The Orange Lilies

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Reckon we’ll get on this Ole Bill,’ Leonard whispered to Charles.

  ‘Let’s hope so, I just want to get on with it,’ he answered quietly, as he watched one motorbus crammed with soldiers being replaced swiftly by an empty one.

  ‘Next lot, get a move on,’ barked Sergeant Buggler.

  The line surged forward and Leonard, followed by Charles, climbed the external steps to the open top-deck seating.

  ‘More, more!’ Buggler shouted. ‘Squash up—you’re not on a bloody sight-seeing tour.’

  Charles took the next available seat beside Frank Eccles, with Leonard shoved to his right. The bus filled quickly, with men taking every inch of available space.

  Suddenly, the bus lurched forward and they were on their way, returning to the front.

  Some of the men around him used the opportunity to snatch a few minutes’ rest, others chatted quietly. There was something akin to a nervous ripple that had been quietly buzzing around the Battalion since they had been told that they were heading back to the front to relieve the Seaforth Highlanders. It was in stark contrast to their early days, when excitement and anticipation at finally seeing action had dominated every conversation. But their first days were filled with endless marching, day after day. In late August, the Battalion had spearheaded the British Expeditionary Force’s retreat from Mons. More marching—away from the enemy. Endless hours of marching. Men dropping by the roadside, exhausted. By the end of August, his comrades were beginning to ask each other and their superiors when would they turn and fight the enemy, as they had been trained to do? When the retreat was finally over, the Battalion had marched sixty miles in sixty-five hours. The men had been beyond shattered.

  The Battalion’s first sighting of the enemy had been on the 10th September. On high ground near the village of Priez, a line of German soldiers had come into view, sending a buzz of excitement through the men like a bolt of electricity, as they had marched through the village with a newfound sense of adventure and purpose, seemingly oblivious to the thick torrents of rain that had lashed down on them. They had been greeted on the other side of the village by unexpectedly heavy fire, subjecting the Battalion to its first substantial losses; the skirmish had left seventeen dead and eighty-three injured. That night, sheltered in their billets in the town of Paissy, the four Battalion companies had been subdued; their initial bravado had yielded to the realities of war: their comrades and friends were lying dead in a French field. Four days later and the Battalion was hit again by severe losses. Whilst occupying high ground above Vendresse, the Battalion had managed to take a group of two hundred and fifty German soldiers by surprise. The Germans had quickly surrendered under a white flag and were taken prisoner. It was whilst being marched away that other German soldiers randomly opened fire, killing several men, including their own. The fighting had continued and the Battalion had been ordered to dig itself into trenches and hold their position. Among the one hundred and fourteen missing, wounded and dead of the Second Battalion was David Dowd, a close friend of Charles’s. He had suffered a fatal bullet wound to the head and Charles had watched helplessly as he quietly slipped away. There had been no time to bury him. No time for grieving.

  ‘What you thinking about, Charlie?’ Leonard asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Charles answered. ‘Just wondering what we’re going back to. More wet and muddy trenches. It’s not exactly the open warfare we trained for, is it?’

  Leonard laughed. ‘I don’t know what you mean—it’s exactly like the gentle, rolling hills of Woking and the English countryside.’

  ‘I just hope they train the poor blighters answering Kitchener’s call-up,’ Charles said sombrely. The war had changed direction in mid-September. The shelling, sniping and artillery bombardment continued, but taking place in an ever-expanding warren of trenches, stretching their way tentacle-like through the fields of Europe. Sightings of the enemy diminished to the point that new recruits, drawn up from the territorials to replace the fallen, had never actually seen them. But the death and destruction had continued. More and more familiar faces had disappeared into the French soil. There had been a glimmer of hope when, on the 25th October, they had marched into Belgium. Eager fresh eyes searched the city for sightings of the enemy, but they weren’t to be found. After one night comfortably billeted within the city walls, the following day they had to march to their destination: Château Wood, two miles outside of Ypres. Any hope of trench warfare being over was blighted when the Battalion found themselves entrenched in Polygon Wood, where men and horses were killed in great numbers and the Battalion was forced to retreat back to Château Wood.

  ‘Here we are,’ Frank said cheerfully, jolting Charles from his thoughts.

  In a vast expanse of flat countryside, dominated by large tracts of empty brown fields and no obvious landmarks, the motorbus drew to a stop.

  Charles observed the swelling mass of khaki in a nearby field, as the four companies comprising the Battalion began to regroup. He stood and made his way down the stairs and off the bus.

  As he stepped down onto the soggy soil, Charles noticed for the first time the sporadic dull thudding of shells landing somewhere near the distant village of Le Touret—precisely where they were heading.

  Chapter Three

  21st December 1914, Beachy Head, Eastbourne, East Sussex, England

  Nellie Farrier, dressed in a long red coat and matching hat, cut a striking figure in the gloom of the cliff edge. It was bitterly, bitingly cold as she stood, hands tightly clasped to the pram, staring into the endless dreariness of the English Channel, where sea and sky met seamlessly. She was perched at the top of a rolling chalk downland on the tail-end of the South Downs. Waiting and listening. She glanced down into the pram. Wrapped up like a tiny doll, her son, Alfred slept in blissful ignorance of the darkness that was ravaging the continent.

