“Of course,” Rachel agreed.
Harriet led her into a small sitting room where the heavy curtains were drawn against the winter night and a fire burned in the grate. It was a snug little room, filled with ornaments on every available surface. Ensconced in a chair by the fire, her zimmer parked within easy reach, was Cecily herself, watching a television, on the top of which were a family of plaster cats. The real thing was asleep on her lap. Cecily looked up as they came in.
“Hallo, Miss Strong,” Rachel smiled, “I’m Rachel Elliott.”
“How do you do? Come in and sit down. Harriet, pull up the other armchair for Miss Elliott.” Cecily tipped the cat off her lap and zapped the television into silence “Will you have a cup of tea or coffee, Miss Elliott?”
Rachel saw that among the clutter on the table at the old lady’s side was an old silver teapot and three cups. Two were already filled.
“Thank you,” she said. “Tea would be very nice.”
Rachel sat down and looked across at the old lady as she poured milk into the third cup and then filled it from the ornate silver pot. Old, Cecily Strong certainly was, her face crazed with wrinkles and her grey hair wispy round her face, but there was clearly nothing wrong with her brain. The pale blue eyes which gleamed at Rachel from under the pale brows were shrewd and probing. Passing Rachel the cup, Cecily studied her carefully, and Rachel instinctively let her do so without saying anything until the old lady herself spoke.
“Well, Miss Elliott, here you are. What did you want to see me for?”
“It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice,” Rachel said. “As I told you, I work for the Belcaster Chronicle, and I was at the meeting in the village hall last night.” She paused for a moment and looked across at Harriet. “Were you there as well?”
“No.” Harriet spoke wryly. “I would have been, if I’d known Cecily was going to go.”
“I don’t have to tell you everything I do,” Cecily said serenely to her niece. “It was no concern of yours, you don’t live in the village.”
“It turned out to be a concern of mine,” Harriet pointed out. “After all, those trees are in memory of one of my relations as well, you know.”
“I know, as it turned out,” agreed Cecily. “But let’s hear what Miss Elliott has to say.”
“Please call me Rachel, it’s so much easier.”
“Well then, Rachel, go on.”
“I was at the meeting, and I was very interested in what you told us about the Ashgrove, on the village green. I don’t know if you are in favour of the new housing scheme…”
Rachel let the sentence hang in the air for a moment, and Cecily considered before she said, “I’ve nothing against it in principle, though I would have preferred more lower-cost housing to encourage young married couples back into the village. My only real quarrel with Mr Bradley… though I must say I didn’t warm to the man, did you?” She broke off, her eyebrows raised in query, and Rachel admitted she hadn’t liked him either.
“Well, my only real quarrel with him is the question of the trees, and on that I will not back down. Those trees were planted as a solemn memorial and that’s the way they should stay until they’ve lived their natural span. Ash trees live to a good age, and by the time they start to die of natural causes, we’ll all be long under the ground and it won’t matter.”
“Can you tell me who they were all planted for?” Rachel asked.
“Of course,” Cecily replied. “One for my brother Will, two for the Davies boys, John and Dan, Alfie Chapman, that’s four.” She thought for a minute, her face screwed up with concentration. “Will, John, Dan and Alfie,” she muttered. “Oh, and Harry Cook, five. Oh, this is stupid, of course I know.”
“Don’t worry about them, Cecily,” Harriet said quietly, “the others’ll come back to you.”
“But it’s so stupid I know perfectly well who the others were,” Cecily snapped. “I grew up with them. Everyone round here joined up together—most of our local lads went into the Belshires. There was this bit in the paper asking for volunteers and they all went.”
“In the Chronicle?” asked Rachel.
“That’s right,” Cecily agreed. “My mother was so proud of Will in his uniform! She cut the picture out of the paper and kept it in her bible.”
“Will was in the paper?”
“They all were. In a group,” Cecily explained. “Just before they went off to France. The lads from Charlton Ambrose with Freddie Hurst in the middle. Freddie Hurst,” she repeated triumphantly, “from the Manor. He’s another. He was an officer of course.” Suddenly her shoulders sagged. “Went off in such high style, they did. So few of them came back. All blown away.”
