by Ruth Eastham
“In the church, there’s a big list of names and dates,” I said. “You know the one? All the people from the village who died in the war. Tommie should be on it.” I put the sellotaped photo into my pocket. “I’ll look around the graveyard first to see if Grandma’s buried there, and then I’ll check the list out.”
Lia spun her chair round. “Go for it!”
A car horn blared in the street. She stopped, mid-turn, and her face fell.
“There’s my dad. Right on time! Him and his stupid antiques! Why I always have to go with him, I don’t know.” She went to the door. “Look, I’ll phone you when I can. Tell me what you find out, OK?”
I started from the edge of the church lawns and walked slowly between the wet headstones. Freda Smith, I muttered to myself as I read the inscriptions. Freda Smith.
The first rows of graves with their glossy marble and rectangles of freshly sprouting grass were obviously too new to be Grandma’s. I found a Karen Smith and a Rachel Smith, etched in glinting gold letters. I walked deeper in. The path snaked from one gravestone to another between big beech trees with thick, grooved trunks. Overhead, branches wobbled in the wind, caging me in. I read inscription after inscription. No Freda.
The damp grass became knee-high in places. My jeans clung to me as I forced my way through. Nettles stung at my ankles and I stumbled where tree roots made the ground all lumpy. More gravestones, more inscriptions, but the marble was pitted now and dark lichens grew in clots around the faded letters and numbers. Still nothing.
I smacked down, bashing my hands. I’d tripped over a tiny headstone, sunk into the ground as if it were slowly disappearing into quicksand. A baby? I stepped over it with a shudder and hurried on.
I thought about the boy’s grave I’d seen on the day of the church fête, the vandalized headstone with the broken angel. I would have struggled to find that bit of the graveyard again. The path forked, and then forked again into nothing more than a mud track. I doubled back, tried another trail. More graves appeared from the shadows, none of them Grandma’s. I lost my bearings and started to go round in circles.
I bent over to wriggle through a rhododendron bush. On the other side a piece of bramble lashed at my face. This was impossible! I was going to have to ask Grandad where Grandma’s grave was after all, I told myself angrily. Whether he liked it or not. Tough! I headed in what I hoped was the right direction, and finally managed to find the main path back.
Mr Webb was limping about the church lawns with a pair of gardening shears and talking to himself. His anorak billowed about as he hacked at the damp hedges and the wind sent the bits flying.
I sneezed. I pulled out a tissue from my pocket and the sellotaped photo fell out with it. As I reached down for the picture, a breeze sent it flapping over the grass. I went to grab it, but it scuttled away from me again and before I could stop it, it had ended up right at Mr Webb’s feet.
I stopped dead.
Slowly Mr Webb bent down and picked the photo up. He stared at it, then at me, then at the photo again, and his face went a sort of reddish purple colour. He started having some sort of coughing fit and staggering about. I went forward and reached out a hand to steady him, but he shook me off angrily.
“You’re the Smith boy.” It was as if he were accusing me of something. “The adopted one.”
I didn’t think it was any of his business.
“Could I have that back, please?”
He kicked over a stone with one foot and woodlice scuttled under it. He held up the photo. “What’re you doing with this?”
I was over trying to be nice. “Give it back, will you?”
He stepped away from me, holding the photo out of reach.
“You’re William Smith’s grandson,” he said, and from the way he said the name it was obvious Grandad wasn’t his favourite person.
“I’m trying to find a few things out,” I said. I had to say something. I wanted to get the photo back and get away from him. “Family histories and all that. It’s a project for school.”
Mr Webb stared hard at me. “It is, is it? Trying to find things out about William Smith’s history, are you?” He drove the point of his shears into the wet grass.
“How about this, then?” His lips curled into a sneer. “A conchie he was. A ruddy, dirty conchie.”
I stood there staring at him.
He coughed into his hand and wiped it on his trousers.
“Those photos he took! A slur on my brother’s memory, they were. A slur on my Henry’s memory!”
