A ninth tree! Rachel stared at the article. Yes, of course, there are nine trees, she thought excitedly, I counted them yesterday.
She checked the names she had just written in her notebook; definitely only eight men commemorated by name. Sir George must have been persuaded to leave the ninth tree with the others, but who had planted it and to whom was it dedicated?
Rachel moved on to the next edition of the paper to see if there was any more about the trees, or mention of who the ninth was for. At first she could find nothing, but then in the paper several weeks on, she found a small paragraph tucked in a corner of an inside page.
THE ASHGROVE, CHARLTON AMBROSE
A small service was held on Charlton Ambrose village green on Wednesday, when the Reverend Henry Smalley dedicated a ninth tree in the Memorial Ashgrove to ‘The Unknown Soldier’. To the surprise of those concerned, Sir George Hurst has forbidden the uprooting of the tree. ‘We do not know who put it there, or for whom, but it is clearly in memory of a fallen soldier,’ he told our reporter. ‘He may be unknown but he gave his life as surely as did the others, and it would be wrong to remove the tree.’
Investigations have failed to uncover who planted the tree and for whom, but its formal dedication has now included it in the village memorial.
So, thought Rachel reading and re-reading the piece, the ninth tree was left and is still there with the others.
Fascinated by the affairs of Charlton Ambrose, Rachel continued to search the back numbers for 1921. She wanted to read more about Sir George Hurst. Cecily said he had died that same year, and Rachel was anxious to see if there was any mention of his death, and if there were, whether there was any more information about his daughter-in-law and her child. She found the squire’s death in the second week of September. There was formal notice of his death and also a short article about his life.
Sir George Hurst Bt died of pneumonia at his home, The Manor, Charlton Ambrose, on Tuesday last; Sir George had been unwell for several weeks. A Justice of the Peace, Sir George sat regularly in Belcaster court until just before his illness. For many years he represented Belcaster in Parliament, only resigning his seat in 1918. With him the family name and title die out as his only son Frederick, a Captain in the 1st Belshire Light Infantry, was killed on the Somme in1916. He is survived by a granddaughter, Adelaide, born posthumously to his son, and living with her mother and stepfather in London. The funeral will be held on Monday next at 2 p.m.
So, thought Rachel excitedly, Freddie did have descendants, or one anyway. Poor Freddie. How sad that he never even saw his daughter.
She turned to the next issue of the paper and found the account of Sir George’s funeral.
The funeral of Sir George Hurst Bt took place at the Church of St Peter, Charlton Ambrose, on Monday at 2 p.m. The service was conducted by the rector, the Reverend Henry Smalley, who paid tribute to Sir George’s life and work as a landowner, Justice of the Peace and sometime Member of Parliament. His loss to the village would be sadly felt, particularly as the Hurst family had been squires at the manor for more than five generations, and now there would be no more. The whole of Charlton Ambrose would mourn his death, the rector said.
The coffin, with a single wreath of white roses, was followed by Sir George’s daughter-in-law, Mrs Richard Anson-Gravetty, accompanied by her husband and daughter, Adelaide. The pallbearers were John Dickson, Francis Peters, Thomas Davies and Gordon Smith. Sir George was buried in the family vault alongside his wife, Charlotte.
After the service, tea was served by the parish in the village hall.
A book of condolence was opened and there were fifty-one signatures recorded in it.
I wonder what happened to that book of condolence, thought Rachel. Taken away by his daughter-in-law I suppose. Mrs Richard Anson-Gravetty. Cecily was right when she thought that Freddie’s widow had remarried.
Rachel photocopied all the articles she had found and added them to the research folder she was compiling for her own article. Each piece of information had made her more and more determined to find out all she could about everyone with any connection with the Charlton Ambrose Ashgrove. The more she discovered, the more she felt involved. She wanted to know about these people who had lived there eighty or more years ago. Cecily was the link. Cecily could surely give her some more information about the village during the Great War and after. Rachel decided to go and pay her another visit as soon as she could and then write her article in defence of the Ashgrove. In the meantime, she had an appointment with Mike Bradley, and she intended to press him on what he intended to do to preserve the trees.
Five o’clock found her at the offices of Brigstock Jones for her appointment. She was asked to wait and sat impatiently on an uncomfortable chair in a small, orange waiting area. After ten minutes she was about to return to the reception desk when a man appeared and greeted her with a smile.
“Miss Elliott? So sorry to have kept you. My name’s Tim Cartwright.” He gripped Rachel in a strong handshake and went on, “Would you like to come through to my office?”
“Thank you,” replied Rachel, “but my appointment was with Mr Bradley. Is he not here?”
Leading her into his office, Tim Cartwright treated her to his widest smile, which she instantly mistrusted, and said, “I am so sorry, I’m afraid he’s unavailable this afternoon. Won’t you sit down? Tea?”
