4

Saturday morning found Rachel on the road to Charlton Ambrose on her way to visit Cecily Strong again.

She had phoned first thing, to see if she might call and Cecily, pleased to hear from her, had invited her to come round for coffee. Rachel readily accepted. Since her research in the Chronicle archive she had some more, specific, questions she hoped the old lady could answer. With luck, Cecily would be able to put Rachel on the trail of some of the other families still living in the village.

Over her breakfast coffee, she had looked up the surnames from her list in the phone book. Several of the names were listed, but whether they were actually the same families, only time would tell.

Rachel parked outside Cecily’s cottage, but before she called there she went to the church to look for the memorial Tim had mentioned. The church was old, its golden sandstone smooth and mellow. Huddled all round it, like chicks about their mother, were the gravestones of the people of Charlton Ambrose, a higgledy-piggledy mixture of stones and crosses and two large sarcophagus tombs, one on each side of the path. The winter grasses straggled between the stones and grassy mounds. There were one or two graves with fresh flowers, an occasional Christmas wreath, but several were marked only by withered stems standing spikily in jam jars, or long-dead, skeletal pot plants.

The old oak door was open and when Rachel pushed it wider, she found two women inside, cleaning the church. They werehatting to each other as they worked and took little notice of Rachel as she wandered round cthe church looking at the various memorial tablets and plaques.

She found what she was looking for at the back, beneath the large west window. The first was a brass plate which said:

TO THE GLORY OF GOD

AND IN LOVING MEMORY OF THOSE BRAVE MEN FROM

CHARLTON AMBROSE

WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR KING AND COUNTRY

IN THE GREAT WAR 1914–1918

CAPTAIN FREDERICK CHARLES HURST

PTE HARRY COOK

PTE JOHN DAVIES

PTE WILLIAM ARTHUR STRONG

PTE ALFRED JOHN CHAPMAN

SGT DANIEL DAVIES

SGT GEORGE HAPGOOD

CPL GERALD WINTERS

THEY LIVE ON IN THE HEARTS OF THOSE WHO ARE LEFT.

Underneath on a different plaque, almost as if it had been wedged in as an after-thought, was a second plate on which was inscribed:

ALSO THOSE MEN WHO DIED FOR KING AND COUNTRY IN

THE SECOND WORLD WAR

1939–1945

SIMON BRADWELL

PAUL ANDREW CARR

STEPHEN DREW

DONALD STEWART

JACK TURNER

GORDON DAVID BLUNT

HAROLD CHAPMAN

CHARLES FINCHAM

THOMAS SWINFORD

GEORGE JOHN WEST

LEST WE FORGET

Rachel read through the names on both tablets, before taking out her camera and photographing them. The flash drew her to the attention of the cleaning ladies and one called to her, “There’s a postcard of the west window in the stand by the door.”

Rachel turned round. “The west window?”

“Yes,” the woman pointed to the window above the memorial tablets. “There’s a postcard of that if you want to buy one, and a history of the church too.”

“Oh, thank you,” Rachel replied. “It was actually the war memorial I was looking at, not the window. Though,” she added hastily, “it’s very beautiful.” She raised her eyes to look properly at the stained glass and found that it was indeed a beautiful window. Even without benefit of sunshine to illuminate it, the colours were rich and strong, depicting the story of the Good Samaritan; the man lying injured at the side of the road and the Samaritan tending him, holding a cup to his lips, while the donkey the Samaritan had been riding waited patiently on a windswept road.

Underneath the picture were the words:

“And when he saw him, he had compassion on him”

Below the quotation was an unfurled banner with the words:

Rufus Hurst

Captain 1st Belshire Light Infantry

Died of wounds 5th November 1854

after the Battle of Inkerman

Reading its inscription for the first time, Rachel realised that the window too, was a war memorial, in memory of another Hurst, an earlier Hurst than Freddie; killed in an earlier war. The Hursts had given up more than one son for their queen, or king, and country.

The woman had left her polishing and crossed to stand by Rachel. She looked up at the window too and said, “It’s a dreadful waste, isn’t it… war? All those young men never having proper lives, never seeing their children grow up… never having children.”

Rachel nodded and then remarked, “There are several names the same here… they must have been brothers. How dreadful to lose two sons or two brothers.” She stared at the lists again and then said, “Look, there was a Chapman killed in each war, I wonder if they were father and son.”

