‘How exciting,’ Lina said.
‘Is it?’ Naomi said. ‘I rather find it all rather—’
‘Mrs McDougall’s Benevolence and Investigation Society?’ a loud female voice called across the hall.
Without turning, Harriet knew that the ear-piercing shrill belonged to her sister-in-law, Hannah.
‘Speak of the devil,’ Naomi murmured.
Harriet and Naomi rolled their eyes in unison, before spinning around in a synchronised, mirrored movement with bleak smiles on their faces.
‘Hello, Hannah,’ they greeted together.
‘What does it even mean?’ Hannah asked, marching over to them. ‘Benevolence? Investigation?’
Naomi stepped in and gestured vaguely to the goings-on in the hall and said, ‘Benevolence, it means charitableness, goodwill—’
‘I know what it means, Naomi, but…Investigation Society?’ Hannah stammered. ‘What are you investigating? How many cups of tea the village can consume in one afternoon?’
Harriet crossed her arms and bit her lip, as she formulated her answer. ‘No,’ she eventually said. ‘I shall be helping men and women in their quest for answers as to what became of their sons, lost to the Great War. Where mystery, elusiveness or ambiguity prevents clarity, I shall be there to assist in any way that I possibly can.’
An insulting, scoffing sound erupted from Hannah’s lips. ‘And what qualifies you in such endeavours?’
‘Nothing whatsoever aside from my sheer, dogged determination,’ Harriet responded curtly.
‘Well, it sounds all very Sherlock Holmes, if you ask me,’ Hannah commented.
‘I take that as a gracious compliment, Hannah. Thank you,’ Harriet said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, the Reverend Percival has just arrived, doubtless to level his own criticism in my direction.’
Harriet exhaled sharply, trying her best to maintain what she hoped was a pleasant, amiable appearance, as she approached the Reverend Percival. ‘Good morning.’
The Reverend Percival bowed his head. ‘Mrs McDougall. What an accomplishment! Many, many congratulations.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Harriet answered, slightly taken aback. She surveyed the room, judging there to have been twenty to thirty people milling about. It was a greater number than that for which she had hoped, yet something didn’t feel quite right, as she looked at the assembled group.
‘What prompted such a charitable effort, might I ask?’
‘Nobody else was doing anything,’ she said, pointedly. ‘Our men who survived—and God alone knows how they did—the greatest, most barbaric conflict that the world has ever seen, have been largely abandoned by the state and by individuals and organisations that should know better and owe them a darned sight more.’
The Reverend Percival frowned and touched his chin. ‘It’s a very difficult and complicated situation,’ he weighed. ‘Politically, economically, I mean, taking the Paris Peace Conference as…’
He kept talking, but Harriet had stopped listening. She was watching Fraser rummaging among a pile of clothing in the centre of the hall. He was scrutinising a blue striped Oxford shirt and Harriet realised at once what the problem was: barring Timothy, not a single former serviceman, who really needed assistance, had walked through the door. Not one. What she had organised here was nothing more than a jumble sale, overseen by a pompous rodent-like solicitor, who would charge a small fortune—even after the agreed discount—for the privilege of his advice; advice which, thus far, had been given to just one man. The likes of the soldier from Seaforth Highlanders, whom she had met at Charing Cross, were nowhere to be seen here. What the devil was his name, now? She cursed herself for having forgotten him, just as he had said she would.
‘…It’s really far more complicated than a member of the fairer sex could be expected—,’ the Reverend Percival continued to bluster.
‘Oh, Reverend Percival,’ Harriet interjected with a laugh, ‘I do think you are rather confusing ignorance of the current political and economic state with indifference; quite where the Austria-Hungary border sits, the reparations imposed upon Germany or the organisation of the League of Nations are all of no interest to me. Poor men—in every sense of the word—damaged in the mind, walking our streets in their service uniforms, unable to feed or clothe themselves and with nowhere to live… Now, that concerns me greatly.’
‘It’s very noble of you, Mrs McDougall, very,’ he squirmed. ‘Now, I really must get back to the vicarage. I presume we shall be seeing you at church this Sunday?’
‘Perhaps,’ she answered.