What was he going on about? What was a conchie? Which photos? Did he mean the ones at the fête? How could a lighthouse on a white cliff or a close-up of tree bark slur anyone’s memory? What had they to do with Mr Webb’s brother, Henry?
“Grandad develops photos all the time,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with that!”
Mr Webb looked shocked. “So he’s got more of them, eh?” He came closer. “He’s up to his old tricks, then!” His face was right up to me now and I could see the gaps in his teeth. There was a curled up red flower in his breast pocket. He pressed his fingers against his forehead. I could see the dirt under his nails.
“Betrayed his brother during the war, know about that, do you?” He was spitting as he said the words. “Went and got his brother Tommie killed, he did.”
I could hardly take in what I was hearing. It was hard to believe that seeing one photo had brought all this on.
“That makes him a murderer, that does,” Mr Webb ranted.
The wind caught his anorak, making one shoulder billow upwards.
Memories hit me. The weirdly sloping shoulders of the figure in the photo hanging in Grandad’s darkroom …
I’ve got proof you’re hounding me!
… Grandad’s black eye. Mr Webb’s bandaged fist …
… Grandad in the tangle of weeping-willow branches. A word caught in the air … Murder.
Everything suddenly seemed to fit.
“Are you following my grandad?” I blurted.
Mr Webb took a step away from me and narrowed his eyes. “Keep your nose out!” he hissed. “It doesn’t concern you, boy.”
So it was him.
“It doesn’t concern you. Do you hear?”
I launched myself forward and made a swipe for the photo. Somehow I got it out of his claw-like hand and I made a run for it. When I glanced back he had picked up the gardening shears and was waving them about. I legged it across the lawns and round the side of the church. I saw the main door and wrestled with its big metal handle. It wouldn’t turn. I tugged and twisted and finally it gave and the door swung open with a horrible creak. I rushed in, pulling it shut behind me.
Immediately I regretted what I’d done. The church was empty. I was trapped in there. I ran up the dark aisle looking for a place to hide. Behind me was the clattering sound of the handle turning, the door squealing open. I dived between the benches and rolled myself under one, chest heaving against the cold stone floor. I made myself as small as I could and squeezed my eyes tight shut.
I heard the door swing wider, then close with a heavy thump.
Footsteps.
Getting closer.
I put my fists to my face, desperately trying to block the images that were seeping into my head. But I couldn’t stop them …
… I hear the thumping of heavy boots. Feel the mud splash my face as the men run past where we’re hiding. Nicu and me. Curled up in the cold mud, the smallest we can be …
I don’t know how long I was under the church bench for. I opened my eyes. I saw jagged patches of red light from stained-glass windows lighting the floor. The church was completely silent. I stayed there a while longer and then slowly uncurled my numb body and edged forward on my stomach, peering out.
The dead people caught my eye. The lists of names I’d told Lia about. The men from our village killed in the war. Light from candles on a tall stand flickered over the wood panels, making the gold letters stand out
.
I scoured up the lists … 1945 … 1944 … 1943 … 1942 … 1941 …
1940.
There were more people listed under that date than any of the others. There were plenty of Smiths there … Stanley, Robert, David, Samuel … I couldn’t see anybody called Thomas. I kept reading. I caught my breath. Webb. Henry Webb.
Before I could think more about it, there was a voice, a whisper. Very, very near to me.
“Come on out now. I know you’re there.”
– CHAPTER 9 –
REVEREND POSSELTHWAITE
In church. 4:40 p.m. Divine inspiration.
Reverend Posselthwaite got up from where he’d been kneeling. He clasped his hands together and looked at me through his thick glasses as I dusted myself off.
“How’s the family, Alex?” he asked cheerfully, as if nothing had happened and he hadn’t just found me poking my head out from under one of his church benches.
“Fine,” I said, forcing a smile.
“I popped in to have a word with …” The vicar pointed at the ceiling. “… you-know-who.”
