When Alice Met Danny (18 page)

‘You don’t know who Danny Kemp is? He’s awesome!’ The taller one, whose badge named her as Sammy, was astounded.

‘You’re having dinner with Danny Kemp?’ The shorter one’s expression contained a fair shot of incredulity. Alice did her best to explain.

‘He’s an old friend from London. We used to work together. I had no idea he was such a big name. He has never mentioned it.’

The girls exchanged glances. ‘When he was younger, he was European champion three years running. He’s awesome. He was one of the big hopes for the Sydney Olympics, but he broke his leg just a few weeks before.’

‘In two places.’ Clearly, they knew an awful lot about Danny.

‘I spent my teenage years with a poster of him alongside my bed.’ The taller girl’s teenage years probably weren’t that long ago. She looked at Alice closely. ‘And you really didn’t know? It’s not fair.’ She glanced across at her friend. ‘Awesome surfer, handsome and modest as well. That’s just not right. Well, lucky you, that’s all I can say.’

Alice didn’t have a ready reply. It didn’t matter. The taller girl was much more interested in Danny than in Alice.

‘I’m Sammy, by the way. Can I give you my phone number? If you get sick or can’t make it, Sarah and I will be pleased to fill in.’ They both smiled wistfully.

Alice retreated without taking the phone number. As she walked back up the river, she did her best to come to terms with the fact that good old Danny was a windsurfing god.

Chapter 30

It was mid-afternoon when she got back to her car. She pulled the road map out of the pocket and checked how to get to Conibere. On the dashboard in front of her, the label from Danny’s First World War suitcase took pride of place.

In only about twenty minutes she got to the little hamlet. And this was in spite of losing her way twice en route. She reflected that navigation was not one of her strong points. Maybe a satnav would be a good investment. She pulled up alongside Conibere church once more. Carefully, she picked up the label, slipped it into her purse, and set out on her quest. No sooner had she stepped out of the car than she spotted a native, in the form of an old gentleman with a walking stick.

‘Excuse me.’ He turned round. ‘I wonder if you know where Shute End Cottages are, please?’

‘Shute End? That’s down by the weir. Do you know where that is?’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t miss it.’ He raised a finger and pointed. ‘Go down there to the river and take the footpath to the left. The weir is only a short way along.’

She thanked him and followed his directions. This time she didn’t get lost. The weir was unmistakable, as was the row of thatched cottages alongside it. Number 3 was a cosy-looking little place, with a two-piece front door. The top part was open. There was no sign of a bell, so she knocked. Instantaneously, the house erupted into a paroxysm of furious yapping. A Jack Russell terrier emerged from the shadows and threw itself against the door. In her earlier incarnation, before meeting Danny the dog, she would have run a mile. As it was, she found herself talking to it in soothing tones. It began to wag its tail, but it did not, however, stop barking.

‘Ethel, Ethel, be quiet. Stop it, stop it.’ Reluctantly, the dog stopped the noise and retreated a few steps. Her place was taken by an old lady. Alice was reminded that the average age in this part of Devon was well into the sixties or over.

‘Hello. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for somebody.’

The old lady leant on the door and studied her, not unpleasantly. Satisfied by what she saw, she replied. ‘And who might that be?’

Alice opened her purse and slid out the label. ‘I’m looking for somebody who can tell me anything about a man called Daniel E. Green.’

The old lady’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did you say Daniel Green?’ Alice nodded and explained about the suitcase and the letters. As she spoke, she saw the lady’s expression change from casual interest to fascination.

‘My dear, that would be my father you’re talking about. He’s been dead and gone these thirty years now. But how amazing. Here,’ she shooed the dog out of the way and stepped back. ‘Please come in. It’s quite wonderful to see you, to hear your tale.’

She led Alice along the dark corridor to the kitchen. A small window looked out onto a very tidy garden and the river beyond. The little dog, now reassured, trotted alongside them.

‘Take a seat, my dear. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘None at all.’ She busied herself with the electric kettle. Alice had the chance to take a good look at her. She looked even older than Mrs Tinker, but she was still very sprightly. As she pulled out cups, saucers, milk and sugar, and set them on a tray, she half-turned back towards Alice. ‘So tell me, how did you come across my father’s letters?’

