Ghost Swifts, Blue Poppies and the Red Star

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Oh, surely I must have done?’ Harriet countered.

  ‘Ah, perhaps you told my brother!’ he said with a wide grin.

  ‘That will be it!’ Harriet agreed, taking the paper parcel from the counter. ‘Much obliged to you. Good day, Mr Roberts.’

  ‘Good day to you, Mrs McDougall—bring your granddaughter in next time!’ he called, as she left the shop.

  ‘Yes, shall do. Good day.’

  The toy shop, W.B. Suter’s was just four doors along the street. Harriet paused at the window, admiring the selection of toys on display there. A clockwork train chugged an oval circuit, looping endlessly around an army of lead soldiers from the African Wars, by the looks of them. Sitting at the edge of the track was a collection of stuffed animals and, to Harriet’s glee, a pair of handsome porcelain dolls.

  Entering the shop was a curious moment for her, being one of the few on the High Street of which she had never had the cause to venture inside. She pushed the door open and peeped around the little room, somewhat surprised by the vast selection of toys on offer.

  ‘My goodness—what a choice!’ she mumbled.

  ‘Everything a child could wish for,’ a diminutive lady behind the counter said cheerfully in a thick Sussex accent. ‘Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?’

  ‘No,’ Harriet answered. ‘Well, yes. I’ve a granddaughter who’s fifteen months old and she’s rather, well, rather lacking in the entertainment and amusement department.’

  ‘Over there,’ the lady said, pointing to one corner.

  ‘Ah, yes!’ Harriet said, running her eyes keenly over the selection of toys presented there. A doll was an absolute must, she thought. And a replacement for that dreadful teddy bear. And, oh! Harriet spotted a box of splendid, little, wooden zoo animals.

  Hastily gathering up several items in her hands, she carried them to the counter to pay.

  ‘Did you want this?’ the woman said, holding up a metal train.

  ‘Yes, whyever not?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘It’s a boy’s toy,’ the woman clarified.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the woman asserted. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But, heavens, women were running the railways not so long ago,’ Harriet replied.

  The woman raised her eyebrows, as if she had been told something so fanciful as to defy belief. ‘Dangerous business, is all.’ She leant over the counter and whispered, ‘I’ve seen things in London what you would not believe. Ungodly things.’

  ‘Right,’ Harriet said, not having the first inkling to what the woman was referring. ‘Like what, exactly?’

  The woman leant closer. ‘Women, wearing men’s clothes!’

  ‘Right,’ Harriet said. ‘And are you going to sell me this train, or not? Only, I am rather pressed for time.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘If you’re certain you’d like it…’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m not terribly convinced that playing with a clockwork train will send my fifteen-month-old granddaughter to London in men’s clothing…but thank you kindly for the warning.’

  ‘On your head be it,’ the woman cautioned, placing all the toys into a paper bag and taking Harriet’s money.

  ‘Good day to you,’ Harriet said half-heartedly, as she left the shop.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman answered.

  What a peculiar person, Harriet thought, marching to the charabanc stop, where two women in black, of around her age, in mid-conversation, were stood waiting at the stop.

  Harriet placed her bags down on the ground and sighed, overjoyed with her purchases. As she thought of Poppy’s little face lighting up, when she would see her new toys, fragments of the two women’s conversation drew her ear.

  ‘…and well, you’ll never get to know, will you?’ one of them said.

  ‘Tragically, I don’t suppose so, no,’ the other agreed.

  ‘The pair of them, lost forever to the Somme.’

  ‘That’s something I take comfort in, at least: that they were together at the end...’

  On that agonising note, their discussion came to an end, and Harriet’s gaze shifted over to the Abbey. She traced the lines of the great stone battlements, as a possible idea dawned on her, which, within the given shaky framework of Malcolm’s dead comrades’ being somehow envious of him, held some odd degree of logic.

  As soon as Harriet returned to Linton House, she hurried into the parlour and removed an envelope from the bureau. She examined the front: her name and address scribed by an unsteady, skittish hand. She slowly withdrew the letter and re-read its contents: a short request from a lady, who had somehow heard of her investigations into Malcolm’s death, asking that Harriet undertake an enquiry into what had happened to her only son, killed in the Great War. Harriet’s reply, politely declining the case was on the kitchen table, ready to be stamped at the Post Office. Could this be what Mrs Leonard had meant about Malcolm’s friends’ being envious?

