Sunday, 6th May 1917
The brass plaque, polished so it shone like burnished gold, was mounted pride of place on the chantry wall – a new, if unwelcome, addition to the village church. Our boxed family pew was situated directly opposite, and rather than crick my neck to observe the vicar intoning from his elevated position in the pulpit, I found myself captivated by the ornate inscription.
IN MEMORY
ROBERT RICHARDSON
2ND LIEUT, 3RD MILITIA BN, BERKSHIRE REGT BELOVED ONLY SON OF MR AND MRS HENRY RICHARDSON KILLED IN ACTUAL FIGHTING IN FRANCE, 2ND JULY 1916 AGED 18 YEARS
DUTY NOBLY DONE
I closed my eyes for a moment as I recalled the blissful summer of 1914: all baking heat and leisurely pleasures; a cricket match on the village green. I remembered a willowy school boy: a muss of ruffled blond hair, cheeks dimpled by an irrepressible grin, a streak of red down the thigh of his white flannels, a powerful run up, a perfect windmill arm, the satisfying clatter of stumps, a smatter of applause. They never found his body. His parents had been forced to settle for the plaque rather than a grave. He was just eighteen years old, a school-boy officer fresh from the fields of Eton.
As I read and re-read the words, my fingers strayed to the gold locket that hung against my black coat. It no longer gleamed, dulled as it was by too much caressing. I finally managed to tear my eyes away, but my gaze only strayed as far as the front pew, settling on the poor boy’s parents. They sat shoulder to shoulder, rigid with grief. Mrs Richardson, once a charismatic, vibrant woman, had been greatly reduced by her son’s death. Her plump and rosy cheeks were now sunk into hollows, giving her a cadaverous appearance, while her finely appointed mourning clothes sagged over her diminishing frame. I had no doubt she was aware of another mother, sitting just a few rows back. Mrs Whittaker’s broad shoulders shook with misery, for her anguish was still fresh and raw. We three cast sombre shadows, stagnant pools of grief amidst the amassed congregation.
I returned my focus to the vicar’s monotonous monologue purporting to the value of sacrifice, but it wasn’t long before I found myself shifting irritably on the unforgiving pew. My experiences nursing in France with the Voluntary Aid Detachment had exposed faith as a fallacy. I had seen too much barbaric waste to still believe we were being guided by a higher purpose. The vicar’s words now did little to change my opinion. Not for the first time that morning, I wished I hadn’t come, but my parents had made it very clear that my weekly attendance at the Sunday service was an issue of duty, if not belief. My presence, it seemed, was not a matter for discussion.
I let out a soft sigh as I fidgeted again, my impatience and discomfort rising. The respectful attention the congregation afforded the vicar’s words annoyed me. Apart from Old Man Withers, who at ninety-one was forgiven for nodding off during services, my fellow parishioners were focused on the pulpit. I was the only one in this aged church who had seen first-hand the unmitigated destruction of life. Perhaps it was a kindness to allow them their naivety, their conviction in the righteousness of this conflict. Let them be dedicated to their Holy War, to their God’s will, but I could no longer share that dedication.
It appeared I was not the only member of the congregation struggling to endure the service. I spotted our young housemaid, Annie Burrows, crushed into the end of a pew occupied by our few remaining servants. Whilst the housekeeper, Mrs Scrivens, and our butler, Brown, along with a couple of maids, gave the vicar their rapt attention, Annie had become distracted by Mrs Whittaker’s muted sobs. She wore a strange expression on her face as she watched the broken-hearted mother, one I was unable to decipher. She must have felt the weight of my scrutiny, for she twisted in her seat and locked gazes with me. Caught spying, I felt my cheeks blaze as I looked away.
It was, of course, a widely accepted opinion that there was something very odd about Annie Burrows. When I had returned from France, broken and debilitated by Gerald’s death, her surprising presence at Haverton Hall had been one of very few things to elicit my interest. I learned that Mrs Burrows had approached my mother just a few months after I had left, in the autumn of 1914. Emaciated by the cancer that was devouring her, she had come seeking employment for her thirteen-year-old daughter. My mother had agreed at once – given the extent of our debt to their family it was, she told me later, the very least we could do.
It had not been a popular appointment amongst the rest of the staff, that I did know. Even Mrs Scrivens had asked my mother in no uncertain terms to reconsider. Annie had quirks of character that others found perturbing – peculiar distraction, incessant whispering, suspicious furtiveness. My mother, determined to honour her obligation, was unmoved by the housekeeper’s appeal. As the war progressed and the household staff steadily depleted, Mrs Scrivens had little choice but to promote Annie to upstairs work, to which she applied herself with quiet diligence. Over time, the housekeeper’s opinion improved, and Annie learnt to subdue some of her more unusual behaviours. Yet I still found there was something strangely unnerving about the young maid, an otherworldliness to her that I could never quite put my finger on.
Behind me someone attempted to stifle a coughing