The Orange Lilies: A Morton Farrier novella (The Forensic Genealogist series)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘I can’t stop,’ Alfred barked. ‘Here’s her stuff. Telephone me once it’s done.’

  Nellie watched, incredulous that she had raised such a brute, as he waltzed off down the path, jumped into his blue Austin Mini and was off.

  Nellie reached down and picked up the leather suitcase abandoned by Alfred and looked at Margaret. She was wearing a long flowing dress, which she guessed was her son’s ashamed way of trying to conceal the bump. ‘You don’t need to look so terrified,’ Nellie whispered. ‘Come on in, I bet you’re stifling hot.’

  Margaret silently followed Nellie inside the house.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Nellie said, gesturing to the sofa and armchairs.

  Margaret sat herself down in the nearest armchair—Len’s armchair—and Nellie had to stop herself from asking her to move in case he came in from the garden. He’s not coming back…she told herself.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Something to eat? I’ve been baking—fruit cake, Bakewell Tart, scones?’

  Margaret shook her head, her gaze set to the floor.

  Nellie clasped her hands together and made Margaret jump. ‘Right, listen to me, Margaret Farrier. You’re not going to spend the next few weeks here like a timid little mouse, okay? I’m not your father and I won’t treat you as he has done. So, I’m going to make you a nice cup of tea and a piece of cake and when I come back, you’re going to have a smile on your face and you’re going to say whatever it is that’s bothering you.’

  And with that, Nellie strode from the room, desperately hoping that her tactic might bring Margaret out of her self-imposed shell.

  Chapter Nine

  24th December 2014, Cadgwith, Cornwall, England

  The fire crackled noisily in the lounge, as the flames hungrily devoured great chunks of seasoned oak. Margaret, with a bowl of porridge resting on her plump stomach, sat in her armchair, close to the fire. Juliette was resting her head on Morton’s shoulder on the sofa opposite. Unblinking and unthinking, he was transfixed by the flames. He had suffered another bad night’s sleep and his restlessness had woken Juliette. The brief conversation yesterday with his Uncle Jim had replayed in his mind over and over again all night long, like a song stuck on repeat. The more he had thought about it, the more he had wondered if had imagined Uncle Jim’s sudden embarrassed discomfort, as he had tried to back-track from what he had said. Could the lie that he had mentioned Aunty Margaret carrying with her for her whole life simply be that she was his birth mother? If he trusted his instincts on the matter, as he so often needed to when carrying out his genealogical investigations, then that was not the lie to which his Uncle Jim had referred. Morton had had no further opportunity to speak privately with Jim, leaving the remark niggling at the front of his mind. What had made Morton even more suspicious was Uncle Jim’s definite change in demeanour following their conversation. He had sat in the restaurant yesterday afternoon barely uttering a single word and avoiding all eye contact with Morton. This morning Jim had scurried down to his fishing boat at some ungodly hour. No, Morton had not imagined it, Uncle Jim had said something that he had realised afterwards that he shouldn’t have—something that his Aunty Margaret had yet to tell him.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Margaret said jovially. ‘Where’s today’s research going to take us?’

  Morton smiled. ‘Are you sure you’re not getting bored with all this?’ He felt a subtle but definite nod of Juliette’s head on his shoulder and inwardly smiled.

  Margaret looked mortified. ‘No, no. I could do this all day. I just can’t believe how much there is on the internet nowadays. Amazing that you can do all this research on a computer. You must never leave your house when you’re working on a case!’

  ‘If only,’ Juliette murmured. ‘He’d get into less trouble.’

  ‘There’s usually more to it, thankfully,’ Morton said. ‘Libraries, archives, churchyards—that sort of thing. There’s probably more that I can find about Charles when I get home—the records for the Royal Sussex Regiment are all held at the West Sussex Record Office in Chichester. There are still a few things I can do from here, though, don’t worry.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, too!’ Margaret chuckled.

  Morton stood up and headed over to his laptop and notepad, receiving a glare and groan from Juliette, who slumped into the space on the sofa which he had previously occupied.

