The Lost Soldier

by Costeloe Diney

  “So she got married during the war,” Rachel said, making another note on her pad and thinking that she must check the marriage register to find the married name.

  Gradually she went down her list of people, and was continually surprised at what Cecily could remember. Once she said so, and the old lady laughed. “I can remember things like these,” she said, “it’s what happened yesterday that gets me confused.”

  Not trusting her own memory with such gems, Rachel made detailed notes about each family.

  “Cooks? Yes, they are still about. Mary Bryson was a Cook. She lives in a home in Belmouth now; her son David Bryson lives in Belcaster somewhere and his daughter, Gail, is married to Sean Milton and runs the post office.”

  “The post office? You mean here in Charlton Ambrose?” Rachel couldn’t believe her luck. They were right here in the village.

  “Yes,” confirmed Cecily. “Round the corner from the pub.”

  Peter Davies, she told Cecily she had met already, after the public meeting. “I think he said he was a great nephew or something, of two of them.”

  “That’s right,” Cecily said. “Still lives in the same house where they’ve always lived. Just him and his wife now, both their girls married and gone.”

  Rachel asked about George Hapgood, but Cecily knew very little about him. His parents had lived in the village after the war, but had moved away before the second war and she didn’t know what had happened to them. “There was another boy, can’t remember his name, a younger lad, too young to fight in the first war. He got married, I think. Yes, to that Sheila.”

  “Sheila?”

  “Yes, what was her name? Sheila. Her parents had the other pub.”

  “Other pub?” queried Rachel, scribbling furiously on her notepad to keep up with the little snippets Cecily was giving her so casually.

  “The Bell,” replied Cecily. “It was at the other end of the village by the bridge. It’s a private house now. Can’t remember their name, but they were there up until the beginning of the next war.” She screwed up her face again as she searched her memory.

  “Don’t worry,” Rachel smiled at her, “I can always find that out.”

  “I don’t know if they had any children,” sighed Cecily. “I’m not much help to you, am I?”

  “You’ve been tremendous,” Rachel assured her. “You’ve told me lots of things it might have taken me ages to discover.” She paused and then said, “You realise other people will probably come and ask you the same things. The developers are sure to want to trace the families as well.”

  “Yes,” agreed Cecily serenely, “but I doubt if I shall be able to remember it all so clearly another time.”

  Rachel laughed. “They’ll find out in the end you know,” she warned. “They’ll get the information from somewhere.”

  “I expect so,” Cecily said. “But not from me.”

  The only other family was the Winters, and Cecily knew nothing whatever about them.

  “I don’t remember them at all,” she said. “Maybe they moved straight after the war. I was still only a child, remember.”

  When Rachel finally took her leave she took both Cecily’s hands in hers. “Thank you for being so patient,” she said. “You really have been most helpful.”

  Cecily Strong returned her grasp. “I don’t want the Ashgrove cut down,” she said simply. “Those trees were planted as a solemn memorial, they’re part of the history of our village, and they belong to the families that still live here. I don’t want to see them go, just so they can build a few houses.”

  “Nor do I,” Rachel said firmly, “and I will do all I can to protect them.”

  “If enough people say no, they won’t be able to cut them down, will they?” asked Cecily, suddenly sounding querulous.

  “I hope not.” Rachel tried to sound more confident than she felt. Developers like Mike Bradley didn’t allow much to stand in their way, and they had far bigger guns in their arsenal than a few elderly folk in a quietly dozing village. Too much money was at stake for Mike Bradley to take defeat easily, and as far as Rachel could see there was no other way of developing that particular site than by chopping down the trees of the Ashgrove to provide the access. She didn’t hold out much hope for those trees.

  As she reached the front door Rachel turned back to Cecily. “Have you met a man called Nicholas Potter?” she asked.

  “No, who’s he?” Cecily had come to the door to see her out, and looked out across the road to the pub.