‘Good day to you,’ he said, scurrying from the hall at high speed.
Deep anger and frustration pulsed through Harriet’s veins. She folded her arms in an attempt to stifle the quivering in her hands. Yes, she felt fury towards the Reverend Percival, but a larger portion was self-directed at this foolish little enterprise that had, if the truth be told, helped nobody. She thought of the pompous sign outside, which Timothy had kindly made for her. Mrs McDougall’s Benevolence and Investigation Society.
What utter drivel.
‘Mrs McDougall! Come quickly!’
Harriet anxiously hurried from her bedroom towards the sound of Lina’s urgent voice. She found her in her bedroom, gazing out through the telescope into the garden.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Harriet asked.
‘Dragonflies! Hundreds of them! Look!’ Lina said, stepping back from the telescope.
‘I thought something dreadful had happened,’ Harriet said, regaining her breath, as she trod carefully around the collection of wooden zoo animals, which Poppy had set up on the floor. She sidled up to the telescope, placing her right eye on the viewing ring. ‘Good golly, you’re right. Well, I’ve never seen such a—’ Her words faltered as her eye then settled elsewhere on something most disagreeable. She stared for a moment longer, then hurried to speak so as not to arouse Lina’s suspicions. ‘—I think they might be…now, what variety are they?’ She tried to laugh, but it sounded as false as it actually was. ‘Malcolm would have known, of course.’
‘I don’t know dragonflies in my own language, never mind in English,’ Lina confessed.
‘Perhaps the Southern Hawker?’ Harriet suggested, gently tilting the telescope away from the cluster of dragonflies and towards the garden shed. Beside it, unequivocally in a passionate embrace with lips locked firmly together, were Fraser and Louise Ditch. Harriet shifted the telescope upwards and turned to Lina.
‘Interesting sight,’ Lina said, and Harriet couldn’t tell whether she was alluding to her son’s disreputable proclivities behind the garden shed or to the abundance of dragonflies.
Harriet flushed crimson with embarrassment and turned away abruptly. ‘You’ve done a terrific job in decorating this room.’
‘Thank you.’
With her back to Lina, Harriet studied the white-washed walls, as though it were the first time that she had ever noticed their existence. Timothy had painted them and Lina had added some beautifully decorative blue poppies. The room had been utterly transformed.
‘Right, I must get the dinner on. Have you seen Timothy at all?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Lina answered. ‘Do you need help with dinner?’
‘I think I can manage, thank you. Herrings in tomato sauce and King Edward potatoes. Stewed pears for pudding.’
‘Lovely.’
Harriet headed downstairs, her thoughts knotted over that which she had just witnessed. Was she being a starchy old Victorian to find such a thing objectionable? Louise Ditch was betrothed, for heaven’s sake. She entered the kitchen and cautiously approached the back door, inclining her head to try and see the shed, but from where she was standing it was impossible. Not that she needed to see that again. What she needed was to stop it in its tracks, she thought, flinging the door open noisily: ‘Fraser!’ she bellowed. ‘Fraser McDougall! Could you come here, please!’
She waited a moment and then hollered again.
Moments later, her son thundered across the lawn. ‘What, Ma? What is it? I’m fully expecting the house to be on fire or someone keeled over, for the terrific racket you’re making that all of Sedlescombe can hear.’
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Harriet protested, when he neared her.
‘What do you want me for?’
‘I need some help with the dinner,’ she feigned. ‘Peeling potatoes.’
‘Well, can’t someone else do it? Lina or Timothy? They need to earn their keep, for goodness’ sake,’ he ranted.
‘Well, I don’t know where Timothy’s got to and Lina’s busy,’ Harriet explained. ‘If you think I’m going to needlessly slave away over your dinner alone, you can think on.’
‘Well, I’m busy,’ he objected.
‘Doing what, pray tell?’
Fraser took a breath, glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing does, does it?’ He ambled into the kitchen, picked up the potato peeler and huffed.
A heavy, yet unacknowledged atmosphere lingered around them in the dining room, as they ate. Harriet, at the head of the table, glanced furtively between Lina and Fraser, as she slid a piece of herring onto her fork and put it into her mouth. The shock from earlier had dissipated somewhat, though she hadn’t a clue about what she might do with this information.
