Authors: Costeloe Diney
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.