  Under the sombre gaze of her three sons’ portraits, Harriet thought for some time. Then, she walked into the kitchen and picked up her reply.

  ‘Shall I post that for you, Harriet?’

  ‘Oh, my godfathers!’ Harriet shrieked, leaping around to see Timothy standing in the doorway, smoking.

  ‘Sorry!’ he laughed, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just going over to the Post Office now myself—another letter to Nell.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ Harriet said, her heart thumping. ‘I was in my own little world as usual.’ She paused and stared at him. ‘Do I want you to post it…do I?’

  Timothy shrugged, drawing on the cigarette. ‘That’s what I just asked you.’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Isn’t that your reply to the woman asking for help finding what happened to her son?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Changing your mind?’

  ‘I rather think that I might be,’ she stated, holding up the letter. ‘The problem is, she doesn’t provide a jot of information about her boy, other than that he died in awful circumstances. Didn’t they all? So, it’s all rather like shooting in the dark to accept such a request.’ She heard her own words, as if spoken by someone else. Then she heard Mrs Leonard’s—or Kaifa’s—absurd voice, telling her of Malcolm’s unhappy friends.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said to herself, ripping her reply into four pieces and glancing heavenward. ‘I’ll do it for you, too.’

  At that, Harriet scuttled off into the parlour to write out a new response to the enquiry.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Timothy called from the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, that would be just marvellous,’ she returned.

  Chapter Sixteen

  24th September 1919, Sedlescombe, Sussex

  Harriet was standing apprehensively in a puddle of warm autumnal sunshine, just outside the village hall. She gazed cautiously up at the building, nervous about what was about to happen.

  ‘Terribly sorry, Mrs McDougall,’ Mrs Selmes called, striding breathlessly towards her. ‘Parish business—I wouldn’t be permitted to go into details, you understand—but I’m here now at any rate. Here you go,’ she said, hastily thrusting a large key at Harriet, then heading back in the direction from which she had come. ‘Best of luck.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Harriet called. ‘I shall return it this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, no, you shan’t. It’s yours,’ Mrs Selmes answered.

  ‘My own key?’ Harriet exclaimed.

  Mrs Selmes stopped and turned around. ‘Well, yes,’ she replied, slightly taken aback at the question. ‘This is to be a weekly fixture, is it not?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet answered. ‘Well, I mean to say that I hope so, yes.’

  ‘Splendid. Good day to you, then, Mrs McDougall.’

  ‘Yes. Good day to you, Mrs Selmes,’ Harriet muttered, holding the key between thumb and forefinger, the way in which she might a few times have held an unfortunate bird or beast, which had met its end in her garden.

  A striking
sense of responsibility entwined with a dawning reality, filling her brain with a swarm of unhelpful and oppressive thoughts about this new venture.

  She smiled, as Lina and Poppy came into view.

  ‘Grandma!’ Poppy declared, doddering up the short path from the road and hugging Harriet’s leg.

  Harriet grinned and patted her on the head. ‘Hello, my little girl! Don’t you look a pretty thing?’ She was pleased to see that Poppy was wearing the mauve, mercerised poplin dress, which she had purchased for her in Battle the previous day. ‘And you’ve brought your new dolly along, too!’

  ‘You spoiled her, Harriet,’ Lina said with a laugh.

  ‘That, my dear, is the sole purpose of a grandmother, I think you will find. Ask anyone.’ She turned and unlocked the heavy-set door, hooking it open. ‘Come on in.’

  The inside was just how they had left it the night before. She, Fraser and Timothy had spent several hours preparing the room. A horseshoe of six plain wooden trestle tables was arranged with a sparse collection of oddments of clothing and other unwanted items, all purloined from Linton House. On several pieces of card, which were dotted around the room, were written the words: FREE for ex-Servicemen. Donations from everyone else. Another table with a fancy white cloth was set at the far end of the hall, with two Windsor chairs facing one another, reserved for the solicitor, whom Harriet had procured by telegram from Raper and Fovargue in Battle.