‘Poppy!’ Lina chastised, quickly pulling a knife from her grip, which she had taken from the adjacent place setting, and setting it down beside the unused fork.
Harriet watched their interaction, wondering what might be keeping Timothy. It was most unlike him to be late, and she began to worry about what Mr Wynn might have told him. Her worry translated into several somewhat outlandish theories about what might have come of him. Harriet supposed that, after all she had been through, it was only to be expected that her mind would lurch from one terrible scenario to another. She looked at Poppy, earnestly hoping that the little girl would never get to experience even half of the horrors that she herself had lived through so far in her life.
‘It went very well, today,’ Lina said, breaking the uncomfortable and monotonous sound of cutlery against crockery.
‘It’s good of you to say so,’ Harriet said. ‘In truth, though, it wasn’t quite what I had hoped it would be.’
Lina looked surprised. ‘Oh, what was wrong?’
‘I don’t suppose anything was wrong…’ Harriet began. ‘It just didn’t serve the purpose I thought it would have.’ She explained in some detail about the former servicemen, whom she had seen on the streets of London and loitering around the Admiralty Pier in Dover.
‘Yes, but you can’t help everyone, Mrs McDougall,’ Lina said.
‘No, quite; but today I helped no-one.’
‘I got a free Oxford shirt,’ Fraser chipped in.
‘Thank you for that,’ Harriet reproved. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘You need to tell more people about it,’ Lina said, putting down her knife and fork. ‘Where did you advertise this?’
‘In the Post Office window here and in Westfield,’ Harriet answered.
‘And how do you think the homeless servicemen in Dover might hear of this?’
‘It’s an obvious point, Ma,’ Fraser said. ‘How many homeless servicemen are there in Sedlescombe? Last time I looked about, the total ran to around zero.’
Lina shrugged. ‘Let’s go to the big towns and tell them.’
‘One town at a time,’ Fraser added. ‘Shouldn’t take too long, and I’m sure they’d all fit in the village hall. They could all come and live here to save them travelling.’
She glowered at Fraser.
‘There could be a Mrs McDougall’s Benevolence Society in every town!’ Lina said excitedly.
‘You forgot the Investigation part,’ Fraser reminded her.
‘Oh, yes, sorry,’ Lina said with a little giggle.
‘Danny!’ Harriet suddenly exclaimed. ‘See, I didn’t forget him.’
‘Who’s Danny?’ Fraser asked.
She went to explain that he was the Scottish soldier, whom she had encountered at Charing Cross, when she heard the front door being opened, and a clot of anxiety, which Harriet had been subconsciously holding, released. ‘Timothy!?’ she called, placing her cutlery down. ‘We’re in here!’
Timothy appeared in the doorway. ‘Hello.’
‘Where have you been?’ Harriet said, trying not to sound as agitated by his absence as she felt. ‘I’ve been worried. And your dinner will probably be shrivelled and inedible.’
‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘After speaking with Mr Wynn, I went to see Nell.’
‘Right,’ Harriet said.
‘Well, at least, I tried to see her. She wouldn’t let me in and wouldn’t let me see Anna, either.’
‘Oh, how terrible of her,’ Harriet said. ‘Was that what Mr Wynn advised, then? Trying to talk with her?’
Timothy drew in a long breath. ‘He said I had two options: take her to court, which would be protracted and costly, and would unlikely go in my favour; or persuade her to let me see Anna from time to time.’
‘And she didn’t agree?’
Timothy shook his head. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’m not a bit hungry. I’m going to go for a lie-down, actually.’
‘Alright,’ Harriet said softly. ‘You do that. Cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said, slowly padding up the stairs, the perfect image of a broken man.
Harriet suddenly had lost her appetite, too. What was to be done with the poor fellow?
‘He is very troubled,’ Lina observed.
‘Yes,’ Harriet agreed, standing up and excusing herself from the table.