I stood there and nodded. My mind was still spinning from all the things Mr Webb had said.
“If the weather clears up I’ll take my rubbing.” Reverend Posselthwaite straightened his glasses and pulled up a big sheet of what looked like thick tracing paper and a tin of posh wax crayons. “We recently lost a parishioner, much to our sorrow. Here one minute, gone the next. So there’s a new headstone to add to the records.”
He must have seen the look of confusion on my face. “I make a copy of all the new headstones in the graveyard,” he announced, looking pleased with himself. “I carry on the parish tradition, albeit a sad one. As you know, I haven’t been here very long. Anyway, a predecessor of mine, a Reverend Bartholomew Bath – a fine name, if ever I heard one – he started the idea off, and all the vicars who have come to the parish ever since have continued his work.”
A thought came to me. Why not ask Reverend Posselthwaite if he knew where Grandma was buried?
“Don’t you know?” He scratched his head at my question. “Can’t say I do. And so much of the graveyard’s older sections are overgrown at the moment. The rhododendrons and brambles take over so fast. It’s an enormous area to look after. An ongoing battle! I’ve been asking for volunteers to tame the jungle. Mildred offered your family’s services, in fact.” He gave me a wink. “No doubt she’ll be letting you know about that in due course.
“But rest assured, Alex, every rubbing has the exact position of the grave written in the top left corner. So all we must do is find the rubbing from your grandma’s grave and we’ll automatically know where the grave is! What was her name again?”
“Freda Smith.”
He nodded happily. “The rubbings are all ordered alphabetically.”
“I’ve time now,” I said. “If you’re not too busy?”
“Come along then!” he said excitedly. “I keep the collection in my study. My wife has made some excellent fruit scones and I dare say she could find us something to drink and a spot of home-made jam!”
We walked out of the church and across the wet grass towards his house. I kept looking over my shoulder, but there was no sign of Mr Webb anywhere.
All I could think about was what he’d said about Grandad.
I swallowed. I tried to sound casual. “What’s a conchie?” I asked.
Reverend Posselthwaite stopped and looked at me.
“It’s for a school project,” I said, staring at my feet.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, well, conchie is a slang word for a conscientious objector. That’s somebody who refuses to fight in a war, for moral reasons.
“In the Second World War, for example, a person could say they were a conscientious objector, and instead of being a soldier they would have to work in a factory or farm or a hospital, wherever they were sent. Everyone was expected to help out with the war effort. If you said no, you’d be put in prison.”
So if what Mr Webb had said was true, I thought, Grandad hadn’t been a soldier during the war. I remembered his outburst in the Den. I didn’t fight, I didn’t shoot anyone!
We passed the memorial, a statue of soldiers surging from a boat, guns raised. Our Finest Hour was chiseled into a stone scroll at the bottom. One man had his head flung back and had dropped his gun and had a hand to his chest. Another was face down in water. There didn’t seem to be anything fine about that.
“Dunkirk. Nineteen forty.” Reverend Posselthwaite paused beside me. “A third of a million soldiers rescued from the beaches of northern France. Used as powerful propaganda to raise morale; I’m sure you know the story. But the evacuation was actually a huge defeat for the Allies and there were a good many people who never made it home.”
He nodded sadly at the statue. “More boats went out to Dunkirk from here than anywhere else along this stretch of coast, don’t you know? That’s why this spot was chosen for such a big memorial.”
There were wreaths of poppies propped up around the base, raindrops on their red paper petals.
“Very controversial it was,” went on Reverend Posselthwaite, looking up at the stone figures. “Putting death into stone like that. I understand there were quite a number of locals who were very upset by the idea.”
We got to the vicarage and I took off my shoes in the porch, but Reverend Posselthwaite was too busy thinking about getting to his study and left a trail of muddy footprints down the hall, which got him a good telling off from Mrs Posselthwaite, who appeared from the kitchen.
“Nice to see you, Alex,” she greeted me with a smile. She looked down at my feet. “Now there’s a well-educated young man!”
