Ghost Swifts, Blue Poppies and the Red Star

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Your bedroom is exactly the way you left it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I noticed.’

  A moment of silence stretched uncomfortably.

  ‘Take another piece of cake,’ Harriet encouraged.

  And Fraser did, shoving it into his mouth in one go, devouring it without any hint of pleasure. Before he had even finished chewing, he asked, ‘Is erm…Louise Ditch still about in the village?’

  Harriet grimaced. ‘Yes, she’s still here. Helping her mother in the shop.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Fraser sat up, trying to appear less interested than she actually knew him to be.

  ‘She’s engaged…’ Harriet added quickly, ‘…to Peter Wolf from Whatlington.’

  Fraser sniffed. ‘Made it back, then, did he?’

  ‘Yes, got back a week or so after the Armistice. He’s working on his dad’s farm.’

  ‘Lucky him,’ Fraser said. ‘God only knows what I’m going to do with myself now.’

  ‘You don’t need to rush into anything,’ Harriet said, trying not to look at him with pity. He had barely finished studying Civil Engineering at Goldsmith’s College when war had broken out and, but for a short spell working alongside his father, he had had no time to fashion out a proper career for himself.

  Fraser gulped down the rest of his tea, then asked, ‘So, what’s new in the metropolis of Sedlescombe, then?’

  Harriet paused, pondering recent village news. All of it, without exception, was banal, trivial and inconsequential nonsense. She went to say so, but then reasoned that perhaps that was precisely what Fraser needed; to be helped to remember normality and to forget whatever horrors he had witnessed. ‘Mr Metcalfe won the Utility Poultry egg-laying competition this year. Well—he didn’t win—his pair of White Leghorns did. Nine hundred and thirteen eggs…’ she began, tentatively testing his reaction to the absurdity of what she was saying.

  ‘Nine hundred and thirteen? In a year?’

  Harriet laughed. ‘I know. Amazing.’

  ‘Did you not enter your Sussexes?’ he asked.

  Harriet harrumphed. ‘No chance with my ladies. They’re far too moody and temperamental.’

  ‘What else?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s see… The Sedlescombe Brass Band was donated two nearly-new cornets…’

  ‘Wow,’ Fraser enthused.

  That he was finding something of interest from the triteness of her words heartened Harriet, emboldening her to explore the recent past for additional anecdotes. ‘Oh, I know! The Choir and Ringers had their annual outing last Tuesday—a very pleasant day out in Eastbourne, so I gather—not getting back to the village until gone midnight.’

  ‘Golly. What an adventure,’ Fraser mocked.

  ‘Quite. The summer fete was a thoroughly agreeable affair, by all accounts, raising much-needed money for the church and village hall. Usual things: stalls, music, theatrics. The best part, though, was the pig-hunt for women.’

  ‘Really?’ Fraser asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Half the women of the village chasing this poor creature around the woods. Utter lunacy.’

  Fraser smiled. ‘I take it you didn’t join in, then?’

  ‘Not on your life! Mrs Selmes eventually caught the unfortunate creature,’ Harriet said with a note of disapprobation.

  ‘And what did she win?’

  ‘The pig itself,’ Harriet answered. ‘The poor thing. I only hope for his sake that he went straight to the slaughterhouse; living with Mrs Selmes would be a fate worse than death.’

  Fraser tittered at the story, and Harriet continued to rake over village news for his apparent enjoyment or distraction.

  She looked at his face, as she spoke, imagining that she could see some degree of spirit returning to his eyes, as though such a thing might be possible in such a short space of time. In spite of herself, she refrained from asking the serious questions about what had been happening to him in the last years, resolving that, with time, perhaps the answers might be forthcoming.