  ‘Shall I set up the tea things?’ Lina asked.

  ‘Yes, please do,’ Harriet replied. ‘Perhaps on a table over there?’ She pointed to the area in front of the serving hatch. ‘There’s a copper tea urn in the kitchen and a selection of mismatched cups, saucers and side plates.’

  Harriet, with her hands on her hips, stood back and looked around her. In such a large space, her few knickknacks spread thinly across the tables looked paltry to say the least. She hoped that others would come, bringing with them their own donations. She glanced tentatively at the door, questioning if anyone would show up at all. She had done what she felt to be best, and now she needed to relax and wait, which was much more easily said than done, she thought, as she needlessly titivated a selection of John’s old, knitted broad-end ties. She’d offered them to Fraser and Timothy, but both had declined, of course. Fashions were changing, by all accounts.

  For some time, with the background bustle of rattling crockery and Lina’s softly humming a tune that Harriet didn’t recognise, she watched Poppy half-crawling and half-tottering about the place, exploring, dragging the poor doll around with her by its hair. The child’s language amused Harriet, being a peculiar concoction of unintelligible babble, Flemish and the odd English word thrown in for good measure.

  ‘Hello?’ a thick, gravelly voice called.

  Harriet twisted around to see Mr Wynn from Raper and Fovargue solicitors, grinning at the door, as he removed his bowler hat. He was a small middle-aged chap with mole-like features and a permanent squint. He was wearing a smart suit and carried a cane in one hand and, in the other, a brown leather portmanteau.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Wynn. Do come in,’ Harriet greeted.

  Mr Wynn strode towards her with his hand outstretched, long before he neared her. His handshake was firm whilst simultaneously hot and clammy. ‘Lovely to see you, Mrs McDougall.’ He cast his squinty eyes around the room. ‘Well, this is…’

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet agreed, saving him the embarrassment of struggling with a choice of underwhelming adjectives. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea and some home-made cake? We’ve got fruit cake, shortbread, rice cake or tea biscuits.’

  ‘Oh, splendid. A cup of tea and a piece of fruit cake would be smashing.’

  ‘Lina!’ Harriet called. ‘Cup of tea and a slice of fruit cake for Mr Wynn, please.’

  ‘Alright,’ Lina replied.

  ‘Now, I’ve put you over there in a discreet position,’ Harriet said, indicating to the table in the far corner.

  ‘Most suitable, most suitable,’ Mr Wynn agreed, heading towards it.

  ‘Harriet!’ came another call from the entrance.

  ‘Timothy!’ Harriet said with a smile. ‘Come and meet Mr Wynn. He’s here to dispense legal advice to former servicemen. He can advise you on your…your situation.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Timothy said. ‘Before I do, though, could you come outside a moment. There’s something I think you need to see.’

  Harriet nodded and followed him outside, wondering what this ominous-sounding something might be.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing.

  Harriet gasped. Fixed into the ground beside the path was a sign—perhaps five feet in length and three feet in height—painted royal blue with words in white, drawn so carefully as to appear professionally made.

  ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered!’ Harriet declared. ‘Mrs McDougall’s Benevolence & Investigation Society.’ She glanced from Timothy to the sign, her hand over her mouth. ‘Did you make this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Timothy admitted.

  ‘What a truly wonderful thing you’ve done!’

  ‘No, Harriet,’ Timothy countered. ‘What a truly wonderful thing you’ve done—look.’

  Behind her, people were walking towards the village hall. There was Mrs Morris in black, ambling along with an armful of clothing, which Harriet guessed had once belonged to her son, Percy. Behind her was young Mrs Crittenden, who had lost her husband, Frank. From the other side of the village came Mrs Goodman and her two boys, who had managed to survive the conflict with good fortune.

  People were coming.

  Harriet read the sign again, then flung her arms around Timothy, as her eyes grew watery. She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, even if she had wanted to. She was crying bitter tears for the past, for her boys and for the lost men of the village; she was crying hopeful, joyous tears for the generosity of her friends and neighbours; and she was crying for the love of her new family.