  Then she heard it; the sound that she had so often, almost daily, climbed the steep ascent from the dirty backstreets of Eastbourne to hear: the agonising thump and thud of heavy artillery pounding French soil, indiscriminately tearing and ripping apart everything and everyone caught within reach.

  With each dull thud, Nellie gasped anew. The dreadful drum of destiny, she thought. Each strike resonated to her very core, sickening her to the stomach. Her beloved husband, Charlie, was out there somewhere beyond—inside—that gloom, fighting for his country.

  She came here to be nearer to him. She came here to remind herself that no matter how hard life was for her and her infant son, it was infinitely better than it was for poor Charlie. As always, she would forbid eager tears from flowing, instead returning stoically to her dingy house to continue life as best she could. Waiting. Waiting for the day Charlie returned. It pained her greatly to think that he was so close by—just a few hours away—and yet at the same time so dreadfully far.

  Today, the cold had beaten her. She lingered for a moment longer, absorbing the rhythmical thudding, searching the gloom for something—anything upon which to fix her gaze. But there was nothing but grey.

  Alfred began to stir, his tiny blue eyes opening, reacting to the stark winter chill. It was time to go.

  Nellie closed her eyes, uttered a short prayer and began her descent. Just a few feet away from the precarious cliff edge and removed from the incessant wind, the temperature seemed to lift by a few degrees. Nellie leant over the pram; Alfred had closed his eyes and returned to sleep.

  She pushed on further down the hill until she reached a small copse of trees and hedgerow. In the murk of the late-afternoon light, Nellie reached up and snapped off a piece of holly covered in leaves and bright red berries. She laid it gently at Alfred’s feet, alongside a long sliver of ivy she had removed from the side of a stone wall on the climb up.

  Crouching down, Nellie carefully parted a curtain of holly, revealing the simple snare trap that she had set yesterday. She smiled. A plump dead rabbit, its neck snapped in the wire loop, lay waiting for her. She carefully loosened the wire
, removed the rabbit and reset the snare. Nellie tied a band of string around the rabbit’s hind legs and slung it from the side of the pram. The house will not go hungry for the next few days, she thought to herself, as she continued on down towards the town.

  Nellie pushed the door tightly closed and ran the brass bolt into place. She shivered, grateful to be finally home. She shared the narrow Victorian house with two other women, Dorothy and Gwen, and their children: women whose khaki men were out there fighting.

  She carried the ivy and holly sprigs up to her bedroom then returned for Alfred. She clutched him carefully in her arms and made her way up the bare-boarded stairs. Her room was on the first floor and faced the front street. Before he had left for war, Charlie had done his best to liven up the drab room, whitewashing the walls and finding the money from somewhere with which to buy material for some curtains to try and keep out the weather that the old sash windows could not. A double bed, cot, chest of drawers and a writing bureau filled the space. On the floor was an old woollen rug, whose best days were long since past.

  Nellie laid Alfred down in the cot and kissed his forehead.

  Taking the sprigs of ivy and holly over to the empty hearth, Nellie arranged them on the fireplace, carefully removing a run of postcards that Charlie had sent from the front line.

  She took the most recent one and held it to her nose, trying to distinguish the various scents held within it. One of the smells, now fading, was of Charlie himself. A musty, manly smell—not at all unpleasant—that was unique to him. On the front of the card was a picture of a solider examining the bayonet of his rifle, whilst in the top right corner a pretty young woman gazed dreamily heavenwards. Charlie had hand-tinted the khaki uniform and given the lady a vivid pink dress. On the reverse of the card was her address, franked with two stamps Passed by censor, No.443 and Field Post Office, 14 Dec ’14. In the bottom right-hand corner, Charlie had drawn a small orange lily.

  Dear Nell, a card to let you know that I am quite well & keep smiling. Your last parcel arrived this morning - thank you so much, my darling. The toffee and rice have already gone and I have used one of the candles. The Oxo cubes will come in handy to improve the ‘lovely’ soup we are given. Darling, I do hope you and the Boy are well & managing. Please don’t send any more if it is out of your means or if it leaves you both wanting. Give my regards to Gwen, Dorothy and the kids. All my love, darling, Charlie xx.

  Nellie kissed the card and placed it on the writing bureau. Taking a thin white candle from the box, she placed it in a holder at the centre of the fireplace, nestled among the holly and ivy, and lit it. Nellie smiled. It wasn’t much, but it would do. She picked Alfred up and angled his face so that he could see the decorations. ‘Our own little Christmas, Alfie,’ she whispered. ‘Just the two of us, until your daddy comes home.’

  Nellie sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a blanket up around her shoulders. Gently rocking Alfred, she began to sing Silent Night softly.

  Chapter Four

  22nd December 2014, Cadgwith, Cornwall, England

  A hostile wind, unhindered on its relentless journey from its origins on the east coast of the Americas, pounded the tiny fishing village of Cadgwith. With it came great torrents of rain, which lashed through the grey dawning sky. To all intents and purposes, the village appeared deserted. The only evidence of life, in the form of smoke rising from the thatched roofs nestled into the hills, was quickly whipped away and eradicated by the inclement weather.