  Chapter Two

  4th August 1919, Sedlescombe, Sussex

  Four days had followed, where Fraser had slept for far longer than Harriet felt could be healthy for a man of his age. His sleeping patterns were erratic, to say the least, as were his eating habits. Unlike when he had been a child, he ate anything and everything put on a plate in front of him at any time of the day or night. Apart from those two things, he had sat languidly in the sitting room, staring into space, waiting for goodness only knew what—his next meal or sleep, she could only surmise. All the while, Harriet had busied herself closely in the background with a raft of household chores, many of them superfluous. On the fifth day, she was running her new Daisy Vacuum Cleaner along the hallway, pumping her right foot ten-to-the-dozen on the pedal, when she saw in her peripheral vision that Fraser was in the parlour, stooped over the table.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she asked, gratefully setting aside the vacuum cleaner.

  Fraser stepped to one side, revealing that he had emptied the two Couttie’s Assorted Biscuits tins onto the table, which she had clean forgotten to put away.

  ‘Is this everything you have of theirs?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, dabbing her brow with her handkerchief and placing her hands on her hips. Given that he had taken no interest in the books or newspapers, which she had suggested he read over the last few days, she was somewhat heartened to see him take an interest in something.

  ‘Army Record Office, London, 14th July 1917,’ he read. ‘Sir, It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office notifying the death of Pioneer Malcolm McDougall, 159353, Royal Engineers ‘P’ Special Company, which occurred in the field on the 4th July 1917. The report is to the effect that he was killed in action. By His Majesty’s command I am to forward the enclosed message of sympathy from Their Gracious Majesties the King and Queen.’ Fraser stopped reading and glanced at Harriet. ‘Where’s the message from the King and Queen?’

  ‘Well…’ Harriet began, ‘It wasn’t personal. Their Gracious Majesties probably don’t even know that empty messages of condolence have been being sent out in their names… So, I threw it on the fire.’

  Fraser raised one eyebrow, then continued to read: ‘I am at the same time to express the regret of the Army Council at the soldier’s death in his Country’s service. I am to add that any information that may be received as to the soldier’s burial will be communicated to you in due course.’ Fraser lowered the letter. ‘Did you receive anything about his burial location?’

  ‘No. I had to write a letter to the Imperial War Graves Commission, and they sent me this,’ she said, handing him a small photograph that showed four wooden crosses. Taking a magnifying glass from her bureau, she held it over the image. ‘That’s his grave, there,’ she said. Malcolm’s name and date of death, etched on a small tin plate in the centre of the cross, rose enlarged from the otherwise dull, monochrome image.

  Fraser sighed, as he stared at the photograph but said nothing.

  ‘It came with details of the location: Essex Farm Cemetery in Belgium—just north of Ypres.’

  ‘God…’ Fraser said, and Harriet tried simultaneously not to rebuke him for using the Lord’s name in vain but to infer meaning from that single word.

  ‘I wish I knew more about what happened to them, Fraser,’ she said, touching his arm, as he read one of Edward’s postcards. What she didn’t add, though, was that she wanted to know about his war, too. She pointed to the documents spread out on the table and said, ‘I’ve got all this and yet it tells me nothing about what happened to them. You know…at the end. Is there any way to find out?’

  Fraser blew his cheeks out. ‘Official channels, maybe,’ he ventured.

  ‘I want to find out what happened to your brothers… Where they were before they died… How they died… And, since the Imperial War Graves Commission have outright banned repatriation, I want to visit their graves.’

  ‘Rea
lly?’ Fraser asked, incredulously. ‘Malcolm died in Belgium, and Edward in Greece.’

  He was right, of course: the task would be difficult. She had first mooted the idea to John soon after the Armistice but had been forbidden from taking any further action. But now she was free to do as she pleased. Then, a significant thought struck her: if she were to seek Fraser’s help in her endeavours, it would serve the additional purpose of giving him something with which to occupy his time until such a moment as he would be ready to return to his career. ‘We’ll start with Malcolm,’ she said, displaying a confidence, which she didn’t really possess.

  ‘We’ll start?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet insisted with a smile. ‘You’re helping—at least until something more suitable comes along for you to do in the world of engineering.’

  ‘I’m not even sure I want to be an engineer… What’s the point in expending energy, planning, creating and building new bridges, roads... If you could see the state of the towns and villages in mainland Europe…’

  ‘But they really need more people like you: young and bright with a good head on your shoulders,’ Harriet countered.

