The Orange Lilies Read online

  Margaret’s continued sobbing brought Nellie back to the present. ‘Come on, this is no good. Let’s pick some flowers; brighten your room up a bit.’

  Margaret stood, tried to compose herself and followed Nellie over to a thick bed of orange lilies, upon which danced an array of bees and hoverflies. ‘Smell that; it’s simply delicious.’

  ‘’They’re nice,’ Margaret said softly.

  ‘I’ve had them in the garden ever since I moved here in 1915. The orange lilies was the nickname for the Royal Sussex Regiment that Grandad Farrier and Grandad Len served in together. It’s my little tribute.’

  Margaret smiled and seemed to take more interest. ‘Why were they called that?’

  Nellie laughed. ‘It dates back to seventeen something or other when a general parading the regiment after a military success in Quebec remarked how they look like orange lilies because their tunics were buttoned outwards, which apparently looked like the common wild lilium. As with most nicknames it stuck, even when the uniform changed.’

  Margaret bent down and took a long, deep breath and thought of her beloved Grandad Len, who had treated her as though she were his real granddaughter.

  Chapter Sixteen

  26th December 2014, Cadgwith, Cornwall, England

  Morton and Juliette were sitting up in bed, enjoying the cool air wafting in through the open window. Juliette was reading her book, but only half concentrating—distracted by the view across the Cadgwith bay and out to the open seas. Morton was just finishing the remnants of his breakfast in bed, which Juliette had delivered with the warning words: ‘Do not—under any circumstances—get used to this.’

  ‘I might take that test in a minute,’ Morton said, gesturing towards the DNA kit, which sat on his bedside table, tantalising him with promises of revelations into his own ancestry.

  ‘Go for it,’ she said, still staring out the window.

  Morton set aside his tray. ‘You can go and wash it all up now, fiancée,’ he said with a grin.

  Juliette turned to face him, raised her eyebrows and pulled a that’s never going to happen face, then returned to her book.

  Morton picked up the box and carefully opened it. Inside was a sealed swab and a requisite raft of accompanying paperwork. He read all the information, filled in the necessary forms then took the saliva test and sealed the packet. ‘There. Done. We’ll send it off on our way home. In six to eight weeks I’ll get the results.’

  ‘Presumably you’ll have a large percentage of North American DNA, then?’ Juliette answered.

  ‘Probably, yes. Unless there are any other secrets lurking in the past. Right, I suppose I’d better get up. Aunty Margaret will be chomping at the bit for me to read today’s unit diary.’

  ‘Take the tray with you and wash it all up, fiancé,’ Juliette smirked.

  Morton grinned and carried the tray from the room.

  Downstairs, Jim was sitting by the fire reading a paper and Margaret was flicking through television channels at an alarming rate.

  ‘Morning,’ she greeted, switching the television off.

  ‘Oh, at last,’ Jim said, looking up vaguely from his paper. ‘Put this poor old thing out of her misery—she’s been driving me potty this morning.’

  Margaret chortled. ‘I couldn’t sleep, either. I’ve not been this excited for years. You’ve got me proper hooked, Morton Farrier!’

  ‘No pressure, then,’ Morton said, starting up his laptop. ‘Okay.’

  Margaret sat perched on the edge of her chair, looking like an eager puppy. Even Jim set down his newspaper to listen to the entry.

  ‘Twenty-sixth December. Cambrin. Moved off at 6am to the relief of the 6th Brigade near Cambrin. We commenced relieving the Staffords at 12 noon and did not finish until 8.30pm—another bad communication trench. Here we had 900 yards of trench, which we held with three companies, with one platoon in support. ‘C’ company, who had 90 men admitted to hospital on 24th and 25th having been distributed among the other three companies. The enemy sent over about 20 high explosives. Three rank and file missing.’

  Margaret and Jim looked at each other, their disappointment clearly evident.

