Margaret nodded and her eyes welled with tears. ‘He made me promise neverto tell anyone the truth.’
Nellie inhaled sharply. It certainly went some way to explaining hisawful attitude towards his own daughter, she thought. ‘What aboutyour brother, does he know?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘Nobody else. Just Dad…and now you,’ shesobbed.
A long silence hung in the air between the two of them.
‘Are you angry with me, like Dad is?’ Margaret eventually said.
Nellie squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Not one bit, my girl, not onebit.’
Margaret looked at Nellie doubtfully. ‘Really?’
‘You’ve had your reasons. What about the father, does he know?’
‘He’s long gone. He lives in America.’
‘No chance of him coming back?’
‘No.’
‘I see,’ Nellie said quietly.
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Margaret turned to faceNellie. ‘I just don’t think I can keep it a secret, especially when I’llprobably end up seeing the baby as it grows up.’
‘This is a tricky one,’ Nellie uttered. ‘But I think it might be for thebest, though, if you don’t change your story. Hand the baby over to yourbrother and move on with your life as a sixteen-year-old girl.’
‘But how do I keep it a secret my whole life?’
‘It’s possible, believe me,’ Nellie said, reflecting on her own secretthat she had carried with her for sixty years. The secret that she wouldtake to her grave.
Margaret’s silence allowed Nellie’s mind to wander back to the dreadful daythat the news of Charlie’s death had arrived. A cold, impersonal form hadbeen delivered to the house in Eastbourne. Not even a telegram, asreceived by the relatives of deceased officers. Nellie could still recallit with clarity. Army form B.104-82. Charlie’s life whittled downto a standard form. At the top of the form was stamped the regiment andBattalion name. Below it, the handwritten word Madam preceded a standardtyped letter. She still knew every word of it, all these yearslater. It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has beenreceived from the War Office notifying the death of:-
There then followed a soulless mixture of stamps and handwritten words, whichhad told her little of what had actually befallen poor Charlie. In thefield, France had been noted as the location. A standard expressionof sympathy from the monarchs was written at the bottom of the form, beforebeing signed off by an unidentifiable signature and the words Officer incharge of Records.
Despite the extraordinary events that had followed, Nellie could still feel thehollow grief that tore into her, the echo of which she could feel rightnow. Mercifully, she had had Gwen and Dorothy to help her through thedark days which had ensued. She had immediately ceased her trips to thecliff-tops of Beachy Head, fearing what the terrors inside her might have ledher to do. In fact, her grief had led her to a dangerous, inward-lookingplace where her care for herself and for Alfred had slipped. It had beenmore than three weeks until the letter had arrived, which had caused suchemotional confusion in her mind. It was a short, simple letter purportedlyfrom Charlie’s best friend, Len, telling her that she should use Charlie’senclosed will to help cash in his assurance policy and to use the money to moveaway from Eastbourne. At the bottom of the letter was a hand-drawn orangelily, identical to those on the bottom of Charlie’s previous letters andpostcards. For hours Nellie had sat in bed clutching the letter, readingit over and over again, trying to make sense of it. She had compared itto the other postcards sent by Charlie and knew then that he was alive. The handwriting was different—yes—but only very slightly; it was definitelyCharlie’s. Her elation at this discovery was matched by her fierce angertowards him. How could he put me through three weeks of torment likethis? she had thought. The money she had eventually received from theinsurance did little to quell her fury towards him. Days had followedwhere Nellie had been forced to maintain her grief for the benefit of thosearound her. It wasn’t until she had finally moved away to Westbere thatshe had forgiven Charlie. She recalled that her forgiveness of him andthe acceptance of their situation had occurred right here, in this very garden,when one evening she had lit a small bonfire, placing on it all traces ofCharlie. She had genuinely mourned him, as she tossed photographs,letters and postcards onto the pyre. With great reluctance, she evenburnt the only copy of their wedding photograph. By the following morningnothing had remained of Charles Ernest Farrier, but for one sepia portrait ofhim in uniform. She had scribbled out his name and concealed the pictureunder her mattress.
Margaret’s continued sobbing brought Nellie back to the present. ‘Comeon, this is no good. Let’s pick some flowers; brighten your room up abit.’
Margaret stood, tried to compose herself and followed Nellie over to a thickbed 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 orangelilies was the nickname for the Royal Sussex Regiment that Grandad Farrier andGrandad Len served in together. It’s my little tribute.’
Margaret smiled and seemed to take more interest. ‘Why were they calledthat?’
Nellie laughed. ‘It dates back to seventeen something or other when ageneral parading the regiment after a military success in Quebec remarked howthey look like orange lilies because their tunics were buttoned outwards, whichapparently looked like the common wild lilium. As with most nicknames itstuck, even when the uniform changed.’
Margaret bent down and took a long, deep breath and thought of her belovedGrandad Len, who had treated her as though she were his real granddaughter.
ChapterSixteen
26th December 2014, Cadgwith, Cornwall, England
Mortonand Juliette were sitting up in bed, enjoying the cool air wafting in throughthe open window. Juliette was reading her book, but only halfconcentrating—distracted by the view across the Cadgwith bay and out to theopen seas. Morton was just finishing the remnants of his breakfast in bed,which Juliette had delivered with the warning words: ‘Do not—under anycircumstances—get used to this.’
‘I