“Which tree was dedicated to your Will?” Rachel asked gently as the old lady lapsed into silence.
“The one on the extreme right, next to the wall,” Cecily replied.
Rachel tried to visualise the grove as she had seen it earlier. As far as she could remember, the tree on the right was in the direct line that any road would have to take.
“Were the trees marked in any way?” she asked. “With the men’s names?”
“Well, the idea was that eventually there should be stones set in the ground beside each one, with the name carved into it, but in the meantime they put little metal plaques, stuck into the ground. Not big, but they were only meant to be temporary, like, till the stones were done.”
It confirmed what Peter Davies had said earlier. Rachel nodded. “So what happened?”
“Well, the stones weren’t ever made, and over time the little plaques got pulled up and lost. Will’s disappeared once and I found it later tossed into the hedge. After that I brought it home. I know which his tree is, and I didn’t want to lose his name-plate.” She looked across at her niece. “Harriet, go up to the bedroom and in the tin box under my bed you’ll find it. Will’s name-plate. Can you get it for me please?”
Harriet nodded and disappeared upstairs.
“Do you know why the memorial stones were never made?” asked Rachel, interested.
“Probably because the squire died,” Cecily said after some thought. “It was Squire Hurst’s idea to have the trees planted. Freddie was his only son and he was killed on the Somme. Squire arranged the planting in 1921, but he died himself that same year. He paid for the trees and the name-plates, and I expect he’d have paid for the stones as well.”
Harriet came back down, bringing a small metal plaque with her. It was about six inches square attached to a metal spike. She handed it to Rachel who looked at it with interest, running her fingers over the raised lettering.
PTE WILLIAM ARTHUR STRONG
1899–1916
1ST BELSHIRE LIGHT INFANTRY
KILLED IN ACTION
“They were all the same,” Cecily said. “Name, dates, rank and regiment, and how they died. Harry Cook died of wounds. I remember it said so on his. Squire had them all made.”
Rachel handed the plaque to Cecily. “Do the Hursts still live at the manor?” she asked, though without much hope.
The old lady held the plate in her hands for a moment, her finger tracing the letters of the name, then she put it down beside her. She shook her head. “No, bless you. Squire Hurst was the last. His wife died in childbirth when Freddie was a boy, and Freddie’s wife never lived there.”
“He was married?”
“Yes, to a girl from London. They had a child… a girl, I think, but I’m not sure. Anyway, when Freddie didn’t come home his wife went to live with her parents. We heard in the village that she married again, but I don’t know if it was true.”
“Can you remember her name?”
Cecily shook her head. “It was something flowery,” she said dismissively. “Violet or Pansy or some such. She never came back to see poor Squire.”
“What happened when the trees were planted?” asked Rachel. She glanced up at Cecily and added, “Do you mind if I make a few notes?”
“No, that’s
all right. You write down what you want.”
Rachel felt in her bag for her notebook and pen, and hastily scribbled the names Cecily had come up with so far.
“You’re tea’s getting cold,” Cecily remarked, picking up her own cup and refilling it from the pot. “More tea, Harriet?”
“No thanks, Cecily,” replied Harriet. “I’m just going out to have a look at the supper, if you’ll excuse me.”
Rachel wondered if that was a hint that she should leave, but she was very reluctant to do so. She found what Cecily had to say fascinating and she didn’t want her to stop talking.
“You were going to tell me about the planting,” she said encouragingly.
“Oh, yes. Well, Squire had the holes dug on the edge of the village green in a sort of group, so that they’d look natural. Then they were planted, and the rector said some prayers. Oh, and I remember, as each tree was put in the ground, the family came and threw earth into the hole, to be part of the planting of that particular tree, you know?”
Cecily sighed. “I remember Mother was very upset, but she wouldn’t cry. Mother never cried, even when the telegram came. She stood by the tree, very stiff and straight, and pushed the first shovelful of earth, then my father, then me and then Joe, that’s Harriet’s granddad. We thanked the good Lord that he was too young to go.” She paused. “He wanted to, mind you, when the telegram came, but he was only thirteen, and even the army didn’t take them that young.”
Harriet came back into the room and said, “Supper’s ready when you are, Cecily.” She looked meaningfully at Rachel, who reluctantly got to her feet.