Rachel declined the tea and sat in the indicated chair. Putting her bag at her feet, she drew out her notebook and pen. “He cancelled our appointment yesterday, Mr Cartwright,” she said crisply. “It really is most unfortunate that he’s had to do it again today.”
“I haven’t got time to talk to the woman,” Mike had snapped half an hour earlier. “I told you yesterday. You talk to her, Tim. Impress upon her we’re looking into the problem of the trees. Great sympathy. Propose a new memorial with names, et cetera. Make sure she knows we aren’t riding roughshod over the concerns of the people. We need her to write sympathetically.”
Tim Cartwright was used to doing Mike Bradley’s dirty work for him. He sighed inwardly. “She was at the public meeting, Mike,” he pointed out. “It’s you she wants to talk to.”
“Tell her I’m held up in a meeting. For Christ’s sake, Tim,” Mike glowered at him, “you know what to do. And, by the way have you got hold of the Sharp woman yet?”
Tim nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I’m seeing her this evening.”
“Good. Well, I want to see you first thing on Monday, so we can prepare for my meeting with the planners.”
Tim had spent the previous day looking into the problem of the Charlton Ambrose trees. He already knew there was no tree preservation order on them, but he also knew that to fell them, now they had been acknowledged as a war memorial, would cause outrage in the community. He had been out to look at the site again, to see if there was any possibility of looping the access road round the trees through the adjoining ground which was an extension to the churchyard. That would mean buying the strip from the Church Commissioners, and it was unlikely they would sell, but approaching them would be Mike’s job, thank God. Tim had also been into the church and found the names of all the men on a brass plaque. He was about to begin the process of tracing their descendants. Mike Bradley had some idea of individual compensation for each family… to buy them off.
“They’ve already got a memorial in the church,” Tim pointed out, handing Mike the leaflet on the church’s history he had bought.
“So they have,” Mike had agreed, “but we have to find the best way to resolve this mess. We need this project, Tim. It’s a bloody good deal if we can pull it off. So, sort it… and keep this Chronicle woman on our side and off our backs.”
Now Tim looked across the desk at Rachel. She was a good-looking woman, he had to admit, even if not his usual type. Tim preferred blondes, but she had an interesting face with broad cheeks and a wide mouth. He liked the way her full lips had an almost sculptured edge to them; the glint of anger in he
r eyes gave them a sparkle which brightened their hazel intensity and a sharp, determined chin warned him that she was no push-over. Tight dark curls, cut short to her head, showed off its neat shape, and from what he could see whilst she was seated, her figure was as attractive as her face. She faced him squarely across his desk and he recognised at once that she was definitely not a lady to be trifled with.
“I know,” Tim said sympathetically. “But something came up and he was called to another meeting this morning and he isn’t back yet. Rather than put you off again, he called and asked me to help you in any way I can.” He grinned ruefully, “So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
Rachel eyed him, in no way disarmed by this act, and said, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to make do with you, then.”
“Where would you like to start?” asked Tim, meekly.
“Background first. Can you outline exactly what the plans for the Charlton Ambrose development are?”
Tim picked up a glossy brochure from his desk and passed it across to her. Flipping through it she saw that it showed a plan of the site, the floor plans and artist’s impressions of the proposed houses… three different models… and of the new village hall. She opened it at the site plan and turned back to Tim.
“I see that the proposed access is along the edge of the green as far as the churchyard wall and then across the end of the green into the allotment patch.”
“That’s right. The idea was to use as little of the actual green itself as possible. You see there’s a footpath along that side already,” Tim pointed to the site plan, “with a small gate into the allotments. By widening that path slightly, we can bring the access road round to the end of the green and into the site.”
“But the Ashgrove covers the width of the green at that end,” Rachel pointed out. “Some of those trees at least will have to come down.”
“As things are at present they will,” agreed Tim. “The problem is that we had no idea of the significance of those trees. There was no preservation order on them, you know, and as far as we knew there was no reason why at least some of them should not be felled.” He gave her his sincere look and went on, “We never fell mature trees unless we absolutely have to, Miss Elliott. Mature trees make a new development. New modern houses, yes, but in a mature, well-grown setting. Gives a feeling of permanence. People don’t feel they’re moving on to a building site.”
“Is there no other way into the allotment patch?” asked Rachel.
Tim shook his head. “Not at the moment. It is bounded on this, western side,” he pointed to the plan, “by Scotts Road which has a row of houses along it, and on this, the east, by the churchyard.” No point, he thought, in mentioning the possible access through that until Mike had approached the Church Commissioners. “Beyond it,” he went on, “the ground drops away steeply down to the stream.” He indicated the blue line on the plan. “Of course we are looking into all the possibilities. We don’t want to cut down those trees if we don’t have to. They are clearly important to people… it’s just that we didn’t know that before.”
“Does the planning permission rest on this?” Rachel asked.