  “He was at the meeting the other night, said he was new to the village. He sounded fairly objective about it all, so I thought he might be worth talking to. I just wondered where he lived.”

  “Gail in the post office might know,” suggested Cecily. She put her hand on Rachel’s arm. “Let me know how you get on,” she said. “It’s important to me.”

  Rachel promised she would and as the door closed behind her, crossed the road to the pub. She settled herself at a corner table and checked her phone for messages. There were several but none of them important enough to deal with immediately, and she turned her attention to her lunch.

  Over half a pint of shandy and a ploughman’s she considered what she had learnt that morning, and made notes on the lines of enquiry she could follow up easily. Gail Milton, who ran the Post Office, would be easy. She needed to look at the marriage register and see whom Jane Chapman had married. She wanted to find out more about Sarah Hurst. Imagine not being commemorated simply because she was a woman! That’s what it boils down to, thought Rachel furiously. Her father didn’t consider her sacrifice as important as that of her brother.

  And yet Rachel’s mind wouldn’t allow her to accept that. No father would think like that. He had lost his children in the service of their country and, surely, even in 1918, that must mean an equal loss, even if one of them was a girl, perhaps even more so. She remembered Cecily’s words, “Squire didn’t want her to go, he wanted her to stay at home and look after him.” May be he did, but surely he would love her as much if she didn’t. Then she thought about what she had read in Vera Brittain’s A Testament of Youth and remembered how Vera’s parents had reacted to her going to nurse the wounded, both in London and France; how they had expected her to drop everything and come home and look after them, run their home while her mother was ill. Parents of that generation believed that their daughters’ first duty was to be at home for them. Girls of her sort didn’t go out to work, or if they did it was a little genteel voluntary work.

  I’m looking at this through twenty-first century eyes, Rachel decided, that’s the problem.

  She started as her musings were interrupted by a voice saying, “If you’re on your own, may I join you?” and looking up found Nick Potter standing beside her, holding a pint and a plate of food. She was surprised by his approach, but gestured to the bench seat opposite.

  “Feel free,” she said, and, glancing round the room, found that the bar had filled up considerably since she had come in, and there was little space elsewhere for him to sit.

  “Thanks.” Nick set his plate and glass down on the table before saying with a nod at her half-empty glass, “Can I get you a top-up for that?”

  Rachel smiled back at him. “No thanks,” she said. “Only one at lunch time or I go to sleep.”

  She tucked her notebook back into her bag and took a pull at her shandy, thinking as she did so that this would be a good chance to do a little probing into village affairs, even if Nick were a self-confessed blow-in. “It’s getting crowded in here,” she remarked as an opening. “Is it always as full as this on a Saturday lunch-time?”

  “It has a good reputation for bar food,” Nick said. “People come out from Belcaster for a pub lunch.”

  “It is an attractive villagey sort of pub,” Rachel agreed, spreading the crusty brown bread roll with some delicious looking chutney. “This is supposed to be home-made,” she indicated the chutney with her knife and Nick said, “I believe it is. Mandy is an e
xcellent cook, and everything is home-made.”

  “I heard today,” Rachel said conversationally as she watched him begin to eat his curry, “that there used to be another pub in the village. The Bell?”

  Nick looked interested. “Was there? I didn’t know that. Where was it?”

  “Not sure, but I understand it’s a private house now. I suppose a village this small can only support one pub.”

  “Probably,” agreed Nick, “but it’s sad don’t you think, that such places should have to close? It would certainly be the beginning of a lingering death to this village if the Post Office Stores closed. The school would probably go too.”

  “So you’re in favour of these new houses then?” Rachel asked.

  “As I said the other night, in principal I am, but it depends how things are done.”

  “What about the Ashgrove?” Rachel watched him over the rim of her glass as he considered his reply.

  “That’s a difficult one,” he conceded. “A memorial like that shouldn’t be destroyed, especially when there are still people alive who remember the men who are commemorated there.”