  Scribbled on his notepad were a few potential lines of enquiry that he wanted to follow up. One of the postcards from Leonard to Nellie had mentioned Charles Farrier’s will. Morton knew that wills of some soldiers killed in the British armed forces between 1850 and 1986 had recently been added to the government website, so he found his way to the relevant page and typed in Charles Farrier’s name and date of death. One match.

  Surname: Farrier

  First name: Charles

  Regimental number: L/7512

  Date of death: 26 December 1914

  Morton clicked ‘Add to Basket’, paid the ten-pound fee and downloaded the small file. ‘I’ve just located Charles’s will if you want to see it,’ he called over to Margaret.

  She stood up, set down her porridge remnants and came scuttling over to see.

  The document was headed ‘Informal Will’ and contained a page detailing Charles’s service details and date and place of death with the official typed script: The enclosed document dated 25.12.14 and signed by Charles Ernest Farrier, appears to have been written or executed by the person named in the margin while he was “in actual military service” within the meaning of the Wills Act, 1837, and has been recognised by the War Department as constituting a valid will.

  ‘Come on then!’ Margret said, ‘don’t keep me in suspense.’

  Morton scrolled down to the next page, which gave, in his own handwriting, the last will of Charles Farrier. ‘In the event of my death I give the whole of my property and effects to my wife, Mrs Nellie Farrier, 14 York Street, Eastbourne, Sussex.’ At the bottom of the page Charles had signed and dated the will.

  ‘Well, that was certainly short and sweet,’ Margaret commented. ‘No real surprises, are there?’

  ‘No,’ Morton said. And yet something bothered him, but he couldn’t work out what. As Margaret returned to her armchair and porridge, Morton reread the will several times, but he still couldn’t place the cause of his unease. It was slightly strange—but perhaps a pure coincidence—that Charles had written his will the day before he was killed, but that wasn’t it. Morton was desperate to read the unit war diary for the 26th December to finally see what had happened to his great grandfather. He was sorely tempted to take a sneaky look without telling his Aunty Margaret, but thought better of it. These tentative initial researches into his family tree had been one of the best genealogical cases that he had worked on simply because they were his family. But what he had enjoyed the most about his research was that it was a shared venture with Aunty Margaret—something to bring them closer together and remove the veils of secrecy that had hung over their relationship all these years.

  ‘Shall I read today’s diary entry?’ Morton asked.

  Margaret, mouth full of porridge, nodded fervently.

  ‘24th December, Le Hamel. Brigade relieved. Marched to Le Hamel arriving about 8.30am and billeted. Capt. Wainwright at hospital…That’s it—another short one.’

  Margaret looked disappointed. ‘So they’re out of harm’s way for the moment. Goodness me, I do hope he at least had a nice Christmas Day. I couldn’t bear to think of him being up to his waist in muddy water or worse.’ She shook her head in dismay. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about. No sign of a Christmas truce for Grandad Farrier, then?’

  ‘We’ll find out tomorrow…but no, it doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘We will indeed,’ she answered, standing up and heading towards the kitchen. ‘Come on then, Margaret Daynes, this won’t do. You’ve got errands to run.’

  ‘Anything you need help with?’ Morton called.

  ‘No, I just need to pop around the
village dropping presents off and what-not. Do you two still want to come to the Christingle service tonight?’

  ‘We’d love to,’ Juliette answered, before turning to Morton. ‘Right, you. The weather is kind of reasonable, so do you fancy that cliff-top walk you mentioned—show me where you went with Aunty Margaret the other day? It does mean you’ll have to put your computer away, though.’

  Morton grinned and closed his laptop. ‘What about a wander through the village? Have a nice pub lunch?’

  Juliette seemed disappointed. ‘I fancied seeing that amazing view.’

  ‘We’ll do it another time—later maybe,’ Morton promised.

  ‘Okay. I’ll go and make myself beautiful, then.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Morton said with a smile.

  Juliette lifted her hair and let it fall messily back to her shoulders. ‘Yeah,’ she replied, dragging the word out as she left the room.