“Mr Bradley is seeing the planners again next week to try and sort something out,” Tim said, “but the whole development may depend on the access. If we can’t get it, we can’t build there, and that’s it.” He shrugged and added, “It would be a pity for the village as a whole, though, because this is a pretty good deal for them. They’ve been trying to raise money for sometime to replace their village hall. This way it’s done for them… and of course gives them some affordable housing right in the middle of the village.”
“Not all starter homes though,” pointed out Rachel.
“No,” agreed Tim, “but we have to have some more expensive housing to make the whole proposition viable from our point of view. Until the question of the trees was raised, all parties concerned were getting what they wanted from the plan.”
“Not everyone in the village is in favour of it anyway,” Rachel said. “There were other voices of dissension at the meeting you know, before the trees were mentioned.”
“There always are,” sighed Tim. “However good a scheme is, someone won’t like it and kick up a fuss.”
“Well, it is their village.”
“It’s everyone’s village, everyone who lives there I mean. The parish council is representing everyone in cases like this, and it is the parish council that we deal with.” Tim spoke firmly. “The parish council did not mention the trees.”
“What will you do?”
“We have to make further enquiries,” Tim replied. “We’ll find out who the trees were planted for and approach their families… if they’re still around. We are very happy to build a new memorial to the men commemorated there. None of those trees has got a name on it, you know. No one can tell, if they just walk over there, that they are memorial trees at all. There’s no sign, no name-plates, nothing. We shall offer to build a new memorial, perhaps a fountain beside the new village hall, with the names beside, and perhaps the names from the Second World War as well.”
“Is that a definite offer?” Rachel asked as she scribbled his words down in her notebook.
“It is certainly the sort of offer Mike Bradley has in mind,” replied Tim. “Obviously it hasn’t been made yet as the question has only just arisen, but I have no doubt that the parish council will be approached with something of that order.” He smiled at her reassuringly.
Rachel looked at him consideringly. She had spoken to Paula Sharp herself earlier in the day and realised she knew something that Tim Cartwright did not.
“We are going to have a problem,” Paula Sharp had told her that morning when Rachel had called on her. “The parish council owns the land, all of it… the village green and the allotments, all that land was left to the parish by Sir George in his will, but not the actual trees in the Ashgrove. They were given to the families of the men they commemorate by Sir George Hurst, in perpetuity. Each tree is owned by a different family. If they need to fell them all, they will have to get permission from each family, and,” she smiled wryly, “we already know what Cecily Strong will say, I think.”
“Do you know where all the other families are?” Rachel asked her.
Paula shrugged. “Some of them. A search will have to be made for the others, or the descendants of the others.”
“And if they can’t be found?”
“An interesting point,” acknowledged Mrs Sharp. “We shall have to take advice on that.”
“Do they need to fell all the trees?” Rachel wondered. “It might not be necessary to cut all of them down.”
“No,” agreed Mrs Sharp, “but consider the dreadfully bad feeling there will be if some are felled and some are left.”
Rachel knew that she was right. As she looked across at Tim Cartwright she wondered briefly whether to tell him who owned the trees, but decided against it. He’d find out soon enough, and if her paper were going to do battle with his company, it was better to keep some cards hidden. Rachel had every intention of trying to trace the descendants of each family, and she wanted a head start. She wanted to know what each family really thought, not what they might be bribed or coerced into thinking by Mike Bradley and Tim Cartwright, with offers of compensation and new memorial fountains. Of course Tim Cartwright hadn’t mentioned compensation yet, indeed Brigstock Jones must be hoping that the memorial would be enough, but she was sure that the wisdom expressed in the pub had been right, it was almost certainly only a matter of time until it all came down to money.
“I see,” she said returning his smile. “Well I suppose it can’t be helped. But it looks as if you’ll have a battle on your hands. As you already know there will be opposition from some of the families. For instance, Miss Strong spoke out against it very firmly at the meeting. One of the trees is in memory of her brother.”
“Yes, William Strong,” Tim Cartwright said, and seeing her surprise that he was able to come up
with the name so quickly, added, “There is another memorial to them in the church. Even if the trees went, they wouldn’t be without memorial, you know. They’re all named in there.”
Rachel didn’t know, but she kept further surprise from her face and said, “Even so, that doesn’t have the emotional appeal of a living memorial, does it?”
“I agree,” Tim said smoothly, “but that’s not our fault. We want to be as sensitive about this as possible, but the bottom line is that if this development is to go ahead for the benefit of everyone, we may have no alternative but to fell the trees.”
Rachel stood up. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Mr Cartwright. Please tell Mr Bradley that I am sorry he wasn’t able to see me, but I think I have all I need now.”
Tim Cartwright held out his hand again. “Well, if I can be of any further assistance, please don’t hesitate to give me a call.” He took a card from his desk and gave it to her. “This is my direct line and my mobile, just give me a call, any time.”
The Lost Soldier Page 4
