3

When Rachel reached the office next morning, she slipped unnoticed into the archive room in the basement of the building and began work. Unfortunately not all the back numbers of the paper had been computerised, and Rachel found that she had to look at actual copies of the earlier papers.

She pulled out the binder for the first quarter of 1915 and began with the first paper of the year, Friday, 1st January. She was looking for the photograph Cecily had mentioned. There were not many pictures in the paper, and she was quickly on to the second paper and then the third. She found what she was looking for in the middle of March. There, on the front page of the 19th March edition was a grainy photograph of a group men in uniform under the headline

OUR BRAVE LADS

The article was short and patriotic, but none of the young men in the photo was named. The only one Rachel could be sure of was the officer in the middle, Freddie Hurst. The paper was old and the picture poor. It was impossible to distinguish the features of any of them, but they were all young and laughing and Rachel found herself blinking away unexpected tears.

“Come on, Rach,” she said aloud, “what is the matter with you?” She closed the archive and replaced it on the shelf. What she was really interested in, she reminded herself, was the planting of the Ashgrove. Cecily had told her that the trees had been planted and dedicated in 1921, but couldn’t remember exactly when.

“It was cold,” Cecily had recalled, “so it was probably January or February. I’m sure it was the early part of the year.”

Rachel decided to start with the first issue of 1921 and work her way forward. She heaved the bound volume from the shelf and setting it on a table opened it and stared down at the yellowing pages. As she worked her way through she was surprised how many references there were to such a small place as Charlton Ambrose. Her eyes skimmed the faded print and she soon found that the name leapt out at her, but most items were of little interest reporting only rummage sales, lost cats and a sheep escaping into the rectory garden. One or two articles were longer and there was more detail of what was affecting those who lived in Charlton Ambrose eighty years ago. A flu epidemic struck with some severity, leaving several dead in its wake. A new rector, Henry Smalley, was installed by the Bishop of Belcaster. There was a short biography of the new rector who, it appeared had served at the front in the Great War, and had been offered the living by Sir George Hurst, whose son Frederick had been lost on the Somme.

That’s Freddie, thought Rachel, the chap Cecily told me about. The Lieutenant Hurst in the picture. She put down the paper and thought about him; Freddie Hurst, killed so young all those years ago. Each time she heard of him he became more real to Rachel. First learning of him from Cecily and now reading about him in the paper made him something more than a name, and Rachel found herself wishing that the photo in the earlier paper had been clearer, so that she really knew what he looked like. No picture of him here of course, but there was a faded picture of the Rev Smalley. Again, it was difficult to distinguish his features in the old newsprint, just a youngish man, light-haired and bespectacled, wearing a dog collar. Had Cecily mentioned him too? Yes, but not by name, simply as the rector, who dedicated the trees. Rachel turned back to the paper.

The Reverend Henry Smalley was a bachelor, and thus most welcome in a village where so many young men had not returned from the war. There was a brief description of his institution and the small welcoming reception afterwards, arranged by the parish in the village hall.

“The same one still in use today?” wondered Rachel as she read on. Mention was made by name of the ladies who had made the cakes and prepared the tea, Mrs Day and her daughter, Miss Molly Day. Perhaps, thought Rachel, one of those young ladies who was so pleased that the new rector was unmarried. Mrs Davies… was she the mother of John and Dan? Mrs Cook, Mrs Crown, Mrs Swan, Mrs Strong… Cecily’s mother? All ladies doing their best to make the new young rector feel welcome in the village. She noted the date of the article for future reference and moved on to scan the next paper.

It was three papers later, three weeks later, that she found what she was looking for.

MEMORIAL TREES FOR CHARLTON AMBROSE

On Wednesday eight young ash trees were planted on the village green at Charlton Ambrose. These trees were planted as a memorial to those who made the ultimate sacrifice in the Great War. A tree dedicated to each man from the village who did not return from Flanders Field was planted in an attractive grove at the end of the village green. A short ceremony of dedication was conducted by the new rector, the Reverend Henry Smalley. The families of the fallen were all there to assist at the planting, and there were many tears among the onlookers as some of the younger brothers and sisters came sorrowfully forward to place a shovelful of earth around the roots of the tree in memory of a lost loved one. The final tree was planted by Sir George Hurst, for his son Captain Frederick Hurst of the 1st Belshire Light Infantry. It was through the generosity of Sir George that the trees were bought and planted as a permanent memorial to the glorious dead, the heroes from Charlton Ambrose. Each tree has a temporary name plate beside it, but it is Sir George’s intention that small stones shall be carved with the names of the fallen… Captain Frederick Charles Hurst, Pte Alfred Chapman, Pte Harry Cook, Sgt Daniel Davies, Pte John Davies, Sgt George Hapgood, Pte William Strong and Cpl Gerald Winters, and placed at the foot of each tree. May they rest in peace!