She rolled her eyes at her husband, and then bustled off.
The room Reverend Posselthwaite took me to was more like a library than a study. Tall bookcases lined all the walls, with the top shelves close to the ceiling and well out of reach. There was a huge desk in the middle of the room, covered in a thick jumble of papers and books, and one very large, very annoyed-looking, white Persian cat.
“The rubbings are all up there,” he said, after he’d finished explaining his complex system of organization according to surname and then Christian name. He pointed vaguely at the top shelves. I could see masses of cardboard tubes and rolls of paper jutting out from them. “Freda Smith, wasn’t it? Should be easy to find!”
Just then Mrs Posselthwaite came in carrying a tray with cups and plates and a steaming teapot. The vicar used his arm to sweep a space on the desk and the cat shifted position grumpily.
“There used to be a graveyard plan,” he said. “But Tiddles here took a shine to it one day. Clawed it to shreds. I keep promising I’ll do some tidying round here, don’t I, dear?”
“I’ll believe it when I see it, dear.” Mrs Posselthwaite poured me some tea. “There you go, Alex.” She pushed the milk jug and sugar bowl towards me. “How’s the family? Your grandad?”
“Fine, thanks,” I said.
“Remember that shirt’s clean on, Harold.” I imagined her ironing his shirts to cardboard perfection. “Strawberry all right, Alex?” She spooned a heap of jam on to one side of a buttered scone and added a blob of cream. “It’s actually a jar your mum made. Delicious, it is.”
Mrs Posselthwaite left.
“Now,” said the vicar, adjusting his glasses. “Ah, yes, Freda Smith! But first things first.” He took a swig from his cup and ended up dribbling tea all down the front of his shirt. “Oh dear me!” he cried cheerfully. “Mrs P. will be cross!”
He took a big bite out of his scone, adding jam stains to the tea and spilling crumbs all over the floor. The clock on the wall chimed. I wished he’d hurry up. There were so many things to find out about Grandad. Big chunks of his life were still a total mystery.
The vicar wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Now, where were we?”
“My grandma’s grave?”
“Do not fear! The complete rubbing will still be intact
.” He swept a hand towards the tubes on the shelves. “That’s the beauty of the Reverend Bath system!”
He took a metal stepladder from behind the door and opened it out. The ladder wobbled as he climbed up. A couple of cardboard tubes thudded down, narrowly missing my head.
“So sorry,” called the vicar. “Now, let me see. Freda Smith, you say?” He peered at the handwritten names on the outsides of the tubes. “Jeffreys … Jenkins … Butterworth … Oh dear, the organization isn’t quite what it should be.”
He started pulling out tubes at random. “Wilkinson … Willows … This one hasn’t got a name.” He opened a tube and unrolled the paper from inside. “No, that’s a drowning from 1835. Where are you, Freda Smith? I know you’re up here somewhere!”
More tubes tumbled. The cat dived for cover.
Reverend Posselthwaite spent the best part of twenty minutes searching and still couldn’t find the right piece of paper, but I couldn’t hang around there any longer. I had to get home. Get things moving. Grandad could be angry if he wanted to, but I had to try and ask him about what Mr Webb had said.
“The rubbing will definitely be on the shelves somewhere, Alex,” Reverend Posselthwaite said to me at the door as I pulled my shoes back on. “It might just take me a little bit of time to locate. Soon as I find it, I’ll let you know!”
He waved at me through the window as I went down the drive.
I broke into a jog.
Conchie. Grandad’s photos. Getting his brother, Tommie, killed.
Grandad wouldn’t hurt a fly. But there was Mr Webb accusing him of all sorts of terrible things.
My brain felt in such a mess. More of a mess than Reverend Posselthwaite’s study.
But the chaos of the vicar’s study was nothing compared to what I found when I got home.
– CHAPTER 10 –
MESSED UP
At home. 5:20 p.m. Chaos revisited.
Grandad met me at the door. He looked in a right state.
