Phee produced a photograph of a monument and passed it around the old men gathered there,
asking in a mixture of English and broken French if they knew the place. The old men sucked on their pipes and shook their heads, not understanding her words, so Callie helped out as best she
could. Someone pointed to the priest’s house, and luckily the priest spoke enough English to show them where to find the monument, close to a place called Ginchy, so they set out again down
the country roads.
‘Stop!’ cried Aunt Phee to the taxi driver when they had gone a short distance. ‘Look over there . . .
Arretez ici
!’ She and Callie jumped from the car to find
the path, but there wasn’t one. Undaunted, Aunt Phee marched her through a prickly stubble field in her best shoes, over the churned-up ground, to a tall stone pillar fenced around with a
chain. She stood in silence for a few minutes, looking stricken, and then paced round it. ‘This is Arthur’s place, where he fell in battle. Sir Lionel bought this bit of land so he
would always have a grave.’
‘Is he down there?’ Callie asked, curious.
‘No,’ her aunt sighed. ‘They buried him here but . . . there were guns and explosions. He was lost, but his friends told the family the exact spot. I wanted you to see this for
yourself.’
Callie stood not knowing what to do. Should she bow her head and say a prayer? But what if he wasn’t there? She read out his name: ‘Major Arthur B. Seton-Ross, MC 14 September
1916.’
‘He died a few days before our wedding day,’ said Aunt Phee, staring down at the ground. ‘If only he knew . . .’
‘Knew what?’
‘Nothing you would understand.’ Sometimes Aunt Phee went silent and shut herself off so Callie never knew quite how to be with her. She’d learned over the holiday just to turn
away and get on with something else. This was one of those times when she wasn’t wanted.
Phoebe stared up at the stone obelisk in dismay. She’d so wanted to take this detour to see the place for herself but it wasn’t what she was expecting. The monument
stood alone, a symbol of his parents’ grief, a costly, futile gesture, as if there was nothing left in the world to commemorate him. Yet here she was standing with his child, who was the very
image of her father in so many ways. This was the time to say, ‘Here is your father, who won a medal for his bravery,’ but she couldn’t break the silence she’d kept all
these years, and even had she found the courage, this dreary, muddy ploughed field was not the place.
Why did peacetime take so much more courage to live out than those heady danger-filled days of war? She thought about those concerts under bombardment, the match-lit walks in the dark under the
stars when the troops lined the path with flickering lucifers to guide the artistes into their cars after a show. Those were the best days of her life. They lived in danger and she was loved by a
brave man. This ugly stone was cold, empty, reminding her that the dead were long gone and never coming back. Arthur belonged to another, forgotten time. No one wanted reminding of it now. All that
was left was the memory of their time together.
His bones might be crushed somewhere in this farmer’s field. He was nowhere, but his child lived, and with this came the sudden sickening thought that she’d give anything to have him
back in Caroline’s place. She shuddered and turned away from the rage she was feeling.
How could
you
think such a terrible thing? But you have
.
‘Come along, we’ve seen enough crosses for one day.’
Callie followed behind her aunt as they ploughed their way back to the waiting car. If there was nothing here why had Sir Lionel put up a stone? She understood why Aunt Phee needed to come and
see it – they had delayed their journey just to do this and she could see it had made her sad – but the place didn’t look like a battlefield, just a churned-up field with stumps
of trees
asking in a mixture of English and broken French if they knew the place. The old men sucked on their pipes and shook their heads, not understanding her words, so Callie helped out as best she
could. Someone pointed to the priest’s house, and luckily the priest spoke enough English to show them where to find the monument, close to a place called Ginchy, so they set out again down
the country roads.
‘Stop!’ cried Aunt Phee to the taxi driver when they had gone a short distance. ‘Look over there . . .
Arretez ici
!’ She and Callie jumped from the car to find
the path, but there wasn’t one. Undaunted, Aunt Phee marched her through a prickly stubble field in her best shoes, over the churned-up ground, to a tall stone pillar fenced around with a
chain. She stood in silence for a few minutes, looking stricken, and then paced round it. ‘This is Arthur’s place, where he fell in battle. Sir Lionel bought this bit of land so he
would always have a grave.’
‘Is he down there?’ Callie asked, curious.
‘No,’ her aunt sighed. ‘They buried him here but . . . there were guns and explosions. He was lost, but his friends told the family the exact spot. I wanted you to see this for
yourself.’
Callie stood not knowing what to do. Should she bow her head and say a prayer? But what if he wasn’t there? She read out his name: ‘Major Arthur B. Seton-Ross, MC 14 September
1916.’
‘He died a few days before our wedding day,’ said Aunt Phee, staring down at the ground. ‘If only he knew . . .’
‘Knew what?’
‘Nothing you would understand.’ Sometimes Aunt Phee went silent and shut herself off so Callie never knew quite how to be with her. She’d learned over the holiday just to turn
away and get on with something else. This was one of those times when she wasn’t wanted.
Phoebe stared up at the stone obelisk in dismay. She’d so wanted to take this detour to see the place for herself but it wasn’t what she was expecting. The monument
stood alone, a symbol of his parents’ grief, a costly, futile gesture, as if there was nothing left in the world to commemorate him. Yet here she was standing with his child, who was the very
image of her father in so many ways. This was the time to say, ‘Here is your father, who won a medal for his bravery,’ but she couldn’t break the silence she’d kept all
these years, and even had she found the courage, this dreary, muddy ploughed field was not the place.
Why did peacetime take so much more courage to live out than those heady danger-filled days of war? She thought about those concerts under bombardment, the match-lit walks in the dark under the
stars when the troops lined the path with flickering lucifers to guide the artistes into their cars after a show. Those were the best days of her life. They lived in danger and she was loved by a
brave man. This ugly stone was cold, empty, reminding her that the dead were long gone and never coming back. Arthur belonged to another, forgotten time. No one wanted reminding of it now. All that
was left was the memory of their time together.
His bones might be crushed somewhere in this farmer’s field. He was nowhere, but his child lived, and with this came the sudden sickening thought that she’d give anything to have him
back in Caroline’s place. She shuddered and turned away from the rage she was feeling.
How could
you
think such a terrible thing? But you have
.
‘Come along, we’ve seen enough crosses for one day.’
Callie followed behind her aunt as they ploughed their way back to the waiting car. If there was nothing here why had Sir Lionel put up a stone? She understood why Aunt Phee needed to come and
see it – they had delayed their journey just to do this and she could see it had made her sad – but the place didn’t look like a battlefield, just a churned-up field with stumps
of trees
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