Alice told her how she had bought an old house at auction and how the electrician up in the attic had made the find. The kettle boiled and the lady filled the pot. She brought the tray over to the table where Alice and Ethel the terrier were now the best of friends. Alice was impressed to see how steady the old hands were. She set it down on the table without spilling a drop.

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk, please, Mrs… I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Alice Grant.’

‘Hello, Alice, I’m Gladys Cooper.’

Alice sat up. ‘Are you called Gladys? All your father’s letters were addressed to Gladys. “My dearest Gladys” was the start of every one.’ She saw the old lady’s face cloud over.

‘That was my mother.’ Alice saw her eyes automatically flick across to a photograph in an old wooden frame hanging beside the fridge. ‘I never knew her. She died while giving birth to me. That’s why my father called me Gladys.’

‘Oh, how terrible.’ Alice was struck by the terrible irony of the fact that he had somehow escaped death in the trenches while Gladys back home had been struck down only a few years later. She did a bit of rapid mental arithmetic. It was now 2013. If Mrs Cooper was, say, ninety, she would have been born in 1923, not long after the end of the war. As if reading her mind, Mrs Cooper went on to explain in more detail.

‘My parents married as soon as my father came home from the war. I was born in 1919.’ Seeing the expression on Alice’s face, she smiled. ‘That’s right, my dear, I’m ninety-four now. I thank the good Lord every day for sparing me this long. If only my poor mother had been so lucky.’

‘So your father survived the whole war. There weren’t many men who managed that. Maybe you and he used up all your family’s quota of luck. Have you any idea what he did during the war? How did he manage to survive? Or was he wounded?’

‘Nothing too serious.’ Mrs Cooper shook her head. ‘At least not physically. God alone knows what it cost him mentally. Many a time I’ve seen him sitting by the fire, eyes streaming with tears. I would ask him why he was crying and he would always say the same thing, “
the waste, the waste”
.’ She pointed across the room. ‘You’ve got younger legs than I have, my dear. Would you bring me that book?’

Alice went across and fetched it. It was an old bound book of war poems. She handed it to Mrs Cooper. She took it reverently. It was well-worn, the spine half split by use.

‘He gave me that. He knew them all by heart. I often heard him reciting one or the other to himself. I learnt a good number myself. Let me see.’ The old lady flicked through the book, reading some poems aloud, closing her eyes and reciting others from memory. It was Alice’s first experience of the raw, brutal nature of war poetry and it hit her hard. The sense of desperation that flowed from the pages was truly devastating. She could feel tears on her cheeks by the time Mrs Cooper softly closed the cover and looked up.

‘
My favourite is Wilfred Owen. My dad loved his poems.’ She handed the book across to Alice and paused to wipe a tear from her own eyes. Alice, still struck by the appalling power of the words, made a mental note to look up Wilfred Owen on the iPad later.

‘So how did he manage to stay alive?’ Statistically, survival in the trenches for three or even four years was very rare.

‘He went over the top on the first day of the battle of the Somme. He had only gone a few yards, when he was shot through the ankle. He was invalided back to England for some months, before being sent back to France. But, to his amazement, he was stationed at a training camp near the French coast. He was a corporal by then. He spent the rest of his time teaching new recruits about life in the trenches. He said he used to hear the artillery every day, but he never fired another shot in anger. Then, just before Christmas 1918, a month after the Armistice, he came home. It must have been a wonderful day for all of them.’ She sipped her tea reflectively, lost in her memories. Alice found herself thinking,
so Danny got his cushy after all
.

Alice glanced down at the old book in her hands. The blue cover was stained and faded with use and age. She opened it. The dedication on the first page in familiar handwriting made her eyes burn.

To my dearest Gladys

Yours forever

She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, but not before Mrs Cooper had spotted her. Alice shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that he uses the selfsame words that he uses in the letters.’

The old lady nodded and they both concentrated on their tea for a few minutes. Alice was the first to talk. ‘I will bring you the letters. I’m sure you will find them even more interesting than I did. And any members of your family will be fascinated, too, I am sure.’