  ‘Is that it?’ Margaret said at last. ‘I was hoping for more detail. It doesn’t even mention the poor blighters’ names, does it.’ She shook her head. ‘Rank and file.’

  Morton also couldn’t help but feel disappointed, although he knew deep down that very seldom did rank and file soldiers get mentioned in the unit diaries, even when killed or captured. He looked again at the end of the entry. Three rank and file missing. One was Leonard Sageman and one his great grandfather, Charles Ernest Farrier. Morton returned to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website and re-entered his great grandfather’s name. He then clicked through to the page on Le Touret Memorial and See Casualty Records. On screen, Morton was presented with a list of the thirteen thousand, four hundred and fifty-five commemorated there. Charles was listed on the first page. The entry below listed the only other solider killed that day: Private Cyril Stoneham. Just like Charles, he too was commemorated at the Le Touret Memorial, also without a known grave.

  ‘The other man was called Cyril Stoneham,’ Morton told Margaret and Jim. Morton scribbled the entry onto his notepad and recapped what he knew. ‘So that day, twenty high explosives were sent over, which killed Leonard Sageman and Cyril Stoneham. Charles, though, wasn’t killed but managed to take Leonard’s ID and somehow was captured by the Germans. It sounds to me like they weren’t in the trenches when it all happened…’

  ‘Is that really all you can find out?’ Margaret said. ‘You’ll be going home shortly and I feel like it’s all a bit of an anti-climax because we don’t know the whole story.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Morton agreed. There has to be more out there than this, he thought. ‘Don’t worry, Aunty Margaret, I’ll continue the case when I get back. I’ll see what West Sussex Record Office and the National Archives have got on him. Also the National Army Museum is due to put all their Soldiers’ Effects Records online, covering soldiers killed in the British army 1901 to 1960. Have no fear—there’s plenty more to do from home!’

  ‘Just make sure you keep me up-to-date,’ she said, before ambling off into the kitchen.

  Morton opened up his emails and, among the usual newsletters, junk and eBay alerts, was an email from an Andrew Sageman with the subject Greetings! He eagerly clicked to open the message. Dear Morton, How lovely to hear from you! Sad that we know so little of each other’s families, despite sharing such a recent common ancestor in Nellie Sageman (neé Ellingham). Nellie was my grandmother and I have very fond memories of her. Which trees are you researching? I have a great collection of information on the Ellinghams and Sagemans, though I doubt the latter will hold much of interest to you. After Nellie’s funeral many of her personal effects, photos, etc. were put out for people to help themselves to. As a keen family historian, I took everything that nobody else wanted! What might be of interest to you are a few bits and pieces regarding Nellie’s first husband, Charlie. Somewhere (!) I have his original 1914 will, his war medals, his original pay pocket book (complete with blood stains) and a letter, including a brief account of Charlie’s last movements from his friend, Edward Partington. If any of this is of interest, please let me know and I’ll have a rummage and get it copied for you! Best wishes, Andrew Sageman.

  ‘Wow! Come and look at this, Aunty Margaret,’ he called excitedly.

  She darted into the room and read over his shoulder. ‘Golly. So this is the person you found on that Lost Cousins website, is it?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know him?’

  Margaret screwed up her face. ‘Yes, but no. As kids we were often all at Granny’s house for parties, Christmas, that kind of thing but once Granny died it all fizzled out. I haven’t seen Andrew for donkey’s years.’

  ‘I’ll email him straight back and ask him if he could send me copies of everything he has for Charles. Then I might tell him about our discove
ries. Not sure how that’ll go down…’

  ‘So we might yet find out what happened to Grandad Len and Grandad Farrier that day,’ Margaret mused.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Morton answered absent-mindedly, tapping out a short reply. ‘Well, I suppose Juliette and I should think about packing soon. We’ve got a long trip back to Sussex ahead of us. We’re going to stop off at Dad’s to tell him our good news. Jeremy and Guy are staying with him and apparently they forced him to eat a Christmas dinner yesterday, which is a miracle.’