“I don’t know. Probably relatives of some sort anyway.” The woman smiled: “I’m afraid we’re comparatively new to the village, so I don’t know much about its history.” She thought for a minute and went on, “The rector might know I suppose and of course, he’ll have all the parish records. He might let you see them if you’re interested; you could always ask him. The rectory is across the road.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said. “I might just do that.”

“His name’s Adam Skinner.”

Rachel thanked her again and the woman went back to her duster. As she left the church Rachel bought a postcard of the west window and the history of the church. Glancing through this she found the paragraph that dealt with the window.

The west window depicts the story of the Good Samaritan, with the Samaritan tending the wounded traveller at the side of the road.

This example of Sir Howard Morgan’s work was placed in the church by Sir Frederick Hurst as a memorial for his son, Rufus, killed in the Battle of Inkerman in 1854.

Beneath this memorial window are tablets commemorating the dead of the two world wars, naming all those lost from the parish. It is interesting to note that there is also a memorial of nine ash trees on the village green to commemorate those who fell between 1914 and 1918. These were presented by Sir George Hurst, whose son Frederick was killed on the Somme 1916. They were dedicated by the rector, Henry Smalley, in 1921 to the memory of all who fell.

So, Rachel thought ruefully, the information about the Ashgrove was there for anyone to find if they simply read the little church history, but nothing to tell me about any of the men concerned.

She decided that she would certainly call on the rector to see if he could help her with the construction of the family trees that interested her. However, before that she had a date with Cecily Strong.

When she reached Cecily’s cottage she found the old lady waiting for her, with scones on the table and a pot of coffee already made. They sat down in the crowded sitting room, surrounded by ornaments and souvenirs, each a memory in Cecily’s long life, and Cecily poured the coffee.

As they drank their coffee, Cecily said, “I’ve got a photo you might like to see. It’s of Will. It was taken in France. He sent it back to us.” She picked up an ornate picture frame from the table beside her and held it out to Rachel. There, smiling cheerfully up at her, was a sepia Will Strong. Rachel studied him for a moment and almost without thinking she murmured, “He looks so young!”

“Seventeen,” Cecily said softly. “Only seventeen.”

Rachel handed the picture back and Cecily, setting it back on the table, said, “Now then, tell me what you want to know.”

“Well,” Rachel set her cup aside, “I need to trace the families who had people commemorated in the Ashgrove. I want to write a proper article on the Ashgrove; about what it meant to people when it was planted, and what it means to people today. It seems to me it would be dreadful if it were simply cut down as a convenience to the developers. I know that’s what you think too, so I was wondering if you could help me trace the living relatives of the men who are commemorated there.”

“I can try,” Cecily said doubtfully, “but most of them have moved away. Why do you need to find them?”

“Well, I reckon that Mike Bradley and his firm will be looking for them too, and I wanted to try and get there first. I want to know what they really think and feel, before they are offered a bribe not to make waves.”

“A bribe?” Cecily sounded shocked.

“Well, an inducement anyway,” said Rachel. “They’ll call it compensation. The thing is that Brigstock Jones have got too much to lose if this deal is called off, and planning permission could well rest on the consent of the relatives being obtained to remove the trees. It will be well worth their while to pay off the relatives, with the promise of another memorial in place of the Ashgrove, and cash in hand.”

“Well, they won’t get my consent,” Cecily said stoutly, “whatever money they offer.”

“No, but that may not be enough to save the trees. The whole point of the Ashgrove is that it is a communal memorial, all the men remembered together, irrespective of rank and family. It may be possible to do what they want by removing just some of the trees, but the memorial will still be destroyed as a whole.”

Cecily nodded glumly. “I see, so I can’t stop them.”

“Probably not on your own,” Rachel agreed, “but I’ve made a list here of all the men named.” She pulled out a paper from her bag and looked at it. “Captain Frederick Hurst. Well, you told me a bit about him last time I was here, and I’ve found out some more. He had a daughter, Adelaide, born posthumously, and his wife was married again to a man called Richard Anson-Gravetty. I read a report of Sir George’s funeral in 1921, and it said they were there. Do you remember that funeral? Did you go?”

“Everyone in the village went,” Cecily replied. “I was only a child still, of course, but I remember the school closed as a mark of respect, and we all stood alongside the road when the coffin was carried from the manor to the church.”

