The Journey

The older woman thanked him. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful.’ She had a natural friendliness in her manner that warmed him to her. ‘But I’ll be well taken care of. Look there?’ Gesturing to the long dark car that waited by the kerbside outside the church, she revealed, ‘I have a car and driver waiting.’

Flustered, Ben apologised. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise …’

‘How could you?’ Her smile deepened. ‘I might be a frail old biddy walking with the aid of a stick, but as you see, I’m not short of a bob or two.’

Ben smiled. ‘You don’t strike me as a frail old biddy,’ he remarked, holding open the lych-gate for the two women to pass through it. ‘In fact, I imagine if anyone got on the wrong side of you, they might rue the day.’

The girl Mary had to smile at his comment. ‘You’re absolutely right. What you see is not always what you get.’ She gave her mother a curious glance. ‘Still waters run deep, isn’t that what they say?’

The older woman nodded but said nothing, though her gaze roamed back to the headstone, and the name Barney.

He had been a man amongst men, she thought. A man of such bravery it made her humble. Even now after all these years her heart wept for him, and for the unbearable torment he had endured, all in the name of love.

‘Oh, look! Here comes Adam now.’ As the driver approached to help her down the pavement, she reached out and shook Ben by the hand. ‘You’ve been very kind, Mr Morris. Thank you again.’

Leaning on the arm of her driver, she set off for the comfort of the big car, calling as she went, ‘By the way, my name is Lucy.’ She had taken a liking to this young fella me lad and, from the look on her daughter’s face, she suspected Mary had done the same.

‘Goodbye then,’ Ben replied. ‘Take care of yourself.’

‘Not goodbye,’ Mary said hopefully. ‘I’m sure our paths will cross again.’

He smiled into her eyes. There was so much he would have liked to say, but not now. Maybe not ever, he thought sadly.

In a moment the women were gone, and he felt lonely, as never before. Retracing his footsteps to the simple headstone, he read out the inscription. ‘He made the greatest sacrifice of all …’

The words burned in his soul. ‘Barney Davidson …’ he mused aloud. ‘Lucy’s husband, maybe? Her brother?’ Somehow he didn’t think so. His curiosity heightened. ‘What great sacrifice did you make, Barney?’ he wondered.

Deep in thought, he almost leaped out of his skin when a quiet voice said over his shoulder, ‘Barney was Lucy’s husband – died soon after they moved here. And as for the inscription … I’ve wondered that myself, many a time.’

Swinging round, Ben came face to face with the new vicar, the Reverend Michael Gray. ‘Oh, it’s you, Vicar!’ He greeted the older man with a sheepish grin. ‘I don’t usually make a habit of talking to myself,’ he explained, ‘but I must admit, I am curious.’

‘You know what they say about a man who talks to himself?’ In his late fifties, balding and bespectacled, Mike Gray had the hang-dog look of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And yet his smile was heavenly.

When he began walking towards the gate, Ben went with him. ‘As you know, I’ve only been here a matter of a few months,’ the vicar went on to remind him, ‘but like you, I’m intrigued by that grave.’

‘Maybe you should ask the ladies?’ Ben suggested. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t mind it coming from you – I mean, you being their vicar here at Saint Andrew’s.’

Mike Gray shook his head. ‘There have been times when I was sorely tempted to ask,’ he confessed, and slid a finger round to loosen his dog-collar. ‘Then I felt I might be intruding, so I thought it best to wait, at least until I know them a little better. They’ve been worshipping here for around twenty years, I believe. But of course, the war has occupied everyone’s thoughts, and that tombstone is old history now.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Ben replied. ‘All the same, it’s a curious thing, an inscription like that.’

‘Yes. As you say, a curious thing.’ The Reverend paused to stroke Chuck’s glossy head. ‘Our man obviously did something out of the ordinary.’ His features crinkled into a wry little smile. ‘It’s to be hoped we might all of us aspire to great things before we’re called.’ Raising his gaze to the skies, he gave a long, deep sigh. ‘Sadly, a lot of poor devils had to be heroes in the war, whether they wanted to, or not. The truth of it is, most of us simply do not have greatness in us.’

By the time they reached the gate, the men had covered every possibility. ‘Maybe he saved a life by forfeiting his own?’ Ben speculated.

‘Mmm.’ The vicar nodded. ‘Or he may have shown true bravery during the Great War. Certainly his age suggests he could well have been called up to serve his country.’

Ben considered that. ‘Could be.’

Pausing in his stride, Mike Gray glanced back towards the headstone, now dim in the failing light. ‘Whatever that inscription means,’ he declared soundly, ‘we can assume that our Barney Davidson was a remarkable man.’