  “But there is already a memorial in the church,” Rachel pointed out, playing devil’s advocate. “They are all commemorated there.” She nearly said “all but one”, but something held her back. She wanted to do a lot more research on Sarah Hurst. She felt there was another human interest story there in its own right, and decided to say nothing about it until she had discovered more.

  “Is there?” Nick looked surprised. “I didn’t know, but I have to admit I’ve never been into the church. So, they wouldn’t be without any memorial.” He laughed. “That’ll please Mike Bradley.”

  “Yes,” Rachel agreed bleakly. “And he knows about it too. It was one of his blokes, Tim Cartwright, who told me it was there.”

  They both turned their attention to their food and ate in companionable silence until Rachel said casually, “Whereabouts do you live? Right in the middle of the village?”

  “More or less,” Nick replied. “I’m living in a house on the main road into the village. It’s very small, and only temporary, while I look for something else.”

  “In Charlton Ambrose?”

  “Probably. My firm has relocated to Belcaster, so I want to find something permanent in one of the outlying villages. I like it here.”

  “Perhaps you could buy one of Mike Bradley’s executive homes,” suggested Rachel, watching Nick Potter out of the corner of her eye to judge his reaction.

  He looked at her quizzically and then laughed, “No, no I don’t think so. Not my scene.”

  “What is your scene?” asked Rachel.

  “Something a bit older, with character.”

  “You mean with mullioned windows and roses round the door?”

  “More like needing a new roof, re-wiring and re-plumbing,” he replied.

  “Have you found somewhere?”

  “All these questions,” Nick said lightly. “Anyone could tell you’re a journalist.”

  “So, have you?” Rachel persisted.

  “Nothing definite,” he answered, “I’m still looking round. I can take my time till the right thing comes up. How are you getting on with your piece about the trees?”

  Now it was Rachel’s turn to be evasive.

  “Oh, I’ve just been chatting to people, you know. Testing village opinion.”

  “And?”

  “And, you’ll have to read my article in next week’s Chronicle.” She picked up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder got to her feet. “I must make tracks,” she said. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Are you busy this evening?” Nick asked suddenly, and when she paused and looked surprised he went on, “It’s just that I’ve heard there’s a rather good night-club opened up recently in Belcaster.”

  “The Grasshopper?”

  “Yes that’s the one. Have you been there? Is it good?”

  “No,” Rachel replied, “I haven’t. It is supposed to be good.”

  “I wondered if you’d like to go this evening.” Nick watched her face as she considered the invitation, and he wondered what had actually made him issue it. He had had no thought of going to the Grasshopper when he’d come into the pub, but there was something about this girl opposite him. He had only met her three times, two of them very briefly, but each time she lingered in his mind, and he wanted to get to know her better. He liked the way her dark curls framed her face and the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, and the laugh when it came, delighted him. Nick thought as he watched her that he enjoyed making her laugh.

  “No, I don’t think so, thank you very much.” Rachel sounded apologetic. “It’s kind of you to ask, but I think not.”

  “Me, or the club or both?” enquired Nick cheerfully.

  That made Rachel laugh. “Neither,” she said. “It’s just I’ve got stuff to do before Monday and I’m spending tomorrow with my grandmother. Thank you all the same.”

  “I won’t be discouraged then,” Nick grinned, finding he meant what he was saying. “I’ll ask you again. Shall I ring you at the office?”

  “If you like,” Rachel agreed. “But I must warn you that I often work anti-social hours.”

  “Fine,” Nick nodded. “I can be anti-social too, no trouble. Give my love to your grandmother.”

  “I will,” promised Rachel still smiling. “She’ll be delighted. Goodbye, now,” and turning away she left the pub without looking back.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon in the village, and her first stop was the Post Office Stores. The post office part was shut, but the shop was open.

  “Excuse me, are you Mrs Gail Milton?” she asked the woman sitting reading her book behind the counter. The woman who was about the same age as Rachel, looked at her a little suspiciously and said that she was.