  Fraser shook his head and began to pick amongst the documents on the table. ‘Talk me through what you’ve got for Malcolm, and I’ll make my mind up about just how ridiculous a task this all is.’

  Harriet scooped up a collection of more than twenty postcards. ‘Well, he sent me all of these.’

  He took the stack and quickly flicked through them. Choosing one at random, with a colourful bouquet of three roses on the front, he read the back: ‘Dear Ma, hoping you are well, love Malcolm.’

  Harriet responded to his look of scepticism with a light shrug of her shoulders. ‘Some of them are more descriptive,’ she said, leaning closer and flipping through the cards. ‘One of them…now where is it? One of them mentions his friends. Another of them has a photograph on the front, showing his location at the time.’ She selected a card and held it in front of Fraser: ‘Ypres Quai,’ she read from the front. The picture was a quaint depiction of two barges on a canal with several large wharf-like buildings standing beside it. Between the water and the buildings were several horse-drawn carts and men calmly going about their business. Harriet turned the card over and read: ‘Dear Ma and Pa, A card to let know that I am quite well. Have not had too much time for writing just lately, so have had to send cards. We have had a lot of rain this last day or two & a big storm on Thursday night. Remember me to all at Sedlescombe. Love to all, Malcolm.’

  ‘When was it sent?’ Fraser asked.

  ‘June 1917,’ Harriet answered.

  ‘So, that was probably where he was killed, then, a month later.’

  Harriet shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  Fraser picked up another postcard. This one was thicker than usual, and on the front was the emblem of the Royal Engineers, embroidered on a piece of lace. He lifted the decorative flap to reveal a dried blue flower. He turned the card over and read the brief message silently: Dearest Ma, thought I would share the beauty of this blue poppy; think they would look rather wonderful growing amongst the hollyhocks in the back garden of Linton House. Love Malcolm.

  Seemingly, Fraser had seen enough. He sighed and looked at her. ‘Ma, what you want to do is nigh-on impossible,’ he said softly. ‘I mean, I don’t even know where to start.’

  Harriet nodded. Seeing and hearing what little information she had about Malcolm’s war gave her a sudden realisation of the enormity of the task, which she had been proposing. Besides which, she wasn’t some special, exceptional case; there were millions of women in the country just like her with no knowledge of what had become of their sons. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, beginning to place all the documents into one neat stack. ‘Your father said as much.’

  Fraser reached out for her hand. ‘Wait. I said it was nigh-on impossible, not impossible.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t mind trying, Ma, but like I said, I don’t even know where to begin.’

  Something, which Harriet couldn’t immediately identify, changed inside of her. It was an indefinable lift, a lightening of her long-suffering heart, perhaps. ‘Right,’ she said, grasping her hands together, as she worked to contain the intense welling of hope inside. She moved across the room and sat at John’s writing desk. She opened the lid and pulled out a sheet of white paper and his best silver fountain pen. ‘You sit down and work your way through those postcards, making a note of anything that might give us a clue: friends, places he visited, people he met... He talks about a Timothy somebody quite often. Timothy Mogridge or Muggridge?’

  ‘And what are you going to do, dare I ask?’

  ‘I’m going to write to the battalion commander, or general, or whoever’s in charge of the Royal Engineers and tell him I’m jolly well coming to see him.’

  ‘Well, before you go and make yourself look a fool, you might do well to remember that he was serving with the Royal West Kents in the Pioneer Brigade. And it’s the captain you need, not a commander or general.’

  Harriet set the pen down and frowned. ‘Yes, well, what does that actually mean? I was a little perplexed to read in the telegram that he was in the ‘P’ Special Company. Why so many dratted names? Companies, regiments, battalions, armies—it’s all so very confusing. What was he actually doing?’

  Fraser shrugged. ‘The captain should be able to tell you more, especially now the war’s over.’

  ‘Let’s get to work, then,’ Harriet said, picking up the fountain pen and formulating her opening sentence.

  Chapter Three

  10th August 1919, Tonbridge, Kent

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ Fraser said, suddenly drawing to a complete standstill.