Rachel smiled a little wryly at the florid style of the article. Clearly in his element, the writer had given full rein to his prose, wringing every ounce of emotion from the scene.

She read through the names again and wrote them in her notebook. Now at least, she thought, I know who all the trees are for. The names Davies and Cook caught her eye and she recognised them as the names of some of the village ladies who had made the refreshments for the rector’s welcome party. Were they the same families, or part of extended families? Two of Peter Davies’ great uncles were commemorated there, and even though, of course, Peter could not have known his uncles, as Cecily had known her brother, the direct link was there; an unbroken line of history in the village.

Wondering if there might be any further references to the Ashgrove in the subsequent weeks, Rachel decided to skim through the next few issues before photocopying the tree-planting article. What she found amazed her. In the edition of the Chronicle that came out two weeks later, Charlton Ambrose made the front page with the headline

PUBLIC OUTRAGE IN CHARLTON AMBROSE!

Clearly the work of the same reporter as before, Rachel thought with a smile as she began to read.

There was great public outcry in the village of Charlton Ambrose this week when it was noticed that the small plantation of ash trees dedicated to the glorious dead of the village has been desecrated. Someone, since the day of dedication a mere two weeks ago, has planted a ninth tree among the others. Also an ash tree and of similar size to the others, the extra tree went unnoticed at first. It is not known who might dare to perpetrate such an outrage! Sir George Hurst, whose idea the memorial Ashgrove was, and whose generosity made it possible, has no knowledge of whence the tree came. Though this ninth tree has not yet been uprooted, it is, according to many in the village, almost certainly only a matter of time before it is. When interviewed, Sir George said that he would be considering the matter. The rector, the Reverend Henry Smalley, said it was a decision entirely for Sir George, but added he was sure that no hasty decision would be taken in such a serious matter. Our reporter has spoken with all the families of those already commemorated for their sacrifice, and none of them has any idea where the tree came from, and most of them think it should be removed forthwith.

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 her 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.”

Rachel went home to put the notes she had made into her computer and as she sorted them she considered exactly what she had learned. The ownership of the trees had not been the only thing of interest Paula Sharp had told her. It was the question of the actual land involved.

“The village green used to be part of the Manor estate,” Paula had said. “Though the village people had various rights over it. When Sir George died he left the green and the piece of land beyond it to the parish council, to be used for the public benefit of the village. The village green was left as it was, but the extra piece of land was fenced off and offered as individual allotments to residents of Charlton Ambrose at peppercorn rents. They were all taken up and worked by local people, though the ownership of the land still rested with the parish council.”

“And now the council has sold that land to Brigstock Jones,” said Rachel.

“Yes, subject to planning permission.”

“Didn’t the wording of the will prohibit that?” asked Rachel, surprised.

“We took legal advice on that,” said Paula Sharp. “It was considered that new housing and a new village hall was for the public benefit of the village, the village as it is today. In 1918 there was no question of there being no pub or shop or school in Charlton Ambrose, but now there is a very real danger of all three disappearing. We have to move with the times, and help provide the sort of housing needed now. By using the money from the sale of the allotments, we are able to fund the new hall. Part of our deal with Mr Bradley is that he will build the hall at cost. We already own the land, so it is just the building costs we have to find. The sale of the allotments covers those.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Rachel. “You mean building the hall is the price Mike Bradley has paid for the allotments?”

“Not exactly in those terms,” Paula Sharp replied, “but I suppose that’s what it boils down to, yes. As far as the parish council is concerned, it really is a deal beneficial to the whole community. We need a new hall, but more than that, we need those new houses. We must attract young families to Charlton Ambrose. At the meeting Mike Bradley said that it would bring our village back to life and he was quite right.”

“But you must have known about the trees,” pointed out Rachel. “You must have known that the developers would have to cut down the trees to get access to the site. It’s clear from the plans.”

“We did,” admitted Paula. Her face was pale and strained as she spoke. “We did, but none of us knew why they were there. Of course there are families still in the village who have been here for generations, and presumably they knew all about them, but many of us have moved here more recently and didn’t. There is no one from one of the older village families on the parish council at present, you know. None of us knew the significance of those trees.” She looked across at Rachel earnestly. “Have you been to look at them?” Rachel nodded. “Well, there’s nothing to identify them as a memorial now, is there? And none of us knew that’s what they were. It is extremely embarrassing. I went to the public record office yesterday and found the document recording the donation of the trees to the families. It’s quite explicit; the trees are theirs. We’d only checked Sir George’s will when we wanted to sell the land, and the trees were planted when the land still belonged to him. They weren’t mentioned in the will.”

Rachel mapped out her article. She needed to speak to the planning office, but there would be no one there now until Monday. In the meantime she would begin her research on the families.