  Rachel handed over her card. “I was at the meeting in the village hall on Wednesday,” she explained, “and I wondered how you felt about the proposed housing development.”

  “All in favour of it,” replied Gail. “We need more people to keep the village alive, specially the younger ones. This place is fast becoming a dormitory for Belcaster.”

  “Don’t you think the executive houses proposed for most of the site would only make that worse?” suggested Rachel. “I understand that there aren’t many starter homes planned.”

  “No,” agreed Gail, “but any are better than none. I’d welcome anything that would boost our trade.” She indicated the book she’d been reading. “If I was in a supermarket on a Saturday afternoon, there’d be no time for reading at the cash desk, would there? We stay open for the few customers who drop in, but if we had to pay someone to do it, it wouldn’t be economic.”

  “What about the Ashgrove?” asked Rachel.

  “What about it?”

  “Well, I understand from Cecily Strong that your grandmother’s brother, Harry Cook, is commemorated by one of the trees.”

  “So?” Gail’s tone was more guarded.

  “So, would it matter to you if they had to be cut down before the development could go on?”

  “I expect my gran wouldn’t like it,” Gail conceded. “It doesn’t matter so much to me. It was all so long ago.”

  “So you wouldn’t fight to save them?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Gail was quickly defensive. There was a moment’s silence before she went on. “Thing is you have to weigh it up, don’t you? I mean my kids go to the village school, at least two of them do, but every year the intake gets smaller, and by the time my Janie is five the school could be gone and she’d have to go Stone Winton or somewhere like that. I don’t want that. It isn’t just the business.”

  “Were you at the meeting?” Rachel asked. Gail nodded.

  “Mike Bradley has offered to put up a stone memorial on the village green,” Rachel said. “Perhaps that is as good a memorial as the trees.”

  Gail considered for a moment and then said, “Not as good, no. Not for the pe
ople who remember why the trees are there. But those men who died wouldn’t want the village to die as well, would they? Uncle Harry went to the school here, the old one that is, but I’m sure he’d want there to be a school in the village, and homes for people, and that.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Rachel acknowledged. “Does your grandmother know what they want to do yet?”

  Gail shook her head. “No. At least I haven’t told her. Dad may have heard and told her.” She thought for a minute and then added, “People are saying that Mike Bradley bloke might offer compensation to the families concerned. Gran could certainly do with the money… and my parents, for that matter.”

  “I am sure you’ll hear if that’s what they plan to do,” said Rachel. She picked up a box of chocolates. “I’ll take these, if I may,” she went on. “I’m going to see my grandmother tomorrow.”

  Her next stop was the vicarage. Having checked the vicar’s name on the church notice board, Rachel walked through the vicarage garden and knocked on the front door. Adam Skinner answered it and when she explained who she was and what she wanted, he invited her in and led her through to his study.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said, gathering up a pile of papers from a chair and pulling it up towards the gas fire, “but this is the warmest room in the house. Do sit down.”

  Rachel saw that the desk lamp was on and there were two books open on the desk with a notebook and pen laid beside them. “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she began, “I can see you are busy.”

  She looked up at him. With the light on his face she discovered he was far younger than she had first thought, not much more than thirty, with shrewd grey eyes that looked out at her from under an untidy thatch of dark hair. He sat down at the desk, and leaned forward, resting his arms on the sprawl of papers.

  “Saturday is usually quite busy,” Adam Skinner agreed. “I have to prepare for Sunday, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have time for visitors. How can I help you?”

  “I want to see if there is some way that the Brigstock Jones development can go ahead without destroying the Ashgrove,” Rachel replied. “I’ve done some research on its history. There are accounts of its planting in the Belcaster Chronicle in 1921. I know that was a long time ago, but there are still people who remember it.” She explained how she was going to try and find all the descendants of the men commemorated. “I wondered about looking in the parish records. A lady in the church said you had them.”