“I really am very grateful to you for talking to me,” she said. “I think it would be wrong to let your Ashgrove be cut down. I shall say so in my article. Perhaps we can get public opinion on our side.” She reached over to shake Cecily’s hand, and though the skin was dry and papery against her own, Rachel felt Cecily’s grip firm and strong in the clasp.
“Come and see me again,” instructed the old lady. “I like having visitors.” She glanced across at Harriet and added with a wry smile, “As long as I know who they are.”
“Thank you, Miss Strong. I’ll probably take you up on that,” smiled Rachel. “It has been lovely to talk to you… and I’ll keep you in touch with anything I hear about the trees.”
Harriet showed her to the front door. “If you are going to come and see her again, do ring first,” she said. “I’m always telling her not to open the front door unless she’s expecting someone.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” Rachel promised.
Rachel spent the evening sorting out what she had discovered about the Ashgrove and those it commemorated. Cecily had mentioned the Hurst family and someone called Harry Cook and another, Alfie Chapman, as well as the Davieses. They would give her a starting place for her research. The obvious place to begin, Rachel decided, was in the archives of the Belcaster Chronicle, and the first thing she would look for would be the photograph Cecily had mentioned, the picture of Will Strong and the rest of the men from Charlton Ambrose leaving for the front in such high spirits. She longed to put names to faces. It occurred to her that the paper might also have reported the planting of the Ashgrove. Something else to check. With all these things in her mind, Rachel finally drifted off to sleep.
3
When Rachel reached the office next morning, she slipped unnoticed into the archive room in the basement of the building and began work. Unfortunately not all the back numbers of the paper had been computerised, and Rachel found that she had to look at actual copies of the earlier papers.
She pulled out the binder for the first quarter of 1915 and began with the first paper of the year, Friday, 1st January. She was looking for the photograph Cecily had mentioned. There were not many pictures in the paper, and she was quickly on to the second paper and then the third. She found what she was looking for in the middle of March. There, on the front page of the 19th March edition was a grainy photograph of a group men in uniform under the headline
OUR BRAVE LADS
The article was short and patriotic, but none of the young men in the photo was named. The only one Rachel could be sure of was the officer in the middle, Freddie Hurst. The paper was old and the picture poor. It was impossible to distinguish the features of any of them, but they were all young and laughing and Rachel found herself blinking away unexpected tears.
“Come on, Rach,” she said aloud, “what is the matter with you?” She closed the archive and replaced it on the shelf. What she was really interested in, she reminded herself, was the planting of the Ashgrove. Cecily had told her that the trees had been planted and dedicated in 1921, but couldn’t remember exactly when.
“It was cold,” Cecily had recalled, “so it was probably January or February. I’m sure it was the early part of the year.”
Rachel decided to start with the first issue of 1921 and work her way forward. She heaved the bound volume from the shelf and setting it on a table opened it and stared down at the yellowing pages. As she worked her way through she was surprised how many references there were to such a small place as Charlton Ambrose. Her eyes skimmed the faded print and she soon found that the name leapt out at her, but most items were of little interest reporting only rummage sales, lost cats and a sheep escaping into the rectory garden. One or two articles were longer and there was more detail of what was affecting those who lived in Charlton Ambrose eighty years ago. A flu epidemic struck with some severity, leaving several dead in its wake. A new rector, Henry Smalley, was installed by the Bishop of Belcaster. There was a short biography of the new rector who, it appeared had served at the front in the Great War, and had been offered the living by Sir George Hurst, whose son Frederick had been lost on the Somme.
That’s Freddie, thought Rachel, the chap Cecily told me about. The Lieutenant Hurst in the picture. She put down the paper and thought about him; Freddie Hurst, killed so young all those years ago. Each time she heard of him he became more real to Rachel. First learning of him from Cecily and now reading about him in the paper made him something more than a name, and Rachel found herself wishing that the photo in the earlier paper had been clearer, so that she really knew what he looked like. No picture of him here of course, but there was a faded picture of the Rev Smalley. Again, it was difficult to distinguish his features in the old newsprint, just a youngish man, light-haired and bespectacled, wearing a dog collar. Had Cecily mentioned him too? Yes, but not by name, simply as the rector, who dedicated the trees. Rachel turned back to the paper.