Hearing a scuffle behind a great yew that stood near the vestry, Chuck suddenly slipped his lead and raced off. While Ben called him back, the vicar had spotted a dark object lying on the ground. He stooped to pick it up. ‘Well, I never!’ He wiped off the smears of dirt and dampness with the cuff of his sleeve.

A knowing smile creased his face. ‘This must belong to one of our ladies,’ he said. ‘Maybe, if you were to return this, you might be privileged to discover the true nature of that inscription?’

‘Mary’s mother must have dropped it when she fell over earlier. I would gladly deliver the handbag.’ Ben recalled the young woman and those pretty lavender-blue eyes. It would be good to see her again, he thought. ‘Only I don’t know where they live.’

‘Couldn’t be easier. They live at Knudsden House – you must know the place,’ the Reverend Gray prompted. ‘I recall admiring it when I came into the village for the first time. It’s that big Edwardian house, with the large, beautifully kept gardens. You can’t miss it.’

Ben had seen the place. An architect by training, he took a keen interest in the buildings around him. ‘Of course!’ he cried. ‘It’s the one set back from the lane, behind tall iron gates.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I would never have guessed they lived there.’ Somehow, despite the elegant walking stick, and the chauffeur-driven car, he had pictured the women living in a large rambling cottage, with thatched roof and roses growing at the door.

The vicar remarked thoughtfully, ‘According to my housekeeper, Knudsden house used to belong to the village squire; he passed on some twenty years ago, and the house was put up for sale.’

Taking a moment to recall his housekeeper’s exact words, he went on, ‘It was then bought by Mr Davidson and his wife. Their daughter Mary was just an infant at the time. They were a family who preferred to keep themselves very much to themselves.’

There was a silence as Ben digested all of this information.

The vicar added thoughtfully, ‘For a long time they rarely ventured out. In recent years though, they have concerned themselves more with the community, and have given generously to any good cause; the daughter with her time and labour, and the mother with cash donations.’

‘Hmh! For someone who knows very little about the family, you seem to have gathered a fair amount of information.’

‘So I have.’ The vicar had surprised himself. ‘Don’t forget, I have my spies,’ he said wryly. ‘My housekeeper comes from a long line of gossips who’ve lived in this village since time began, so it goes without saying that what she doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. Mind, the dead are good at keeping secrets – and even she doesn’t know the answer to the mystery of that inscription.’

When the Labrador bounded up, Ben grabbed his lead and wound it around his wrist. He shivered. The temperature had dropped, almost while they were talking.

‘And what about the daughter?’ Ben asked. ‘Did she attend the village school?’

‘No. Mary was educated at home. A tutor arrived each morning and departed every afternoon.’ The vicar’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It must have been a very lonely life for a little girl.’

Ben was thinking the very same, and his heart went out to her. ‘So, as far as you know, she never made friends?’

‘From what I’m given to understand, the daughter has no close friends, but she does get on very well with the two women who help them out. Elsie Langton does a bit of housekeeping. Her married daughter Rona works in the flower-shop. Mary is closer to Rona, which is understandable when they’re at the shop together most days.’

Ben had heard the name. ‘Is that the same Langton who keeps the smithy on the farm adjoining mine?’

‘That’s the father. He doesn’t own the farm, I know that much, but he makes a reasonable living, what with his smithy and the market-gardening. The Langton family are closer to the Davidsons than anyone else in the village.’

‘What about the man who drives for them?’

Again, the vicar was able to satisfy his curiosity. ‘Adam Chives is an old friend of Mrs Davidson’s who comes from Liverpool. He’s a quiet, well-liked man who lives in the cottage next to the big house.’ He passed the handbag to Ben. ‘I really must stop chatting and be on my way. I’ll leave this with you, shall I?’

‘I won’t be able to return it straight away.’ Ben took the handbag from him. ‘I’ve got hungry animals to be fed.’

‘Of course. I understand.’ Having worked all his adult life in rural parishes, the vicar was familiar with the way of things. ‘The animals don’t know or care what day it is, they still need tending.’ He gave a knowing nod. ‘Much like my own flock, eh?’

Ben examined the handbag; it was an expensive-looking leather one. ‘I wonder we didn’t notice this on the ground before,’ he remarked. ‘I mean, you could hardly miss it, could you?’

The vicar agreed, but just then he spotted a small, round person calling his attention from the lane. ‘That’s Betty … my housekeeper,’ he groaned. ‘No doubt she’s landed herself in another crisis. Last week she broke the new vacuum cleaner; the week before that she let the bathroom sink overflow and nearly flooded the Vicarage.’