  Margaret laughed. ‘A load of old commercial nonsense,’ she said, impersonating her brother. ‘I think he’s getting soft in his old age—I even had a Christmas card from him this year.’

  ‘Wonders will never cease,’ Morton said, shutting down his laptop.

  Just over an hour later, Morton and Juliette were standing in the lounge, pulling on their shoes and coats. Their two packed suitcases stood by the front door.

  ‘Right,’ Morton began, fearing an awkward silence was about to expand into the room, ‘it’s been…amazing. Thank you for having us to stay; we’ve had a lovely time. Thanks, Uncle Jim, for putting up with all the genealogy.’

  ‘Well, it’s kept Margaret quiet—that’s no easy feat,’ he said, offering his hand to Morton.

  Morton shook his uncle’s hand then turned and embraced his Aunty Margaret.

  ‘Thank you for your understanding, Morton,’ she whispered. ‘Good luck with your future quests. I hope you find him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Morton replied softly.

  ‘Goodbye, nearly-niece-in-law,’ Jim roared, scooping Juliette into his arms.

  ‘Put the poor girl down, James,’ Margaret said. ‘Goodbye, dear. It’s been lovely to get to know you. Welcome to the family.’

  ‘Thank you both so much—it’s obviously been a really important visit for us, for a variety of reasons. Thanks,’ Juliette said.

  ‘You’re welcome down here anytime,’ Margaret added.

  With Margaret and Jim watching and waving from the front porch, Morton and Juliette walked hand in hand down the path towards the Mini.

  Morton heaved the suitcases into the boot then slumped into the driver’s seat. He faced Juliette and smiled. ‘We did it.’

  ‘You did it,’ she replied.

  He had done it. In five short days he had confronted his past and accepted his future. ‘Come on then, let’s get back to Sussex.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  26th December 1914, Cambrin, France. 9.15pm.

  Charles Farrier was standing poised in the fire trench, ankle-deep in mud with Leonard Sageman, failing to supress a shiver nipping the length of his spine. Both men stood silently waiting for a third man to join them before going over the parapet to check the wire. It was a routine job that Charles had undertaken before now and which had not particularly fazed him on those occasions; tonight, however, the brightness of the moon troubled him. Sergeant Buggler, who had given the order, had assured him that it was still too subdued to be useful to guide enemy fire.

  Charles glanced down at himself. His new socks and clean clothes were already unrecognisable through the wet solid covering of fetid mud. He looked up and was immediately displeased to see Cyril Stoneham standing in front of Sergeant Buggler, having been selected as the third member of their party. Of all the people to accompany us over the top, it has to be that obtuse profane man, Charles thought.

  ‘Okay, boys. Off you go. Be quick about it,’ the sergeant growled.

  ‘Good luck, lads,’ Edward Partington called, as he watched them one by one ascend the wooden ladder over the parapet. As they scrambled up to a standing position, each man held his breath in anticipation of sudden enemy fire; all of them had a catalogued history of knowing men who had been sniped at exactly such a moment. Instinctively, they all stood still for a moment, surveying the brutal landscape around them. To Charles, each time he saw No Man’s Land up close like this, it grew more and more unrecognisable. No longer part of France. No longer part of Europe. No longer part of the world. Just desolate and barren, where the only living things were parasitic vermin, preying on the expiring pulses of nationless men. The crescent moon, sitting low in the open skies among a smattering of stars, only served to render the land starker, more monochromatic.

  ‘Come on then,’ Charles whispered to the two men, his breath puffing out into the chilled air. He led them on the most direct course that he could find, zigzagging past rotting body parts, water-filled craters and stumps of wood that were once trees, all the while fighting against the unyielding adhesive drag and suction from the mud below.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ Stoneham called after a few minutes’ walking, bending double to catch his breath.

