Ghost Swifts, Blue Poppies and the Red Star

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Well,’ Harriet said earnestly. ‘My son, Malcolm, was tragically killed in the war—’ she paused briefly to see if her words had struck a chord with the young man, which they did not seem to have done, ‘—and, just before his death he wanted me to give something to his friend in Woolwich. But, for the jolly life of me, I cannot find what I’ve done with her address.’ She met his grey eyes, hoping that he might interject at some point to assist. When he didn’t, she continued: ‘Her name was Lina Peeters—a Belgian girl—and I know it was somewhere around here, possibly even this very road, where she lived.’ A short titter, then another pause, but still nothing was forthcoming from the teller. ‘So could you be a gem, my dear, and just jot down her address on a piece of paper for me, please?’

  The young man shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I said, no. Addresses are private, madam. I suggest you consult a residents’ directory of the area.’

  ‘Hmm. And, in your professional opinion, do you think it likely that Belgian refugees would be listed in such a residents’ directory during wartime?’ Harriet asked incredulously.

  The man shook his head again. ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you for your time and understanding!’ Harriet said, spinning on her heels and marching to Fraser with her head in the air. ‘Useless place. Useless. That’s the difference between villages and cities…’ She paced past him and out of the building.

  On the pavement outside, Harriet took a moment to consider her options. Then, she spotted what in Sedlescombe was the very heart of provincial gossip: the butcher’s shop, T. Thomas & Son. Purveyors of Home-Fed Meat. ‘There!’

  ‘Ma, do you really think the butcher is going to have Lina’s address?’ Fraser quietly scoffed, as they padded around in sawdust, waiting in a small queue.

  ‘No, but I’ll bet my hat that he knows someone who does,’ Harriet replied, running her eyes over the range of animal corpses suspended from hooks in the ceiling.

  When she reached the front of the queue, Harriet wasted no time dithering about with the convoluted story or even with the much simpler half-truth, which she had just stated at the G.P.O. ‘I’m looking for a Belgian girl by the name of Lina Peeters and it is of the utmost importance that I speak with her,’ she asserted.

  The butcher—in a white hat and blood-stained, white coat—seemed to take her diatribe in his stride. ‘Don’t know that name, my love, I’m afraid, but if it’s a particular Belgian you’re after, try Miss Yavuz at number eight. She’s got loads of houses in the area and used to rent them out to the Belgians before they all went back home. She’ll know of her, if anyone does, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thank you very much—most kind.’

  ‘Any meat, while you’re here? Glazed ox tongue on special offer this week, or how about some English hams—cooked and dressed?’

  ‘Perhaps later,’ Harriet lied with a wave, as she left the shop.

  ‘Ma,’ Fraser said, reaching for her arm and drawing her to a standstill. ‘Where’s this going to stop?’

  Harriet looked into his eyes, instantly understanding his worry that they would endlessly be sent from one place to the next, procuring the tiniest scraps of information on Malcolm’s final movements. It was a question, which she had considered herself, too. ‘I just think, as his mother, that I will know when the time comes to stop.’

  Fraser exhaled, dissatisfied with the answer.

  Harriet smiled. ‘Right now, though, we’re going up to see this Miss Yavuz at number eight.’

  ‘Fine,’ he accepted. Then, as they walked towards the house, said, ‘Yavuz. It doesn’t sound terribly Belgian, does it?’

  Harriet shrugged.

  The house was a rather large and impressive Victorian building, set back from the bustle of the main road behind a long and well-tended garden. It was detached with a central front door and two adjoining pitched gables above. If Miss Yavuz was the owner, then she was clearly very well-off indeed.

  They walked to the front door and Harriet hammered twice with the knocker, a fierce-looking, silver tiger-head. Behind the obscure glass, she saw movement approaching.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ Fraser said, needlessly.

  The door opened and a toffee-skinned lady peered warily out, wearing an exotic headscarf and some kind of oriental wrap-around-style dress, the likes of which Harriet had never seen before.