“Do you remember his daughter-in-law being there? Or the little girl? She’d have been about five.”

“I suppose I knew they were there,” Cecily said doubtfully, “but I can’t say I remember actually seeing them.”

“Not even at the tea in the village hall afterwards?”

“Us kids weren’t asked to the tea,” Cecily said. “We were packed off outside to play. All the grown-ups went into the village hall and there were some speeches and that, but we weren’t interested in any of that, we were just pleased to have the extra holiday from school.”

“So you don’t know where the Anson-Gravetty family lived in London?”

“No, love you, I haven’t a clue. I didn’t even know it was London.”

“It was in the report in the paper.”

“Then it must be right,” Cecily said. “All I know is that Freddie’s wife seldom came back here after Freddie died, and certainly not after Sir George did.”

“Well,” sighed Rachel, “it’s going to be difficult to trace Adelaide Hurst now. She may well have taken her stepfather’s name as she never knew her real father, she probably married and so had yet another name and on top of that, it’s quite possible she’s already dead. If not, she’s in her eighties and could be living anywhere.”

She glanced down at her paper again only to look up with a start when Cecily said, “And of course Miss Sarah never came home again either.”

“Miss Sarah? Who’s Miss Sarah?”

“Miss Sarah? She was Sir George’s daughter, Freddie’s sister. Went nursing, she did, in the war, though Sir George thought she ought to stay at home and look after him.”

“But I didn’t know Freddie had a sister. There was no mention of her at the funeral.” Rachel was amazed.

“No,” agreed Cecily, “I said she didn’t come home from France. I think she was killed there when the Germans shelled a field hospital.”

“Shelled a hospital?” cried Rachel.

“They did that kind of thing,” Cecily asserted.

“But on purpose? Surely not on purpose.”

“Who knows?” Cecily shrugged. “I’m sure she was killed. She didn’t come home, anyhow.”

“She isn’t mentioned on the war memorial,” said Rachel thoughtfully. “I wonder why? I mean, she was Sir George’s daughter and he arranged for the memorial. He must have wanted her commemorated too.”

“She wasn’t fighting,” pointed out Cecily.

“Maybe not,” Rachel agreed incredulously, “but she died for her country just the same!”

“Most people wouldn’t have looked at it like that,” Cecily said, and Rachel had the feeling that Cecily was one of them. Although she didn’t say so, Rachel got the feeling that Cecily didn’t approve of Squire’s daughter gallivanting off to France to nurse wounded soldiers and she wondered why.

“I still can’t believe he wouldn’t commemorate his daughter in some way.” Rachel was baffled and then she suddenly said, “Of course! The ninth tree! He must have planted the ninth tree for her. You know, there are eight men and nine trees.”

Cecily looked doubtful. “I never heard it was for her,” she said.

“Well if it wasn’t, who was it for?” demanded Rachel.

“I don’t know,” said Cecily, leaning forward to top up their coffee cups. “I’d forgotten that there was an extra tree, to tell truth, but I doubt it was for Miss Sarah, because it never had a name on it.”

Realising Cecily had nothing more to tell her about the squire’s daughter, Rachel made a quick note to try and find out exactly what had happened to Sarah and turned back to her list to ask, “What about Private Alfred John Chapman?”

“Jane Chapman,” said Cecily. “She was his daughter. We were at the village school together. She had an older brother. What was his name now?” She wrinkled her brow in concentration, trying to remember.

“Harold?” suggested Rachel, glancing again at her list.

“That’s right,” cried Cecily, delighted. “That’s right. Harold. Went into the RAF,” Cecily pronounced it “raf”, “in the second war and was killed in the Battle of Britain. Flew fighters he did, and got shot down. Poor Jane. Lost her dad in the first war and her only brother in the second.”

“What happened to her?” prompted Rachel. “Jane Chapman?”

Cecily shrugged. “She married a chap from Belmouth way. Can’t remember his name, but she got married in the village here, and Harold, he gave her away. Ever so handsome he was in his RAF uniform.”

“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 excellent 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 people 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.”

“You can, of course,” Adam agreed, “but they’re not here in the parish any more, at least not the old ones, before 1945. They are in the record office in Belcaster. You’d have to go there to see those. I’m comparatively new to the parish, so I’m afraid I don’t know the history of many of the families in the village.”