  Leonard and Charles continued a few paces then stopped, also grateful for a short break.

  ‘Hello, Fritz!’ Stoneham suddenly said loudly, standing up and heading to a nearby crater.

  ‘Shut up!’ Charles hissed, searching for the focus of Stoneham’s attention.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Leonard glowered.

  ‘Calm down,’ Stoneham called back. ‘Just saying hi to Fritz, here.’

  With a clear shaft of moonlight reflecting back from the water, Charles could see a dead German solider hanging out of the crater, his body slumped to the side, as if he ran out of life trying to free himself from his watery grave.

  ‘For God’s sake, leave him alone,’ Charles called back, needing to express his absolute disapproval but also feeling uncomfortable with how their voices would be carrying across the bleak landscape.

  ‘Let’s go and get him,’ Leonard whispered to Charles. ‘Damned fool that he is.’

  The two men hurried as quickly as they could towards Stoneham, who was rifling through the dead German’s pockets.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Leonard demanded. ‘Leave the poor bugger alone.’

  Charles studied the German’s face. He was young; he could only have been in his early twenties with a good-looking defined face. Under his Pickelhaube Charles could see cropped dark hair. His eyes were closed and, despite the incongruous surroundings, he actually looked peaceful.

  Stoneham examined a small book that he had pulled out from the soldier’s pocket. ‘Say hello to Gustav,’ he said, waving the book in the air. As he did so, something fell to the floor, landing by Charles’s right foot. Charles stooped down to pick it up. He held it close to his face and saw that it was a photograph of the dead German in full military uniform with a young baby girl, around the same age as Alfie, sitting on his knee. Charles turned the photograph over and read the inscription. Für meinen Papa mit Liebe, Anna xx

  ‘Put it back,’ Charles instructed, watching incredulously as Stoneham began to work a ring from the soldier’s finger.

  ‘Stop!’ Leonard shouted, but Stoneham was oblivious. ‘I’m going to report you when we get back.’

  Stoneham stopped, looked up at Len and was about to answer when the German soldier suddenly lifted his head and gasped a giant lungful of air.

  Stoneham yelped loudly and fell backwards.

  The unmistakable crack of a single rifle-shot resounded in the air, a split-second before a bullet smashed into Leonard’s chest, sending him crashing backwards, landing with a thud and squelch.

  Charles dropped to his knees and crawled over to Len.

  Another crack rang into the sky and Stoneham tumbled backwards into the crater with the gasping German, a bullet having pierced into his right thighbone.

  ‘Help me!’ Stoneham squealed, thrashing about in the water, trying to grasp onto the slippery edge of the crater. ‘I’ve been hit!’

  Charles ignored his pleas and gently lifted Leonard’s head into his lap. His eyes were open but his face was motionless, frozen. Charles placed his ear close to Leonard’s mouth: nothing. Tearing open Leonard’s blood-soaked greatcoat and tunic, Charles revealed the bullet wound, glistening and gurgling like an unstoppable oil eruption. Charles placed his palm over the wound but knew that it w
as useless. His oldest friend, with whom he had experienced so much, was dead. He looked down at the aluminium identity tag, lying limply on Leonard’s bare bloodied chest.

  ‘Please, help me!’ Stoneham pleaded, still trying to drag himself free from the crater. Watching numbly from the other side of the crater was Gustav, who had drawn on some inner strength and was mumbling in German at Stoneham, but not making any attempt to free himself.

  As he surveyed the scene before him, Charles realised that he was still holding the photograph of the German soldier with his daughter. He looked again at the picture, then from the German to Stoneham. Inside his brain, so dreadfully tired of this war, something clicked into place, clear and stark: it was the image of his own dead body, forever confined to French soil, on top of which lay the photograph of Nellie and baby Alfred. How unimportant our names are, Charles suddenly realised. The image in his mind was shattered by Stoneham’s pathetic cries.