The Orange Lilies
by Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Copyright © Nathan Dylan Goodwin 2014
Nathan Dylan Goodwin has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
This story is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author. This story is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding, cover or other eformat, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is dedicated to the thousands of fallen men of the Royal Sussex Regiment 1914-1918, including two members of my own family:
Lance Corporal James Dengate
1st Battalion, Royal Sussex Regiment, 1897 - 14 September 1917, Karachi, Pakistan
Private James Ernest Dengate
16th Battalion, Royal Sussex Regiment, 1889 - 21 September 1918, Cambrai, France
www.everymanremembered.org
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Historical Information
Biography
‘On that fateful day, Tuesday 4th August, 1914, one of the many orders sent out by telegram from the War Office under the requirements of ‘The War Book’ was addressed to the Commanding Officer, 2nd Battalion The Royal Sussex Regiment, Battalion Headquarters, Inkerman Barracks, Woking, Surrey. The telegram contained one stark and momentous word: ‘Mobilise’.’
We Won’t be Druv—The Royal Sussex Regiment on the Western Front 1914-1918
Prologue
12th August 1914, The Solent, off Southampton, England
The S.S. Agapenor, a 455 foot-long cargo vessel, dramatically cut through the inky swells of the Solent, which was tonight unusually busy. It was almost two am and most of its cargo—disparate regiments comprising a part of the British Expeditionary Force—was asleep in whatever space could be found. An earlier drama, when the steam ship had collided with another vessel shortly after departing Southampton, had been quickly forgotten. The ship had been bruised but had continued her voyage nonetheless.
Charles Ernest Farrier could not sleep. It was windowless and airless; he could have been anywhere. But he wasn’t anywhere, he was just days, maybe even hours away from war. He was in an area of the cargo hold somewhere deep below deck with some of his closest friends: Leonard Sageman, David Dowd, Frank Eccles, Tom Trussler, Arthur Jarret—all pals who had spent the last few months in close quarters with each other. This was no exception. The Second Battalion of the Royal Sussex Regiment, in which Charles served as a private, was required urgently at the front. The German army, like an insatiable plague of locusts, had swarmed through Belgium and on into France. Back in England, calls for men to volunteer to fight had been answered in their thousands. At twenty-four years of age, Charles had already had training as a regular soldier; he felt somewhere close to ready to fight but knew that the training given to new recruits would be rushed, inadequate and potentially fatal. Despite his training, Charles still felt unprepared. He knew that the battleground that they faced would be nothing like the sleepy training grounds at Inkerman Barracks in Woking, where the regiment had spent the summer. There, in neat rows of bell-tented camps set in the undulating hills of the English countryside, they had undertaken rigorous route marches, assault courses and rifle shooting.
‘You okay, Charlie?’ a low voice whispered from beside him. Despite the pitch black, he knew that the voice had come from Leonard, his best friend, who was slumped up against him. Several years ago, the pair of them had arrived on the Sussex coast in search of work, leaving behind them the poor districts of Lambeth that had taken so many members of their respective families, including their parents, to an early grave. When their searches had failed to elevate their poverty, together, in 1910, they had enlisted to become regular soldiers.
‘Just can’t sleep. Thinking about home.’
Leonard patted his arm. ‘Best thing you can do is try not to think of home—that’s what I’m trying to do. Put your energy into preparing to fight this bloody war.’
‘Yeah,’ Charles said, absent-mindedly. It was easier for Leonard, he had no real family left to speak of but Charles had a wife and a new son to think about.
Charles heard the soft sound of Leonard’s head sagging into his hessian kitbag and found himself alone once again, with only the darkness and his own thoughts for company. He fished about in his pocket and pulled out his most precious possession: the photograph of his wife, Nellie and his six-week-old son, Alfred. Drawing the photograph right up to his face so that it rested on the end of his nose, Charles tried desperately to make out any features on the picture, but he saw nothing. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to reproduce the image of them on the day that the photograph had been taken. They had been sitting in smart, fashionable clothes, which had been borrowed from a neighbour, and had sat smiling for the photographer.
Charles gently kissed the photograph, hoping that it wouldn’t be too long until they were reunited. But his fate rested in the hands of others.
War was spreading through Europe, like an invasive deathly smog.
And he was sailing right towards it.
Chapter One
21st December 2014, Cornwall, England
Morton Farrier was apprehensive. He was cruising down the A30 in his red Mini and had just passed the ‘Welcome to Cornwall’ sign. It was one of the few places outside of his home county of Sussex which would usually evoke in him a feeling of warm syrupy comfort. It was the place of perfect childhood family holidays: camping trips to the Lizard Peninsular with his mum, dad and younger brother, Jeremy. It was a period of blissful childhood ignorance for him. Today, however, the shrinking gap between him and his destination only increased his anxiety.