  Timothy held on to her, gently stroking her back.

  ‘Oh, this simply won’t do, Timothy,’ she said at last, taking in a long inhalation. She dabbed her eyes, secured a smile in place, just in time to welcome her first visitors. ‘Mrs Morris! How lovely of you to come along to offer your support.’

  In less than an hour, the village hall was filled with the flutter and bustle of activity. On one side of the room, Lina was serving a steady stream of villagers with refreshments, and in the centre was Harriet, taking in parcels of unwanted garments from kindly well-wishers. Mr Wynn, having offered his services to Timothy, who had disappeared soon after his consultation, was sitting with his arms folded, enjoying the spectacle of it all over a bottomless cup of tea.

  Later, Harriet’s sister, Naomi arrived, clutching a bag in both hands. Her face was drawn and sullen, as she passed the bag over to Harriet. ‘It’s not much—just his old shirts and trousers. Frank didn’t want them.’

  ‘Oh, Naomi. It’s more than enough,’ Harriet said. ‘Thank you.’

  Naomi offered a brief stiff smile. ‘It’s all that I could bear to part with; I just can’t bring myself to do it in the way that I know it needs doing: fully and completely, once and for all, for the good of everyone.’

  ‘I’ve not brought all of Malcolm’s things, either,’ Harriet confided. ‘For the same reason: I just couldn’t. How is one supposed to discard such things as a pair of pyjamas—so intimate, so private and so…them?’

  ‘I know. I have kept Jim’s pyjamas, too. And his toothbrush,’ Naomi agreed. ‘And what of Edward’s belongings?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ Harriet replied. ‘In time…’

  ‘Oh?’ Naomi said, staring at Harriet in anticipation of an explanation.

  The explanation, that she felt that she had Malcolm’s permission to dispense with his things because of the interpretation of a medium through a ridiculously high-pitched conduit by the name of Kaifa, was rather too farcical to attempt; even to her own sister. Instead, she said, ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  �
��Good. And you must come and meet Malcolm’s widow, Lina. Lovely girl.’

  They walked side by side across the hall, and Naomi whispered, ‘Yes, I heard about that. She isn’t really his widow, though, is she..? Come, now, Harriet.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Harriet replied quietly.

  ‘Lina, this is my sister, Mrs Dengate… Naomi. Is she allowed?’ she questioned her sister. ‘Seems to be the way…’

  Naomi nodded, and the pair shook hands and greeted one another with smiles and informal ‘how do you do’s.’

  ‘Naomi would like a cup of tea, please,’ Harriet said, turning to her sister and adding, ‘Lina is a marvellous waitress. We found her working in the British Tavern, opposite what was once the majestic Cloth Hall in Ypres centre.’

  ‘Right at home, then,’ Naomi said, taking a cup from Lina.

  ‘Yes. Well, actually,’ Lina said, ‘Before the war I was a teacher.’

  Harriet was struck with mortification. ‘What? A teacher? Why ever didn’t you say so before, my dear? A teacher?’

  Lina shrugged. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a qualified teacher and you’re serving tea in a village hall, for goodness’ sake!’ Harriet exclaimed.

  ‘I don’t mind, really,’ Lina said. ‘You’ve been so good to Poppy and me; I will do anything.’

  ‘Even so,’ Harriet said.

  Lina frowned and said, ‘Did you say Mrs Dengate? I thought your parents’ name was Dengate, Harriet? Have I got this wrong?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a story,’ Naomi said with a laugh. ‘My maiden name was Dengate, and then I married James Dengate from Ewhurst.’

  ‘And, to complicate matters further,’ Harriet added, ‘Naomi’s husband, James has a sister named Hannah Dengate, who in turn married my brother, Herbert Dengate.’

  Lina burst into laughter. ‘This is an English joke, yes?’

  Naomi and Harriet shook their heads.

  ‘Unfortunately not, no,’ Harriet answered.

  ‘And are you related to your husband?’ Lina said with a disapproving turning up of her nose.

  ‘Apparently we share the same great-great-great-grandparents, so only very distantly,’ Naomi said.