  ‘Good morning—so sorry to trouble you,’ Harriet began, sensing a need for haste from the woman’s attitude. ‘My son, Malcolm, was killed in the war and, before he died, he became friendly with a young Belgian girl, who lived around here. I’m trying to track her down—her name was Lina, Lina Peeters and I understand you used to rent out your properties to them.’

  The lady nodded, said nothing, but motioned for them to enter the house.

  They entered a hallway, surprisingly bright considering the range of striking tapestries, rugs and oriental adornments covering almost every visible part of every wall.

  ‘My goodness!’ Harriet exclaimed, feeling as though she had just stepped into an Arabian courtyard house.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Miss Yavuz asked, evidently pleased by Harriet’s reaction.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it,’ Harriet said tactfully, studying a stuffed tiger’s head, proudly mounted on the wall beside her, baring its great white teeth in perpetuity.

  ‘My father shot it in Bhutan,’ Miss Yavuz explained.

  Harriet was entirely confused. Here was a woman of middle-eastern appearance, wearing oriental clothing, surrounded by eastern décor, living in Woolwich and renting out homes to Belgians.

  ‘It’s certainly exotic,’ Harriet exclaimed.

  ‘So, you’ve come about one of the Belgians, yes?’ Miss Yavuz asked.

  ‘That’s right, Lina Peeters.’

  ‘I remember her, yes. She lived at number ninety-six, on this road.’

  ‘Ninety-six,’ Harriet repeated, tapping Fraser’s chest, as she spoke.

  ‘But she’s gone now,’ Miss Yavuz said with a laugh. ‘One year ago, I had four houses, all of them filled with Belgians. Now, I have four houses with unemployed soldiers unable to pay the rent.’ She rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘But, such is life.’

  ‘Do you know where Lina went?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘She, and the family she shared the room with, went back to Belgium very soon after war ended.’

  ‘She shared her room with another family?’ Harriet said.

  ‘Oh, yes. The Van De Veldes—nice family. Lina lived with them in their room.’

  Harriet was mortified at the idea of so many people squashed into one room. She could only imagine that it was the same for the entire house. ‘Do you know which part of Belgium they went back to?’

  Miss Yavuz thought for a moment. ‘Ypres.’

  ‘Are you certain about that?’ Fraser pushed.

  Miss Yavuz nodded vehemently. ‘Very sure, yes. But I’m sorry, I don’t have a specific part or address.’

  ‘Can you tell me any more about this girl, Lina?’

  ‘I didn’t really have too much to do with her, other than to collect the rent. She worked as a charwoman, I think. She was very pretty, about his age—’ she pointed at Fraser, ‘—and quiet. Spoke very good English by the end of the war, though.’

  ‘When did she come here, exactly?’ Fraser asked.

  ‘Oh, right at the beginning; when they all came.’

  ‘Did she want to go back to Belgium?’

  ‘I don’t think many of them did, to be honest. Go back to what? Their homes, businesses…all gone. They had lives here. They had their own schools, shops, churches, newspapers—even their own hospital. But, the government wanted to get rid of them. Business contracts were terminated, good hard-working men and women lost their jobs overnight, replaced with the torrent of soldiers returning from the war. Then the government offered free one-way tickets back to Belgium for a limited time only and most went. Now you’ll be lucky to
find ten percent of them left here. It’s very sad,’ Miss Yavuz said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘They were nice people who paid their rents on time.’

  The ending of the war had brought an end to the ceaseless deaths, but the repercussions and the profound sadness had not ended for so many. Harriet often had cause to wonder if there was a single person alive, who had not suffered in some way because of the war: she doubted it very much.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Yavuz,’ Harriet said. ‘One final question, if I may: did Lina, or any of the other Belgians ever mention my boy, Malcolm McDougall?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. I don’t recognise that name; I’m very sorry.’

  Harriet thanked her, took one last look around at the extravagant house, wishing she could spend more time examining all the wonderous artefacts, then they headed out into the sunshine.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that,’ Fraser murmured, as they headed down the path to the main road.

  ‘Neither was I,’ Harriet concurred. ‘Let’s go and take a look at ninety-six… Just to have seen it.’

