Remembrance Day
Lest we forget… A poignant tale of love and loss for fans of Nadine Dorries and Katie Flynn.It's 2003 and at over 100 years old, Selma Dixon is the last link to the hidden truth behind her village's refusal to honour its war dead.1914 saw the Yorkshire village of West Sharland send its men off to fight, including Selma's brothers and her sweetheart Guy. But when Guy is badly wounded and returns home on leave, the horrific reality of war is fully realised in the village.Guy's mother, in a fit of protective madness, secretly sends Angus, Guy's identical twin brother who was medically unfit to enlist, back to fight in his place. But reckless and naïve Angus is bitterly unprepared for war, and when his actions seal not only his fate but that of Selma's brother, Selma’s life is changed forever.Forced to start a new life in America, Selma is oblivious as to why her family’s name is now mud. Until the past comes back to haunt her and the names of the dead must be spoken once more…
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Remembrance Day
Leah Fleming
AVON
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FIRST EDITION
Copyright © Leah Fleming 2009
Leah Fleming asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007343690
Version: 2016-03-18
Not forgetting the fifteen men of Langcliffe who never made it home.
Who made the law that men should die in meadows?
Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes?
Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards?
Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains?
‘Who Made the Law?’ Leslie Coulson
Contents
11 November 2000
The ceremony is about to begin, the shuffling feet and coughing settle as the dignitaries line up in uniforms, cassocks and mayoral chains. A silence descends over the crowds on this most solemn of mornings.
We stand before the new war memorial in Elm Tree Square while a scuffle of film crews jockey for position. There is a chill Martinmas wind from the north but I am well wrapped with quilt and cushions in my wheelchair.
At last after all these years justice has been done, the dead are honoured; all of them by name. These cobblestones, once heavy with old sorrows, damp with tears and bloodshed, now sparkle with hope and pride. I never thought to see this day.
No more arguing about things that can’t be altered, no more dissention in the village about planning permissions. The names of the dead say it all, etched here on marble tablets.
That I have made the effort to witness this moment is miracle enough at my great age. My eyes are dimming, my hands tremble and my limbs disobey commands. Old age comes not alone, they say, and my heart leaps to see such acrowd of supporters. I hope our menfolk would be proud that we’ve settled things at last.
We wait in patience in the chill air, all the West Sharland faithful and their far-flung relatives, all the families represented where possible, prosperous in thick overcoats and stylish black hats with grandchildren, tall as saplings, and great-grandchildren on their knees, bemused by the pageantry unfolding.
There are faces I don’t recognise but in their features are echoes of village folk long buried. There is new life and fresh growth here, and that is good.
The clouds part as a ray of weak sun beams down for a second, haloing all the hand-held wreaths and circlets. Bloodred poppies flash on lapels like medals. The golden light glides across the green fells and stone walls above us, across the slate rooftops of familiar old buildings, and my eye turns to the forge in Prospect Row, but it is long gone.
They have put me in the front as one of the honoured guests, alongside the great and the good of the district; just another old matriarch, an ‘ancient of days’ waiting to pay her respects. There are plans to interview me later but I have other ideas.
In my fancy I see sepia faces hidden in the shadows, a crowd of ghosts watching, waiting with us, faces of the long dead from the war who knew only suffering, sacrifice and shame. What would they make of all this now?
My daughter stands upright, breasted like a plump capon. I am so proud of the spirit she has shown in fighting our corner. By her side her grandson, the spit of his great-grandfather, built like a tree trunk, the wind and sun etched on his bronzed brow.
There is no one left to recognise me, though a few mayguess a little of my history. I am just one of the many visitors and want no fuss. I have been absent so many years but this place is at the heart of my being.
Nothing has changed but everything is changed. The familiar Yorkshire air is sweet after the dryness of the Arizona desert, the rooks caw in the churchyard ash trees even into my failing ears. I had forgotten how raucous and noisy they are.
The cars parked right through the village, the houses expanded into barns and outbuildings, speak of a prosperity and comfort we could only dream of as children.