  Harriet looked at him with a moue. ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

  Fraser’s forehead scrunched up, as he frowned at her. ‘I’m technically still in the army, Ma. The last thing I’m going to do is barge my way into a battalion office and demand to speak to the officer in charge. I’d be court martialled.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s technically possible if you’re in the reserves, but anyway…’ Harriet replied, walking indignantly along Bank Street towards the headquarters of the 4th Battalion Royal West Kents. The day was hot, and, as Harriet strode along, she felt as though she were melting under her heavy, black, ankle-length mourning dress.

  The building, which she sought, came into view. It was a large red-brick edifice with a low roof, pitched in the centre, reminding her of a typical Methodist chapel. The words Corn Exchange were carved into a white stone slab, set above the portico entrance. Beside the door were two long thin windows. It was thankfully a much less intimidating building than Harriet had feared.

  She paused at the entrance, took a long breath in, then knocked on the white panelled door.

  After a few moments, a young lady with pinched features opened it cautiously. She was wearing a rather fetching red front-buttoned dress with a wide V-neck and a rather less-fetching scowl on her face. ‘Yes?’ she said coolly.

  ‘Good morning. I’ve come to see Major Sir Captain Cohen.’ Harriet smiled and made a move towards the door, but the young lady didn’t budge.

  ‘I see. And do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no,’ Harriet answered. ‘However, I did send him a letter last week, informing him that I would be coming today. Perhaps he neglected to tell you?’

  ‘Well, I can assure you that Major Sir Captain Cohen does not have any appointments scheduled for today,’ she asserted.

  ‘Oh, how wonderful—plenty of time to fit me in, then,’ Harriet said, taking a giant stride to the door and pushing against the secretary’s resistance. Harriet found herself in a large vestibule with two desks, several potted plants and a run of metal filing cabinets.

  ‘That is very much not what I meant, madam!’

  Ignoring the lady’s ongoing protestations and taking a hasty glance to the back of the room, Harriet could see three white doors with a
central pane of obscure glass. Behind two she could see nothing at all and presumed them to be water closets or cupboards but, behind the right-hand one, she saw blurred movement and heard the low hum of conversation. ‘This one, isn’t it?’

  ‘Madam, you really cannot just barge your way inside like this!’ she called after Harriet. ‘You must make an appointment!’

  ‘Oh, but I did!’ Harriet said pleasantly, turning the golden door knob and stepping onto the wooden block flooring of a long corridor, which served several closed doors. At the other end she could see a wide staircase, leading up to the first floor.

  ‘Madam, please stop!’ the secretary cried.

  ‘It really won’t take long,’ Harriet said over her shoulder, as she marched down the corridor, glancing at the brass name plates attached to each door, as she passed. She reached the final one before the staircase to find that luck was on her side. Major Sir Captain H. B. Cohen, the black etched letters read. Harriet rapped hard on the door.

  The secretary caught up with her and grabbed her arm. ‘He’s not in his office,’ she said.

  Harriet faced her, disliking the smug look that she found there.

  ‘He’s in a meeting.’

  ‘Then I shall wait,’ Harriet countered, spotting a chair and small table in the triangular space below the stairs and walking over to it in order to sit down. She pulled off her black suede piqué gloves and folded them into her raffia bag.

  ‘He will be in meetings all day; he’s a very busy officer.’

  Harriet clapped her hands together. ‘Not a problem, my dear. I’ve waited two years to find out what happened to my son, so another few hours won’t make a great deal of difference. Oh, and if you’re making a pot of tea at any point, I would love a cup. Thank you so much.’

  The secretary, with her face flushed, thundered past Harriet and stomped up the stairs.

  Harriet peeped up above her, half-expecting to see cracks in the plaster from the secretary’s angry footsteps. She waited patiently, and, sure enough, just a few minutes later came the sound of two sets of shoes descending the staircase above her. One clearly belonged to the secretary, while the other sounded like a weighty, cumbersome pair of boots, in which Harriet hoped to find standing Captain Cohen.