  ‘Then what?’ Fraser asked.

  ‘Home, I suppose, to pack for our next trip…to Belgium,’ Harriet answered, forestalling any likely protestations from her son by moving off swiftly.

  Chapter Eight

  11th September 1919, Sedlescombe, Sussex

  Two large, brown trunk cases, strapped up and locked, waited by the front door of Linton House. Harriet entered the parlour and stood, with her hands on her hips, gazing around the room. Had she remembered to pack everything, which they would need? The walnut table, which had been covered in documents pertaining to the investigation for what felt to Harriet like a long time, was now empty and appeared strikingly odd with its current lack of purpose. The parlour, for the time being at least, had returned to its previous seldom-used incarnation. As she stood there, she thought of what Miss Yavuz had said, about all those poor Belgians’ being crammed into one room or the soldiers returned from war, struggling just to pay the rent. And here she was, owning a large house with this room, used only on high days and holidays, and a completely empty bedroom. The thought, though, of packing up the boys’ belongings was a step too far for her. Besides, what would she do with all their things? Throw them away? Give them away? Tuck them away in a cupboard or in the loft, never to be seen or touched again? As ideas, they were all equally horrific and unconscionable.

  Now satisfied that she had indeed taken everything from the parlour, which they might need on their trip, Harriet walked along the hallway to the kitchen, where Timothy and Fraser were polishing off the final slices of her Victoria sponge with their usual unrestrained gusto.

  ‘You’re sure you’ve packed all the papers?’ Fraser asked, his mouth full of cake.

  ‘Fraser, close your mouth when you’re eating,’ Harriet admonished. She had overlooked a lot of these vulgar behaviours, which he had apparently learned from the war, but it was time to draw the line at the very worst of them.

  Without commenting, Fraser finished his food. ‘Mother, have you packed all the papers?’

  She ignored the sarcastic undertones and replied: ‘Yes, I have.’ She had placed all the documents in her raffia bag, which she had also checked twice more since. She walked over to Timothy and placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘Now, are you sure you don’t want to come, too? I’m certain it wouldn’t be too late and we could use the extra help, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘I know but I’m very sure, thank you, Mrs McDougall,’ Timothy answered. ‘I’ll never go back. I’d sooner visit—’ he searched for a more fitting, slightly less awful alternative, ‘—hell, if I’m being completely honest.’

  Harriet squirmed slightly from the bluntness of his comment. She glanced at Fraser, wondering whether he too might hold similar feelings and she might have corralled him into a trip, which he really didn’t want to make. He hadn’t really complained. Or had he, and she had ignored it? She looked at him, gazing into his cup of tea, in a world of his own. She wasn’t even certain that he had heard what Timothy had just said.

  ‘And you’ll be alright here, by yourself?’ she asked Timothy.

  ‘Oh, yes. I thought I might go and get some paint from your brother and re-paint the fences at the back of house.’

  ‘There’s no need…really,’ Harriet countered, taking another look at Fraser, hoping that he might have caught Timothy’s offer and become more open to such jobs himself, but still he just gaped absentmindedly at his drink. ‘If you wish to do it, Timothy, then please go ahead, but I beg you not to do it on my account. Really, it just isn’t necessary.’

  Timothy smiled. ‘It keeps me out of trouble.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from Nell, yet?’ she asked of his estranged wife.

  Timothy shook his head. ‘I thought I might write her a letter.’

  ‘What a good idea! There’s plenty of paper and envelopes in the bureau—help yourself.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Mrs McDougall.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. She left the room, wanting to check her bedroom one last time, when someone knocked on the front door. ‘Oh, glory! Fraser, the taxi-cab’s here already! He’s early! Come on!’ Harriet suddenly felt flustered and rushed, not quite ready to head out on their expedition. She tugged open the door, her mind leaping from one thing, which she still needed to do, to another. Then… ‘Oh.’

  ‘Well, that’s a charming greeting,’ Hannah said, expressing mock offence, which might have betrayed her true feelings slightly.

