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Authors: Costeloe Diney
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“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.
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“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.
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