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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.