“How do you feel about the proposed development?” Rachel asked.

“Probably as most people do, if they’re honest. They don’t like it, but recognise that without it the village will continue to dwindle away.”

“And the Ashgrove?”

“If there is some way it can be preserved, then it should be. It was designed as a living memorial to those men, but it hasn’t been maintained as such. The families concerned haven’t made sure it is recognised as a memorial, and many people in the village had no idea of the significance of those trees. I wouldn’t have known myself if it hadn’t been for the history of the parish written by one of my predecessors.”

“Is that the booklet in the church?” Rachel thinking that the Ashgrove had had only a passing reference in that.

“No, another little history which was left here in the vicarage. Written by a man called Smalley soon after the first war.”

Rachel felt a surge of excitement. Henry Smalley was the rector who had dedicated the trees. “I suppose I couldn’t see it, could I?” she asked casually. “It sounds most interesting.”

The rector reached on to a shelf behind him and took down a slim volume bound in linen covers. “Here it is,” he said, and passed it across to her. Rachel took it and opened it at the first page. On the flyleaf, written in faded brown ink, was a name she didn’t recognise. Underneath was the title A History of the Parish of Charlton Ambrose by Henry Smalley. Flicking through it quickly Rachel could see that for anyone interested in the parish it would make fascinating reading.

“I suppose I couldn’t borrow this, could I?” she asked.

Adam Skinner looked a little doubtful and said, “I’ve only this copy. I’ve never seen another and I wouldn’t want to lose it.” Then he smiled at her, shaking his head at his own reluctance. “Of course you can borrow it. I know you’ll take care of it, and it isn’t as if I don’t know where it is.”

“Don’t worry,” Rachel beamed at him, “I quite understand. Are you really sure? I promise I’ll look after it and return it to you in the next few days.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Adam Skinner agreed.

“Thank you,” she said softly, stowing the little book in her bag. “I’m sure it will be most helpful.”

The rector got to his feet to show her out. “Do come back and tell me how you are getting on,” he said. “If there is some way we can preserve the memorial without losing the houses, that would be perfect.”

The December evening had closed in and it was almost dark as Rachel made her way back to her car. She tossed her bag on to the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel. Suddenly she’d had enough for one day and she longed to be back at home and soaking in a hot bath, after which she planned to spend the evening curled up in her big armchair reading The History of Charlton Ambrose, by Henry Smalley.

Later, as she did just that, she found herself immersed in the history of the little village. She read the whole book. It wasn’t very long, but the part that fascinated her most were the years immediately after the first war when Henry lived and worked in the village himself. He told of the struggle to readjust after the war, of the flu epidemic, of how much the men who had not returned were really missed, of the planting and dedication of the eight trees, and then mentioned the unexpected arrival of the ninth.

“There was great uproar in the village when the extra tree was noticed. Many people wanted the tree uprooted, but stuck into the ground beneath it was a small frame containing a card on which were printed the words ‘To the unknown soldier’. The Rector was much moved by this small memorial and discussed it at length with the squire. He was finally able to convince the squire that the tree did not detract from the memorial, but rather enhanced it with the addition of yet another man who had made the ultimate sacrifice. The squire allowed him to perform an additional service to dedicate the last tree. Thus the Ashgrove Memorial has since had nine trees. It is unfortunate that the carved stones that Sir George intended to have placed under each tree had not been commissioned when he died and his heirs did nothing about them. The small metal plaques originally naming each man disappeared over the years, and most of the trees are now unmarked, including the ninth tree, the man unidentified to this day. It is fortunate that the eight men are also remembered in the church on a separate memorial, so that it shall not be forgotten that they laid down their lives for their country and for their fellow men.”

At last as she lay in the quiet darkness of her room, Rachel’s thoughts drifted to Nick Potter and his invitation for this evening. In the circumstances it was a good thing she had refused, but she hadn’t known that at the time. Why had she refused it, she wondered? She hadn’t been out on the town for ages and it might have been fun. She had no regular boyfriend—several embryo relationships had bitten the dust when Rachel had put either her work or her independent lifestyle ahead of the man concerned. As a result she was sometimes lonely and missed having someone special to do things with; perhaps, if Nick did ask her again, she would go. After all, he was an attractive man and, more important to Rachel, he was interesting to talk to. But it would be strictly no strings. Rachel valued her independence too much.