The Reverend Henry Smalley was a bachelor, and thus most welcome in a village where so many young men had not returned from the war. There was a brief description of his institution and the small welcoming reception afterwards, arranged by the parish in the village hall.
“The same one still in use today?” wondered Rachel as she read on. Mention was made by name of the ladies who had made the cakes and prepared the tea, Mrs Day and her daughter, Miss Molly Day. Perhaps, thought Rachel, one of those young ladies who was so pleased that the new rector was unmarried. Mrs Davies… was she the mother of John and Dan? Mrs Cook, Mrs Crown, Mrs Swan, Mrs Strong… Cecily’s mother? All ladies doing their best to make the new young rector feel welcome in the village. She noted the date of the article for future reference and moved on to scan the next paper.
It was three papers later, three weeks later, that she found what she was looking for.
MEMORIAL TREES FOR CHARLTON AMBROSE
On Wednesday eight young ash trees were planted on the village green at Charlton Ambrose. These trees were planted as a memorial to those who made the ultimate sacrifice in the Great War. A tree dedicated to each man from the village who did not return from Flanders Field was planted in an attractive grove at the end of the village green. A short ceremony of dedication was conducted by the new rector, the Reverend Henry Smalley. The families of the fallen were all there to assist at the planting, and there were many tears among the onlookers as so
me of the younger brothers and sisters came sorrowfully forward to place a shovelful of earth around the roots of the tree in memory of a lost loved one. The final tree was planted by Sir George Hurst, for his son Captain Frederick Hurst of the 1st Belshire Light Infantry. It was through the generosity of Sir George that the trees were bought and planted as a permanent memorial to the glorious dead, the heroes from Charlton Ambrose. Each tree has a temporary name plate beside it, but it is Sir George’s intention that small stones shall be carved with the names of the fallen… Captain Frederick Charles Hurst, Pte Alfred Chapman, Pte Harry Cook, Sgt Daniel Davies, Pte John Davies, Sgt George Hapgood, Pte William Strong and Cpl Gerald Winters, and placed at the foot of each tree. May they rest in peace!
Rachel smiled a little wryly at the florid style of the article. Clearly in his element, the writer had given full rein to his prose, wringing every ounce of emotion from the scene.
She read through the names again and wrote them in her notebook. Now at least, she thought, I know who all the trees are for. The names Davies and Cook caught her eye and she recognised them as the names of some of the village ladies who had made the refreshments for the rector’s welcome party. Were they the same families, or part of extended families? Two of Peter Davies’ great uncles were commemorated there, and even though, of course, Peter could not have known his uncles, as Cecily had known her brother, the direct link was there; an unbroken line of history in the village.
Wondering if there might be any further references to the Ashgrove in the subsequent weeks, Rachel decided to skim through the next few issues before photocopying the tree-planting article. What she found amazed her. In the edition of the Chronicle that came out two weeks later, Charlton Ambrose made the front page with the headline
PUBLIC OUTRAGE IN CHARLTON AMBROSE!
Clearly the work of the same reporter as before, Rachel thought with a smile as she began to read.
There was great public outcry in the village of Charlton Ambrose this week when it was noticed that the small plantation of ash trees dedicated to the glorious dead of the village has been desecrated. Someone, since the day of dedication a mere two weeks ago, has planted a ninth tree among the others. Also an ash tree and of similar size to the others, the extra tree went unnoticed at first. It is not known who might dare to perpetrate such an outrage! Sir George Hurst, whose idea the memorial Ashgrove was, and whose generosity made it possible, has no knowledge of whence the tree came. Though this ninth tree has not yet been uprooted, it is, according to many in the village, almost certainly only a matter of time before it is. When interviewed, Sir George said that he would be considering the matter. The rector, the Reverend Henry Smalley, said it was a decision entirely for Sir George, but added he was sure that no hasty decision would be taken in such a serious matter. Our reporter has spoken with all the families of those already commemorated for their sacrifice, and none of them has any idea where the tree came from, and most of them think it should be removed forthwith.
The Lost Soldier Page 3