‘Stop biting your nails,’ Juliette said, reaching across from the passenger seat and forcibly removing his fingers from his mouth. She clamped his hand down under hers. ‘What’s up?’
Morton breathed out slowly and gave Juliette’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Just getting nervous about seeing her, that’s all.’ He turned to her and grimaced.
Juliette looked at him with a reassuring smile. ‘It’s only natural, but you do need to try and relax or you’re not going to have a good Christmas.’
‘I know,’ he answered flatly.
‘Think how nervous she’ll be feeling,’ Juliette added.
He had thought about that already and that only made his apprehension worse, as if shouldering some of her burden himself might have made the situation that he was about to face somehow easier. ‘Do you think we’re doing the right thing in c
oming down here?’
‘Definitely,’ she said, staring at Morton’s profile. ‘This issue has plagued you since you were sixteen. It’s time you put it to bed.’
‘If only it were that simple,’ he murmured, briefly turning so that their eyes locked. He had been told by his father that he was adopted twenty-four years ago, yet it felt like only a matter of weeks had passed since then, and simultaneously like it was something that he had always known. Ever since that day he had had a veritable army of conflicting thoughts and emotions constantly battling in his head. Sometimes he had wanted to know the truth about his past, other times he resolutely did not. Age and maturity now told him that those occasions when he did not want to know his real past were simply defence mechanisms that his spurned brain had created to challenge the reality that he was unwanted. Last year that particular conflict had come to a resolution when his father had informed Morton that his real mother was actually his Aunty Margaret—his father’s sister. One result from that discovery was that slowly since that day, Morton had begun to accept and properly assume his surname, Farrier. It was, after all, his mother’s maiden name—her name at the point of his birth. It had suddenly become less random like his Christian name and more sturdy and real; he finally belonged to a family tree with roots creeping and pervading into the depths of history. As a forensic genealogist, he found it a revealing moment to know that he had ancestors—real ancestors with stories waiting to be told.
The news that his Aunty Margaret was actually his mother had been hastily followed by the unpalatable revelation that she had been raped at the age of sixteen. As hard as he had tried, Morton couldn’t escape the ever-present cloud of knowledge that he owed fifty percent of his DNA to someone capable of such a heinous crime.
And now, here he was, about to have his first meeting with his Aunty Margaret since she had been made aware that Morton now knew of his true parentage.
‘How much further?’ Juliette asked, moving uncomfortably in her seat.
‘About another hour and a half. Why don’t you try and rest for a bit?’
Juliette muttered her agreement and tried to achieve as close to a foetal position as the seat would allow.
Within a few minutes, Morton could hear the deep gentle inhalation and exhalation, which signalled that she had achieved sleep, despite her squashed appearance. Morton tried to shift his thoughts from the looming meeting. His eyes followed the steady, inevitable stream of traffic that blighted the main arteries into Cornwall once the motorway had fizzled out.
After a while, the traffic thinned and the gaps between the houses began to grow. The Mini zipped through picturesque rolling green hills lined with low hedges and stone walls, so characteristic of Cornwall. When the first iconic tin mine tower appeared at the side of the road, in striking red brick and granite, Morton knew that he was in the heart of Cornwall and fast approaching his biological mother.
A swollen orange sun clung to the distant horizon, as he pushed further down into the Lizard Peninsular, the roads twisting, turning and narrowing. High gorse hedges and great swathes of decaying brown bracken became a common sight at the side of the road.
Finally, he passed a small white sign with a thin black border and lettering announcing the village name of ‘Cadgwith’. Morton couldn’t help but let out a small gasp.
Juliette stirred, rubbed her eyes and sat up. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, glancing from Morton to the deserted country lane, expecting to see something noteworthy.
‘Nothing, sorry. We’re here, is all,’ Morton breathed uneasily. If he had ever felt more nervous than he did right now, then he couldn’t bring the occasion to mind.
Juliette stretched out and gently patted his leg. ‘Jolly good—I’m starving. Wow—look at all those cottages! They’re stunning.’
Morton knew that she was trying to pacify him with joviality and distraction, but it hadn't worked.
He tucked his car into a tight space on a ramshackle pea-beach driveway, the Mini’s front bumper resting inches from a number-plate-style plaque that said ‘SEA VIEW’. Morton switched off the engine and held his breath. The car was silent. The village was silent. It seemed at that moment that all of Cornwall was silent, as if trying to placate his apprehension.
He exhaled and looked at Juliette. Thank God you’re here, he thought. He wouldn’t have come alone—he didn’t feel emotionally strong enough. He knew, for various reasons, that this break to Cornwall would be a significant juncture in his life.
It was time to face the past.
His past.
Morton turned to Juliette. ‘Come on, let’s do it.’
