that way. We can find what was lost. Because there’s a world of difference between a just sacrifice, and a sacrifice which is futile and unjust. The time has come to return our village to the public.’
The white-haired woman nodded her head vigorously; the young man with the blonde hair at the back shouted his support; even a few of the soldiers lined up against the church wall looked engaged. As for Price, he looked impressed that this audience had been so effectively stirred. His faint smile was that of one showman admiring the skills of another.
Nodding, Hartwell looked around with all the wide-eyed fervour of a fanatic at a revival meeting. ‘Fellow residents of Imber, if our country was worth fighting for in 1914, our community is worth fighting for now. One day soon, with your help, Imber will live!’
The blonde man at the back repeated the cry. So did a few more. A few seconds later, a chorus of ten, maybe twenty impassioned voices had risen up across the church: Imber will live! Imber will live! Imber will live!
But Hartwell hadn’t convinced everyone. The bald, middle-aged man I had noticed earlier still had his eyes narrowed in an expression that was hard to read, but I thought it was suspicion I saw there.
At that moment, the door at the back of the church burst open. Snow gusted in.
Every head turned.
‘You’re as guilty as they are,’ shouted a woman, and I immediately recognised the French accent. ‘Oscar Hartwell, you menace. We both know what you did.’
I angled my head for a clearer view, and saw Marie Hartwell pacing slowly into the nave of the church, her face cold and impassive. By now she had a most extraordinary look. She was attired as before, in an expensive-looking black mourning dress, but her skin was so startlingly pale it looked almost translucent. Her hair, instead of hanging limply around her face, was now pulled up neatly in a bun, and I thought it had developed a streak of grey overnight – if that were possible.
When she reached the centre of the aisle, she stopped. All around, people stared at her – with wariness, it seemed to me – but her eyes were locked on Hartwell, whose face was a mask of tension.
‘Why don’t you tell them the truth, Oscar?’ she said, in a quieter voice that was altogether more unsettling.
For a few long moments, Hartwell stared at her fixedly. Then, with his cheeks reddening, he muttered, ‘Please, my love, do not do this now. Not here.’
‘My husband seems to have forgotten himself,’ Marie cut in. She tilted her head to the side, the rest of her body perfectly still. Like a cat about to pounce, I thought. ‘Why not tell them that our son lives, Oscar? Not in this world, but the next.’
This comment was met with a few bewildered mutterings. I thought of the grave beyond the church door, the white lamb dusted with snow, standing amidst a tangle of bracken and wild grass.
‘Why don’t you tell them, Oscar?’ she repeated, glaring with hollow eyes. I detected in her voice the same hysterical, desperate tone as before. ‘Pierre visits his family,’ she went on. ‘He still needs us.’
Everyone was staring at Marie as if she was mad.
‘Marie, please, sit down,’ Hartwell said, looking hastily away from her.
At the front of the church, the commander stood and said firmly, ‘Madam, I warned you yesterday to stay away from Imb—’
‘And I warned you, commander, there would be consequences.’
The situation was making me feel . . . not frightened, but on the brink of it. What had the commander told us? That this woman was delusional. Maybe that was true, but the conviction in her voice alarmed me. She was so determined, embittered.
‘I have no intention of leaving Imber – not ever,’ she said, in a jarringly reasonable voice. ‘I have come to join my son.’
Price’s eyes met mine. They were shining with a sudden horror.
‘Some of you have seen my son up at the old mill. Yet you refuse to speak of him.’ I saw that she was staring at Warden Sidewinder, but he only looked away, out of the nearest window, at the snow beyond. ‘Some of you have seen him at the crossroads,’ she added, and I tensed, but she did not look my way. She fixed her dark-ringed, dangerous eyes on Oscar Hartwell and said flatly, ‘My husband has a secret. Blood on his hands. And he knows all too well that our son is here in Imber now – a shadow of his human form.’
‘She’s mad,’ someone said.
‘Marie, my darling, you’re not well,’ I heard Hartwell say, and when I turned in his direction I saw that he was stepping down from the pulpit and hastening towards his wife. His face paling, he looked both wary and furious. ‘Come home with me – now.’
‘I came to see my son. Don’t hate me. I have nothing!’
She turned to face the back of the church and for a moment all was silent.
Then she broke into a desperate run.
‘After her!’ the commander shouted, and Sidewinder took off down the aisle, Price and I both leaping up from our seats and following quickly behind.
‘Marie, stop!’ Hartwell shouted. She was almost at the church door, tearing ahead of us, but instead of veering left, out into the drifting snow, she sprinted straight on, towards the back of the church, and slipped through a small door which led to the one place that Price and I hadn’t yet explored.
The bell tower.
I don’t know who made it to the door first, Price or Sidewinder, only that it banged shut just seconds before they got there. Even as Sidewinder grappled with the handle, a dark intuition told me that somehow Marie had a key, that she had already locked the door from the other side.
The door shook and rattled, but it didn’t open.
Price hammered on it furiously.
‘Out of the way! Quickly! Let me through!’ I heard Hartwell’s fraught command behind us, just as Price’s eyes met mine. Those eyes were enormous, and full of pale dread. I guessed what he was thinking: she had planned this meticulously, probably yesterday, right under our noses. That knowledge made what happened next all the more harrowing.
‘For Christ’s sake – get this bloody door OPEN!’
The near panic in Sidewinder’s voice propelled Price into action. He turned and drew back his wide shoulders, then launched his whole weight at the door.
A woman’s scream of piercing distress arose from the other side, but it sounded far off. In a bell tower that small, there was only one direction she could have gone, and that was up.
The cry was followed by another rough shoulder barge from Price, and another. Once, twice, three times. Vital moments ticked by, until finally the door splintered in a puff of dust and flew open.
We burst into the bell tower.
I leapt back in surprise as a bird flapped out of a dusty nest in the corner. At first I was only conscious of how gloomy and cramped it was – I guessed just twelve feet by twelve. There was a stale, musty smell that made me think of the Imber mill, and it took me a moment to realise that smell was coming from a rickety old staircase leading up to the bells.
Everyone tilted their head back. Mrs Hartwell had already reached the rickety platform at the top. I glimpsed her scrabbling for something but was forced to look away. Price was changing furiously towards the stairs.
‘Harry!’ I grabbed at him. ‘No, you’ll fall right through them!’
He snatched his arm away, defiant. ‘She didn’t!’
‘Harry, no, wait!’
The commander burst into the tower. Waving his hand at his men beyond the door, he ordered them to keep people back.
At that moment, the bells, high above us, started clanging. Hands clamped to our ears against the calamity, we all stared, dumbfounded, at one another – the commander and Sidewinder, Hartwell, Price and myself.
People were congregating behind us, outside the bell tower door, peering curiously over our shoulders. I moved instinctively to block their view, as if I knew, even then, that something awful was about to happen.
A clatter echoed all around us: an old floorboard had fallen. We looked up. She had set the bells ringing, but was now so high up it was impossible to see exactly what else she was doing.
‘What the hell’s going on in there?’ someone shouted from behind me.
