‘I wish we knew the name of Iris’ soldier. His name is probably up there but we wouldn’t know,’ Jennifer said quietly.
They stood for a few more, sombre moments before entering the churchyard itself. It was well kept and spacious, dotted with large beech trees, branches still bare.
‘Shall we split up?’ Jennifer suggested. ‘I’ll go this way and skirt round the outside of the graveyard. You start at the graves here and where the grass is shortest. That will be easier with the buggy. I’ll give you a call if I find anything.’
‘Same here.’
Jennifer was glad of her sturdy walking boots as she steered a path around the rougher edges of the burial ground, checking each stone she passed for the Fletcher name. It was easy to read the more recent inscriptions but many were very old and covered in moss so it was difficult to make out the words. Those graves made her feel sad; the memories of those entombed there lost forever. Worse though was reading the memorials for children who had died so young. One was very recent; just last year parents in Chalkham had lost their darling daughter, a nine-year-old called Amy Marie. The words brought a lump to her throat as she recalled the last time she had stood by a grave. It was at the interment of the ill-fated Jasper Jones, and she would never be able to forget the image of his parents and family, overwhelmed with grief. She thought also of Norah and Arthur. How had they ever been able to go on after the tragic death of their two-year-old son?
She continued to pick her way through the mounds. Emily was now heading behind the church and she watched as her long, navy, woollen coat and brightly coloured scarf and hat disappeared out of view. Immediately she felt that strange sense of being entirely alone with only the dead for company. The wind had dropped and it was eerily quiet. Shivering slightly, she walked on, chiding herself for her fancifulness and there it was … a tombstone bearing the name Arthur Fletcher. Quickly she scanned the words, wanting to make sure before she called Emily. It read;
Born May 7, 1906. Died January 9, 1947.
Today’s date, seventy years ago! Could it be coincidence that brought them here today, or something else? She read on;
Beloved father and grandfather. Rest in peace.
‘Emily,’ she called. Her voice came out in a croaky rasp. ‘Emily,’ she shouted again, much louder this time. ‘I’ve found Arthur.’
◆◆◆
Chapter 22
Norah – September 1930
Norah had been in labour for several hours and could feel her strength sapping away. She had not minded the pain at first; in fact, she had welcomed it. She knew her baby would not be born without it. Her labour when Jimmy was born had also been protracted so she had expected the same again. She had been told that her slim, boyish shape was not ideal in these situations.
‘It’s your own fault for being so slender,’ Cissy had joked with her at the time. ‘What you need is childbearing hips like mine!’ She had wiggled her own ample bottom.
That morning, Arthur had returned within an hour with Dr Darkins and had then gone out again to fetch Cissy. He had suggested, tentatively, that he wanted to stay with Norah during the birth but everyone had looked at him with such horror that he had immediately backed down.
‘Childbirth is no place for fathers,’ Dr Darkins had declared. ‘Go off to work, Arthur. We’ll look after Norah and the baby. Someone will fetch you when it’s born.’
‘She!’ Norah had interrupted. ‘When she’s born.’
Reluctantly, Arthur had kissed his wife and done as he was told. Norah had given him a wan smile. ‘I have a feeling Iris is going to give me a bit of trouble,’ she had said. ‘Best you’re out of the way until it’s all over.’ She squeezed his hand and then gripped it harder as another contraction seized her body. ‘Go on, go,’ she insisted when it was over. ‘Let me get on with it. I’ll see you later.’
At work, he had waited all day for the news - a safe delivery; mother and baby doing well - but it never came. Fear was growing in his gut like a cancer by the time he eventually returned to the cottage, unable to stay away any longer.
The bedroom door was closed and he could hear the low murmur of voices, the deep timbre of Dr Darkins and the soothing tones of Cissy, but he could not hear Norah. No moans, no cries. He found himself listening for the sound of her breathing, a reassurance that she was still alive. Swallowing hard, he knocked at the door.
It was opened by Cissy. Her hair was damp with sweat and she looked exhausted. He remembered that she too was pregnant, due to give birth in just three months’ time.
‘Hello Arthur,’ she said and stepped into the room with him, closing the door behind her.
‘How is she?’ he demanded. ‘I want to see her.’
She nodded. ‘In a minute. You need to know that this isn’t a straightforward delivery. Dr Darkins is concerned that it’s a breach birth – that’s when the baby wants to be born feet first. Norah’s been doing well but she’s getting very tired.’
‘Is her life in danger?’ His brown eyes bored into hers. She could see the panic brimming.
‘No, not at the moment.’ She tried to reassure him