  ‘Sorry, I was expecting it to be our taxi-cab,’ Harriet explained, making no effort to invite her inside.

  ‘So, it is true,’ Hannah said, her eyes widening, taking in the readied luggage. ‘You are going to the continent.’

  ‘Perfectly true,’ Harriet replied.

  ‘How long are you going for?’

  ‘As long as it takes, I suppose,’ she answered with a wooden smile.

  ‘As long as what takes, Harriet?’ Hannah asked, thrusting her hands on her hips.

  ‘My investigations,’ she said enigmatically. ‘I really must go now and make the final checks before we depart. Was there anything else, Hannah, dear? I’m awfully pressed…’

  Hannah shook her head and Harriet began to close the door.

  ‘Are you leaving that man here?’ Hannah whispered, shoving her hand forward to prevent the door from closing.

  ‘Timothy? Yes, absolutely. He’ll be looking after things for me,’ Harriet said. ‘Good day to you.’ She closed the door with an inaudible sigh. ‘That woman…’ she mouthed to herself through clenched jaws.

  Fifteen minutes later—just enough time for Harriet and Fraser to finalise their preparations—a Charron taxi-landaulet arrived. It was dark blue with white striping and operated by a small-but-growing company in Battle. As Harriet and Fraser climbed onto the leather seats, the driver carefully strapped the two cases to the luggage rail. They drove out of the village more slowly than Harriet would have liked, receiving inquisitive stares, as they proceeded, being the only motor transport on the road. There were Mrs Honeysett and Mrs Selmes standing at the gate of River Cottage, watching on. Harriet knew from their knowing expressions that they were fully aware of what she was going off to do. Harriet waved and smiled with an expression that showed clearly her antipathy for their judgmental nosiness.

  Out of the village centre, the driver accelerated somewhat and they made it to Battle train station with plenty of time to spare, before the first train of the morning to Hastings was due. The taxi-cab drew to a lurching halt outside the station, flinging both Harriet and Fraser from their seats.

  Fraser offered her his hand, helping to haul her back onto the seat, just as the side door opened and the driver’s grubby face peered inside. ‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he apologised with a sniff. ‘Some little urchin ran straight out in front of me, the little...’

  Harriet nodded, and Fraser scowled at the man’s explanation, as th
ey climbed out beside the car. The driver clambered onto the footplate and took down the two trunks, handing them over to Fraser. ‘There you go, mate.’

  Fraser said nothing but took the cases and walked off.

  Harriet paid the driver, thanked him, then followed Fraser into the building. It was small and heavily gothic in style, of which Harriet had never approved. If such an idea were possible, it felt to her like the station was an anti-church, as though some murky, heretical practices might happen there after dark. Absurd, of course, it was just an architectural style, seemingly favoured by the designers of Wealden train stations, but that was the conclusion, which she had drawn many years ago and it had stuck.

  They were the only ones on the Hastings-bound platform and took their seats on a bright-green, cast-iron bench and duly waited.

  ‘Do you not think we stand any chance of finding this Lina girl, then?’ Harriet said after some time of conspicuous silence.

  Fraser drew in a long breath and turned to face his mother. ‘If she’s in Ypres, I expect we can find her,’ he answered, placing his hand on hers.

  ‘She must have been quite special to him,’ Harriet said, still not able to accept nor comprehend that Malcolm had used his pass to return to England but had not been to see her, his own mother.

  Fraser’s muttered agreement merged with the distant rumbling of the approaching train.

  ‘Up you get,’ Harriet said.

  The South Eastern and Chatham train—comprising the steam locomotive and three dark crimson carriages—rumbled towards the station in its usual, noisy, angry way, as if reluctant to stop, and Harriet wondered for a moment whether it actually might well not. Then it began to slow down, heavily and grudgingly, as if taking a great effort to do so. With one final heave, it stopped.

  ‘All aboard!’ the guard boomed, stepping down from the middle carriage and looking up and down the platform at his joining and alighting passengers.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Harriet called. ‘Which is First Class?’

  ‘The Pullman at the end,’ the guard said with a foul sneer.