  It was late morning when Morton and Juliette stepped outside. They had wrapped up with gloves, scarves and thick winter jackets; the sun had so far spent much of the morning cowering behind ominous-looking clouds that raced across the sky, as if they were in a desperate hurry to be somewhere else.

  ‘God, that’s chilly,’ Juliette said with a shudder, threading her gloved fingers into Morton’s.

  ‘Come on, then, let’s get a move on,’ Morton encouraged, as he lengthened his stride.

  ‘Alright, slow down—we’re not on a march,’ Juliette complained.

  Morton slowed his pace and the pair continued on into the main part of the village, a single lane that descended to the beach inlet before rising again the other side. Along this short stretch was a fish shop, an arts and crafts shop, a gift shop and a restaurant, all of which relied on Cadgwith’s two main sources of income: the sea and tourists. Morton stepped off the road and down onto the beach, leading them past an array of fishing detritus: lobster pots, crates, baskets and an assortment of tubs out of which spewed great bundles of tangled rope. A pair of large fishing boats were hauled up onto the shingle and a range of other, smaller sailing vessels were also moored, safely tucked up away from the inclement seas.

  ‘Those seas are really rough,’ Juliette exclaimed. ‘I’m surprised your Uncle Jim wanted to go out today.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Morton mumbled, thinking that he probably knew the reason why Uncle Jim would rather brave the squally Atlantic Ocean than stay in his own home.

  Juliette leant in and faced Morton. ‘What?’

  ‘What do you mean what?’ Morton said innocently.

  ‘That noise you just made—it’s the one you use when you know something more than you’re letting on,’ she said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  ‘I think he’s trying to stay out of my way,’ Morton said.

  ‘Why would he do that? He’s been so nice and welcoming.’

  ‘Something he said yesterday that he thinks he shouldn’t have said.’

  ‘Go on,’ Juliette said.

  Morton recounted the brief conversation that he had had with his Uncle Jim, trying to recall it as best he could word for word.

  ‘I think you might be reading into it, Morton,’ was Juliette’s initial reaction. After a short pause, she added, ‘But, if you really think there’s something else there, then you probably should ask your Aunty Margaret, rather than him. If he did let some cat out of the bag that he shouldn’t have, then he obviously feels it isn’t his place to discuss it.’

  ‘I know…It’s just trying to find the right moment. We’re only here for another two days and I don’t want to ruin it by pushing her to talk about something that she clearly doesn’t want to discuss. We had all morning walking along that cliff path the other day—she could have told me then.’

  Juliette rubbed her hand up his back. ‘You need to make time to ask her, then; it’s important. I know what will happen if you don’t: we’ll go back home and you’ll stew on it and work yourself up, wondering what on earth it could be. It’s probably nothing, or a small detail that she forgot to say.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Try and find a moment this evening.’

  Morton nodded his agreement and hoped it would be that simple. He bent down, picked up a stone and threw it into the jaws of the sea.

  Chapter Ten

  24th December 1914, Le Hamel, France

  Shortly after eight-thirty am, the men of the Second Battalion Royal Sussex Regiment had marched into Le Hamel and been distributed among its houses and lodgings.

  The Army had requisitioned several properties in the quiet village; some the owners had left voluntarily when the fighting had drawn close, others involuntarily, ousted by the military. Charles Farrier was sharing a room with six other men from the Battalion in an old redbrick town house on Rue Vayez, which, prior to the outbreak of war, had been among the most desirable properties in the area. The six-bedroomed house, close to the church, had been stripped of its fine carpets, rugs, soft furnishings and everything that had made it a home; it was now the skeleton of its former self, sorrowfully witnessing the constant stream of battle-weary men sent to rest and recuperate within its stark walls. Each room contained just six beds and a brazier for warmth. The men in the house considered themselves fortunate; others had been billeted in lofts or barns nearby, with only straw for a bed.