‘That would be very nice, my dear. Thank you. So, what do you do then?’

Alice explained about losing her job in London and her decision to go back to university. Mrs Cooper nodded approvingly.

‘I think that’s a wonderful idea. The more people study the stupidity of war, the more chance there is that humanity will be able to avoid it in the future.’ She looked across at Alice. ‘You don’t look too hopeful.’

‘I’m afraid that the one thing history teaches us is that history teaches us nothing. We are still making the same mistakes we made centuries ago. I do so hope you’re right, Mrs Cooper, but I have my doubts.’ She took a mouthful of tea. ‘Would you mind if I have the letters back at some point after you’ve read them? They give a rare, personal insight into life in the trenches. I’m sure they would be very useful to my studies.’

‘Most certainly, my dear. I would be proud, and I’m sure he would have been proud, too.’ She looked across the table. ‘He wasn’t a hero, you know. He told me time and time again that all he ever wanted to do was to get away from the trenches. But, of course, they were shooting men for trying to desert, so he stayed on. Don’t make him a hero, he wouldn’t have wanted that. Just tell it like it was.’

Alice nodded her agreement, although she felt deeply that just surviving in the trenches made heroes of all of them. She then thanked Mrs Cooper warmly and left, promising to return soon with the letters. She retraced her steps to the car and set off for home, taking what she hoped would prove to be the same tortuous series of roads that she and Megan had used the other day. Unsurprisingly, within a remarkably short space of time she was lost again.

She realised she was lost as the narrow lane, almost a tunnel between towering hedge banks, started to develop grass down the middle. The grass grew steadily thicker and then the tarmac turned to earth. The earth turned increasingly to deep ruts and mud until she had to admit defeat. Spotting the gate to a field, she gingerly steered the car in, hoping to turn round. A few seconds later she was stuck in thick mud, the wheels spinning impotently as she accelerated.

‘Oh bugger, bugger, bugger!’ She slapped the dashboard with her palm in blind frustration. She looked at her watch. It was five o’clock. Pulling out her phone, she was unsurprised, but nonetheless perturbed, to see that there was no signal.

‘But, even if there was a signal, who do I phone? And where do I tell them to come to rescue me?’ She found she was talking to herself. ‘Mind you, there’s nobody else around to talk to.’

Fortunately, that proved not to be the case. She stepped out of the car into the field, her rather nice sandals disappearing from sight into the oozing mass of red clay. Hesitantly, she struggled back out onto the track and was delighted to hear horses’ hooves approaching at a slow walk. A few moments later, a lady wearing a high visibility top appeared, riding a huge chestnut horse. She reined in and assessed the situation, the car a pathetic sight.

‘Trouble?’ She looked friendly.

Alice nodded. ‘I’m afraid I’m stuck. I got lost coming from Conibere and thought I could turn round in the field.’

‘Where are you headed?’

‘I live in Woodcombe, but I’m very new to the area.’

‘Ah, well you almost got it right. You probably turned left instead of right back at the bridge.’ Alice nodded, vaguely remembering a little stone bridge.

‘Can you tell me where I am please, so I can phone for help?’

The lady smiled. ‘That’s easy. A hundred yards or so up there, the way I’ve just come, is Lower Combe Farm. There’s no mobile reception in the valley, but if you come up, you can use our phone.’ With that, she turned the big horse and led Alice back along the track.

Lower Combe Farm turned out to be a recently renovated farmhouse with a Jaguar parked outside. The lady dismounted and introduced herself. ‘I’m Dorothy Frazer-Hamilton. I wish I could offer to pull you out of the field, but my husband is away with the Land Rover. Is there anybody else you can think of?’

Mention of the name Land Rover did indeed produce a possible candidate for knight in shining armour. Alice knew somebody who had one, and a Range Rover. ‘Yes, thanks. I have a friend who might be able to help.’

Dorothy tied her horse to the gate and led Alice inside, showing her to the telephone. Alice dug out the number of Manor Farm, dialled and waited. As she was just about giving up hope, it was answered. ‘Manor Farm.’ She recognised the voice and a wave of relief flooded over her.

‘Hello, Daniel, it’s Alice, and I’m in a bit of a fix.’