He turned to open his door but she pulled him back. ‘Morton, try and relax and let things unfold naturally—don’t force it or it could all go pear-shaped.’
He nodded and kissed her on the lips. She was right. If he went blundering in headfirst, it could all go horribly wrong and potentially send unbridgeable fault lines through the Farrier family. In his line of work diplomacy and tact were important skills when dealing with clients. That’s what I need to do, he thought, step back and treat this as a genealogical case. Just the thought of disconnecting himself slightly from the situation gave him a vague notion of confidence. He stepped out of the car and hauled their luggage from the boot.
Dragging one case each behind them, the pair walked briskly, in defiance of a chilly Atlantic wind. Hand in hand, they strode towards three whitewashed cottages, which had been cut into the hill.
Sea View was the first cottage on the path. At the height of summer the house embodied all the traits of a traditional English home: a gloriously scented honeysuckle rambled over the porch; vibrant pink roses and orange lilies splayed across the front walls, and an array of cottage garden flowers blossomed in the front garden. Today, in the middle of winter, the flora had been reduced to only the hardiest plants capable of fighting against the spiteful sea air.
‘Here we are,’ Morton said.
Juliette switched her attention to the cove over which the house looked. ‘What a view,’ she said. ‘Amazing.’
‘I told you it was nice,’ Morton said, placing his arm over her shoulder and pulling her tightly to him. ‘I could so easily live here.’
‘I don’t think I would ever leave the house if I could wake up to that every day.’
‘Not so great in a storm,’ a voice suddenly chimed from behind them.
The pair turned and there in the porch, with a wide grin on her face, was Margaret. She was exactly the same as the last time Morton had seen her. To him, she was one of those people who rarely changed or aged. She stood in a flowery dress, hair frizzy and white, slightly plump from her fondness for homemade cakes, with a happy glowing face. If she was feeling as nervous as Morton then she certainly wasn’t showing it. ‘Well, don't just stand there, come and give your Aunty Margaret a big cuddle.’
Morton grinned and embraced her.
He closed his eyes and held her tightly. The usual feelings of sugary warmth quickly gave way to an unfamiliar sensation. He was holding his mother. His own, biological mother. It was a day that he had feared, dreaded and longed for desperately. In a strange kind of way, he was at home. His feelings only served to underline how uncomfortable he had often felt in his father’s house; an irreconcilable juxtaposition.
Morton pulled back from the hug when he felt his eyes begin to moisten. ‘Aunty Margaret, this is Juliette. Juliette, this is Aunty Margaret.’
The two women smiled and instinctively hugged each other.
‘It’s lovely to finally meet you, Juliette.’
‘You too—he talks about you all the time,’ Juliette said.
‘Oh dear,’ Aunty Margaret said, turning to go inside the house. ‘Let’s get in out of the cold.’
They stepped into a dim, surprisingly spacious lounge with a low-beamed ceiling and roaring open fire. A fat Norse pine was handsomely adorned with fairy lights, tinsel and assorted Christmas decorations.
‘What a
lovely place,’ Juliette remarked.
‘It’s not bad,’ Aunty Margaret said. ‘Could do with a lick of paint here and there, but it’s home. Right, I expect you’re gasping for a drink, aren't you? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’
‘Tea would be lovely, please,’ Juliette answered.
‘Coffee, please,’ Morton added, taking stock of the room. It was just as he had remembered it; very little had changed. The addition of the Christmas tree and decorations only made it seem more homely.
‘You two take a seat and I’ll fetch the drinks,’ she said, momentarily disappearing from view before her head popped around the corner. ‘Actually, why don’t I show you your rooms, then you can come and go as you please.’
Morton and Juliette followed her up a narrow wooden staircase to a landing offering four doors. Morton’s previous childhood visits had always meant the eviction of one of his cousins from their bedroom, but now Jess and Danielle had both left home, so he guessed their old rooms would now be vacant.
‘The guest suite,’ Aunty Margaret said, lifting a black iron latch and swinging wide the door.
‘Danielle’s old room,’ Morton recalled.
‘That’s right. Well, it still is when she returns from her jaunts overseas.’ She turned to Juliette and said, ‘She’s an airhostess or whatever you call them—flight attendant. Anyway, for the next five days it’s all yours. Free of charge!’
Typical of a fifteenth-century dwelling, the bedroom offered no right angles, straight walls or level ceilings or floors, but it did offer a great deal of quirky charm.
Juliette stooped down to look through the window. She slowly took in the breathtaking views of the small cove nestled between two hills, upon which the village had relied for centuries. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I just can’t get over that view.’
‘I’ll leave you to enjoy it. I’ve cleared some space in the wardrobe, so if you want to unpack, you can. When you’re ready, come downstairs and we’ll have a catch up.’
The Orange Lilies: A Morton Farrier novella (The Forensic Genealogist series) Page 1