  Charles Farrier was sharing a bedroom with Leonard Sageman, Frank Eccles, Tom Trussler, Jimmy Ramsay and Edward Partington. Each was sitting at the end of their simple metal-framed bed, their feet firmly on the floor, their boot laces open wide. Beside each man’s feet were piled two filthy, snake-like puttees. Tense glances and unspoken dread passed between the men; they were braced for what they badly desired and dreaded in equal measure: the removal of their boots and uniform.

  Charles drew in a long breath, took a fleeting glance at his comrades then gripped his left boot firmly. He had intended to whip it off quickly, like a plaster, so that the pain was sharp but fleeting. However, as he began to remove it, the pain was excruciating, like every bone was being broken and every muscle ripped to shreds.

  Knowing that he was being watched by five pairs of anxious eyes, Charles did his best to stifle his whimpers. He tried again but the pain was simply too unbearable.

  ‘Do you want me to do it, Charlie?’ Len asked quietly from the next bed.

  Charles nodded, lay down, placed the end of his pillow in his mouth and clenched his teeth together.

  With as swift a movement as he could manage, Len wrenched off the boot. Charles’s body tensed and flexed like he’d been electrocuted, as he bit down onto the pillow.

  Moments later, both boots were discarded on the floor and the elation and relief began to overcome the agony.

  The rest of the men copied Charles and paired up to remove their boots.

  Charles added his socks—stained and soaked beyond recognition—to the pile on the floor and stared at his feet. They were both grossly swollen and grey in colour. Even though the boots had been removed, painful pricks seared through the numbness of the outer layers of skin.

  They were the lucky ones. They weren’t dead. They weren’t injured. They weren’t even hospitalised. More than one hundred and fifty men from the Battalion had been admitted to the field hospital in recent days suffering rheumatism, ague and swollen feet.

  Charles didn’t feel lucky. The hollowness inside him was growing and growing. He tried not to think about it. He slowly sat up and stripped down to his long johns and woollen vest.

  After a time the six men stood, almost mechanically, and trudged painfully out of their room, through the house to an outbuilding where a communal bathhouse had been established. There, they joined a line of men from their company, similarly stripped to their underwear. Gone were the sentimental morale-boosting songs. Gone was the gung-ho bravado. The men just gazed at the floor, torpidly waiting their turn for a hot bath. Even conversation was too much.

  Charles pictured the zinc bath at home. It was stored in the kitchen, only being used in front of th
eir bedroom fire once or twice a week. He considered, with an ironic smirk, how he had sometimes felt himself dirty enough between the usual set times to warrant an extra bath. How little that naïve man had known. He wondered, if he survived all of this, if he could simply go back and find that naïve man again. He doubted it. He was sure that he was forever lost, consumed inside the broken man that he was today, who had seen and been the cause of so much horror and brutality.

  The air in the bedroom was clouded with the steady stream of smoke drifting up from the beds. Only Tom Trussler, occupying the bed opposite Charles, had been a smoker prior to the outbreak of war. It was a habit acquired by the rest to relieve the boredom and monotony as much as anything else.

  Each man was engrossed in his attempt at detaching himself from the realities of the trenches: Tom was asleep, a gentle purring sporadically rising from his pillow; Leonard was reading; Jimmy and Edward were playing cards and smoking; Frank was eating and Charles was lying down clutching the photo of Nellie and Alfred inches from his face.

  ‘Anyone coming to the red lamps?’ Frank asked, suddenly rising from his bed.

  ‘Where are your morals?’ Leonard asked, lifting his head from his book. His smile revealed the lack of seriousness to his question.

  Frank shrugged. ‘Lost. Last seen somewhere in Château Wood, I guess,’ he answered.

  ‘I’ll come,’ Jimmy responded, jumping up and throwing his cards down onto the bed.

  ‘Charlie?’ Frank asked. ‘You must be missing your wife by now.’

  Charles shook his head. Any moral condemnation he might have felt six months ago had long since diminished; any vice or illicit comfort a man could get to help him see the next day was fine by him. He missed Nellie terribly, and even though most visitors to the red lamps were married men, he couldn’t bring himself to betray his wife. ‘Not for me, thanks.’