  ‘There goes a nice walk, then,’ Juliette murmured, tugging the duvet up over her ears. ‘Think it’s a stay-in-bed day.’

  Morton sat up, leant across to the window, pulled open the curtains and gazed out to sea. Despite all that had been playing on his mind last night, he had slept surprisingly well.

  The sound of the front door closing drew Morton’s eyes downwards and he spotted his Uncle Jim, toggled up in a bright yellow jacket and hat, striding down towards the village. Surely he’s not going fishing on a day like this? Morton thought. Madness. With Uncle Jim out of the house and Juliette drifting in and out of consciousness, now might be an ideal opportunity to speak with Aunty Margaret, he thought.

  Morton swung his legs out of the bed and reached for his dressing gown to help stave off the chilly morning air. He had forgotten just how cold these old seaside places could become in the depths of winter.

  Downstairs, he found Margaret in the kitchen, rather predictably kneading a heap of dough. ‘Morning,’ Morton said cheerfully.

  ‘Good morning, dear!’ she replied. ‘Sleep well?’

  Morton nodded. ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘There’s a pot of fresh filter coffee there for you, if you want it. Help yourself.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Morton said, pouring himself a generous cup. ‘Bit rough out there today, isn't it?’

  Margaret chuckled. ‘Yeah, I suppose it is. You get used to it here, though. One minute it’s beautiful, the next it’s pouring down. I don’t pay it much attention, just get on with life.’

  A good philosophy, Morton thought. But did such a carefree attitude mean that big serious topics were also ignored? he wondered, glancing across the table at her. She was already dressed, wearing an optimistically flowery dress, over which she wore a white cardigan and her ever-present apron. Her hair was, as always first thing in the morning, up in tight multi-coloured rollers.

  ‘Still up for a cliff-top walk today?’ Margaret asked.

  Morton nodded. ‘Sounds great to me. I’m not sure you’ll get Juliette out of bed, though, in this weather.’

  Margaret stopped pummelling the dough and looked Morton in the eyes. ‘Think it’ll be a good opportunity for us to discuss our situation, wouldn’t you say?’

  Morton was stunned, though he probably shouldn’t have been. It was exactly the way his father would have dealt with the problem—to ignore it for as long as possible then suddenly Jack-in-the-box it out into the open. ‘Er…yes. Yes,’ Morton finally answered. ‘That would be good.’

  ‘I mean, if you wanted to talk about it. I presumed that was part of the reason you wanted to come down here?’

  Inexplicably, Morton flushed a deep crimson and felt his voice box tighten. Then he remembered Juliette’s words about taking a step back and treating the situation as though he were investigating a genealogical case. His confidence returned. ‘Yes, I would like that a lot.’

  ‘Good, that’s sorted then. We’ll have breakfast, then head out.’

  Morton smiled, took a sip from his coffee and sat down in front of the simmering open fire. As he stared out at the huge waves crashing into the rocky cliffs beyond the cove, he considered what was about to happen. He was about to address the most significant aspect of his past head-on. He thought of some of his past clients and suddenly fully appreciated how they had felt when he had revealed their family history to them.

  Morton pulled open the front door and was greeted by a freezing blast of salty wind, laced with rain that felt like icy needles stabbing him in the face. Under normal circumstances, Morton would have either resolutely stayed indoors, or run as fast as he could to his car but he knew that he needed to have this walk and conversation with his Aunty Margaret. She stepped out as if it were a full summer’s day, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they could barely stand up without being pushed and buffeted by the wind.

  ‘Right, come on, then!’ Margaret said loudly, closing the front door behind her.

  Morton looked up at the bedroom window and saw Juliette, hair squally and wild, peeping out from under the duvet. She managed a vague gesture of a wave before disappearing back into bed. It had taken no work whatsoever for Morton to persuade her not to come on the walk. She had cut his apologetic explanation short and told him that under no circumstances was she going for a cliff-top walk today. And that was that.

  Margaret led the way up the hill, away from the village. They passed the two neighbouring properties, one of which, Morton noted with interest, was named ‘Man
-o-War Cottage’, then the path dwindled down to a single track so that they were forced to walk in single-file. Not an ideal start for a momentous heart-to-heart, Morton thought.

  The path quickly reached an apex but rather than continuing round on the path, Margaret veered off beside what looked like a very tiny cottage, stone-built with a slate roof and tall chimney.

  ‘What’s this?’ Morton called after her.

  She turned around and said, ‘An old coastguard’s place. I just brought you along here for the view. Not that great today, but on a nice day…’

  Morton followed her to a low stone wall and stared out. Even on a rough day like today, it was beautiful. Tucked cosily around to the right was the village, quiet and undisturbed, as if it were a miniature model set. Out from the cove rose a rocky, grass-topped headland, and then around to the left was nothing but an expansive tumultuous ocean.

  ‘That’ll clear your pipes,’ Margaret remarked with a grin, drawing in huge lungfuls of air.

  Morton mimicked her and enjoyed the sensation of the chilly air inside him.