She lingered for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, wondering whether to go to Timothy, but reasoned that he might be needing to have some time alone. She walked slowly into the kitchen, not entirely convinced by her decision, rested her hands on the sink and stared out into the garden. Dusk had descended, bringing a stunning range of pastel colours to the seam between sky and land above the trees.
She opened the back door and stood, breathing in the slight chill of the twilight air. Leaning against the hedge was Timothy’s wonderfully-crafted sign, ready to be resurrected next week outside the village hall. She was heartened by Lina’s comments. Perhaps there was a use and purpose for Mrs McDougall’s Benevolence and Investigation Society, she thought, as a warmth settled inside her heart.
From over the hedge came a flying creature of some sort. It landed on the sign and she recognised its kind again at once: a Ghost Swift moth. What else would it have been?
Harriet flinched at something touching her shoulder. She flicked her head around to see Lina.
‘He told you about it, too?’ Lina said.
‘Pardon?’ Harriet questioned.
‘The red star: Malcolm told you about it, too?’
‘What do you mean?’
Lina, with one hand placed on Harriet’s shoulder, aligned their eyes and pointed up into the dark, blue sky. ‘There—the red star—see it?’
She did see it. Much brighter than all of the surrounding stars and clearly reddish in colour. She saw it but didn’t understand: ‘What did Malcolm tell you about it? I thought that the red star referred to some horrifying gas concoction…’
‘Gas? No, it’s Antares in the constellation of Scorpius. At least that’s what your son, Edward told him,’ Lina explained. ‘But you know how Malcolm is: more romantic and less astrological. For Malcolm it was the heart of the night sky, and he said, when he went back to the trenches, that every night he would look for the red star, and if I did the same, then we were connected, both of us sharing that heart at the same time. And it helped, you know. It was there for me most nights.’
Harriet pulled Lina in tightly to her side and watched as the Ghost Swift moth took flight into the darkness of the woods beyond her garden.
Historical Information
This story is a work of fiction. However, elements of it are based o
n truth. Harriet Agnes McDougall was a real person, being distantly related to me (my first cousin, four times removed, to be precise). She was born Harriet Agnes Dengate in 1853 to James and Harriet Dengate (née Catt) and was baptised on the 8th May 1853 in the parish church of Sedlescombe, East Sussex. She married John McDougall in 1887, and the couple had three children: John Fraser (known as Fraser) in 1888, Malcolm in 1889 and Edward Cecil in 1891. The descriptions of Harriet’s wider family, including the complicated inter-marriages between her Dengate siblings is factual.
The three McDougall boys each went through Blackheath Proprietary School, followed by university. Fraser and Edward followed in their father’s and grandfather’s footsteps, attending Goldsmith’s College in London to study Civil Engineering. Malcolm, however, chose to study Chemistry at the Bromley School of Art.
The three brothers each joined a different regiment in the British Army. Malcolm initially signed up as a private for the Royal West Kents but was later transferred to the Royal Engineers Special Brigade, specifically to ‘P’ Company of the 4th Battalion. This was a gas cylinder company responsible for releasing poisonous gasses from the trenches against the German lines and was appallingly nicknamed ‘The Suicide Company’.
Malcolm’s younger brother, Edward had joined the London Regiment of the Queen’s Westminster Rifles. From April 1916, the Battalion was transferred for a brief period to Macroom, County Cork, following the Easter Rising in Ireland, before being sent to France and then on to Salonika in Greece in December 1916. Nine days after arriving in Salonika, on the 3rd January 1917, Edward died.
Six months later, on the 3rd July 1917, Malcolm had been working in the trenches in the area close to Hill Top Farm, when he retired to Hill Top Farm Trench, a short way behind the front line. The trench suffered a direct shell hit, seriously wounding Malcolm and two others. Malcolm was taken by stretcher to the Essex Farm Advanced Dressing Station, where he died from his wounds the following day. He was buried in Essex Farm Cemetery, alongside his two comrades, James Bruce Kelso and J.W. Bennett, who were also killed that day. The Essex Farm Advanced Dressing Station still stands in its original location and form and is where the Canadian war poet, John McCrae wrote the famous poem, ‘In Flanders Fields.’
Ghost Swifts, Blue Poppies and the Red Star Page 23