Aunt Dimity Digs In (31 page)

The villagers’ polite clapping mingled with the students’ heartier cheers and a chorus of enthusiastic barks.

“As many of you know,” Peggy continued, “it’s Finch’s tradition to honor not only those who died for their country, but those who served and lived. They loved their homes enough to go out and do something to protect them. We could all learn a lesson from them.

“A place needs its people. Mrs. Harris’ll tell you that a plant needs strong roots to survive. Well, so does a village. Every single person who lives in our village has to dig into it and plant strong roots, and tend those roots each and every day, or the village’ll wither away.

“Sometimes we need a chap like Dr. Culver to dig into our past, to remind us we’re part of a family that stretches back as far as anyone can see. Finch has come down to us like a gift from the past. It’s up to us to make sure it’s fit to pass on to the future.

“You and I, all of us—we have to dig into ourselves, to find the time and energy to keep our village alive and strong. Finch honored its sons and daughters with a memorial because they did something to preserve the place they loved, instead of sitting on their hands and leaving the hard work to someone else.

“Maybe our struggles aren’t as monumental as theirs were, but they’re every bit as important. They’re the everyday battles of ordinary life, the simple slogging that keeps the village young.”

Peggy stepped through the encircling holly bushes and stood silhouetted against the black silk covering the stone cross. The sunlight glinted off her pointy glasses, and a soft breeze ruffled her flowered dress. The crowd had gone quite still. Even Rainey stood, gazing solemnly over the recumbent students, her freckled face sticky with Constantine cream, her braids askew. Peggy had brought the whirlwind to a standstill.

Peggy took a deep breath, clutched a handful of black silk, and yanked. As the cloth fell away, a shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. The Celtic cross had not been cleaned. It remained grubby and inglorious, a testament to years of neglect, a mute but potent symbol of what happened when people sat on their hands and left the hard work to someone else.

Peggy cleared her throat. “If ever you need reminding that the little bit you do can make a difference, just rest your eyes on the memorial, and you’ll know.”

The assembled throng stood as the jury-rigged speakers poured forth the tinny strains of “God Save the Queen.” The Harvest Festival was over.

Visitors made their way to the car park, in the field just beyond the humpbacked bridge, leaving the villagers to begin the task of cleaning up. The bustling activity swirled around four motionless figures near the war memorial. Adrian and Burt stood a little ways off, but Francesca and Annie stood within the circle of holly bushes, their arms around each other, gazing at the row of names carved into the grimy stone. I wondered why they lingered when there was so much to do.

I was about to pack up my bundles and cart them off to the Mercedes, when Rob grasped my collar and tugged. I looked down at him, then past him, at the blue journal.

“Bill,” I said, “let’s take Rob and Will to see the memorial.”

I stood, with Rob cradled against my shoulder and the blue journal open in my hand. We crossed the square amid the sound of chattering voices and the public address system’s vagrant squeals, but as we stepped into the circle of holly, the noises seemed to fall away. Will gave a gurgling sigh and Francesca turned her dark eyes to me.

“Did you know?” she asked softly.

I looked at her blankly. “Know what?”

“About this . . .” Francesca pointed to the only place on the cross where the stone, freshly carved, glowed golden in the late-afternoon sun.

Piero Alessandro Sciaparelli.
The name stood out, baroque and musical, strikingly different from the homely English names carved above it, but it belonged there nonetheless. Piero had served the country of his birth and the country he’d adopted. He’d been willing to die for one, and live fully for the other. Finch’s sons and daughters, I knew, would welcome him.

“I had nothing to do with it,” I said. “But I think I know who did.”

Francesca nodded slowly, then turned to scan the square. “C’mon, Annie. Mrs. Kitchen needs us.”

Bill and I followed them into the square, and the noise closed in around us. Thumps, groans, laughter, babies squealing, women shouting, dogs barking—the joyous, raucous sounds of my village, coming back to life.

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