‘The Flower Club have made posies every year, but this time I’m struggling to get volunteers.’ Helen told Amy, her grand-daughter. ‘I know, in the great scheme of things, it doesn’t sound important, but young men, as young as your brother, gave up their lives to fight for us.’
‘What do I have to do?’ Amy sighed, as only a teenager can do.
‘Remember, as a Brownie, you carried a little vase of flowers into church and put it in front of the memorial?’
‘Yeah, I think I do.’
‘Well, we have only twelve posies to make, but it all takes time.’
‘Can’t we just order them from Amazon?’
‘No, we can’t,’ Helen said, rather sharply. ‘There’s a lot of tradition involved, and I want to do it properly.’
‘How long will it take?’ Amy asked, glancing at her phone.
Helen wished she could find a more willing assistant, but Amy was all she had.
‘I’ve already got the flowers. We just need to assemble them first thing in the morning. If we’re focussed an hour should do it.’ They both knew ‘focussed’ meant Amy wasn’t checking her phone every thirty seconds.
Amy was staying with her grandmother for the weekend and, although she’d agreed to help, there was a little awkwardness while Helen made their tea. Helen understood Amy would have preferred to stay at home, but her parents had other plans…again.
‘Shall we watch a film tonight, Gran?’
Helen smiled as she mashed the potato for Amy’s favourite, shepherd’s pie.
There was a Remembrance Day documentary Helen had intended to watch, but sharing a film with her grandchild was much better. She’d half expected Amy to spend the evening in her room glued to her phone.
‘That’s a good idea. You choose.’ Helen agreed. ‘Would you be a love and nip out for a pint of milk? There’s money on the side.’
Thankfully Amy didn’t make a fuss about going out in the cold. She probably welcomed the opportunity. Her parents, in Helen’s opinion, still treated her like a small child, but Amy was thirteen and could be great fun.
A thought occurred to Helen as she saw the poppy on Amy’s coat; she should be thankful to have all her grandchildren close by. Sue had to travel to Australia to see hers and years ago, think of those grandmothers who had to say goodbye to their grandsons when they marched off to war!
Helen busied herself preparing tea. Amy returned with the milk and then disappeared, no doubt with her phone for company.
Amy had a healthy appetite and Helen knew she could easily rustle up an apple crumble and custard – another of Amy’s favourites.
‘Do you want to learn how to make a crumble?’ Helen called. ‘It won’t take long.’ As a youngster Amy had liked nothing better than cooking with her Gran, but of late she’d not shown much interest in baking.
To Helen’s surprise, and delight, Amy appeared and rolled up her sleeves. ‘I think we’ve made one before, just remind me what we have to do.’
They ate their tea in the kitchen. ‘That was a delicious crumble,’ Helen said. ‘I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it, especially with good thick custard.’
‘Thank you for making all my favourites,’ Amy said as she checked her phone. She’d taken photos of their humble supper and posted it on Facebook.
Amy helped with the washing up without being asked and Helen apologised for snapping. She enjoyed her grand-daughter’s company, but sometimes she felt she walked on egg-shells.
‘What film are we watching?’ Helen asked.
‘Come and see,’ Amy said and headed for the lounge. ‘I thought you’d like a war film.’
Amy had found a selection of movies she thought Helen might enjoy.
‘That’s very thoughtful,’ Helen said. ‘I’m sorry if I was irritable earlier, but I’d been let down. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’
‘No worries,’ Amy pointed to the coffee table in the centre of the room. There was a big bar of chocolate for them to share and also a tray of nail polishes, files and clippers. ‘I’ll do your nails first, if you like. I’ve even got one called Poppy Red.’
Helen studied the nail varnish bottles and thought how much Amy was like her mother. She could be so bolshie one minute and so kind the next. Helen wiped away a tear; Amy must have brought all these things from home and planned to spoil her Gran!
‘I do have a red scarf to wear tomorrow, for the parade, so red nails would go very well, thank you.’
Helen loved being pampered by Amy who carefully did her nails and then massaged hand-cream into her dry hands. She was amazed how much confidence her grand-daughter had. She would never have taken the lead and suggested something like this to her own grandmother.
The following morning Helen was up early. They’d agreed on hot chocolate and eggy bread for breakfast. Amy appeared in her dressing gown, looking half asleep, but at least she was up.
Fuelled by their feast, they wrapped up warm and entered the outhouse which still housed the original baker’s oven, but no central heating. Helen could see her breath. There were several buckets of flowers waiting to be made into posies before the parade through the village.
‘Right, let’s do this like a production line,’ Helen suggested as she rearranged the flowers in order. One by one she chose a stem as she demonstrated what she wanted. ‘We need a yellow, white and blue flower to represent the colours on the British Legion flag. Then a poppy, a bit of myrtle, some rosemary and bay. These are symbols of love, remembrance and glory.’ Holding the posy in one hand she reached for the string she’d cut earlier and tied the flowers together before popping them in a vase. ‘Now that’s Reginald’s done, only eleven more to go.’
‘Reginald?’
‘This village lost twelve men, five in the First World War and seven in the second. Each man has an engraved vase and later on, the Brownies will match the vases with the plaques in the church, so no one is forgotten.’
Amy nodded and copied her grandmother by picking one stem from each bucket and arranging them into a little bunch, tying it with string and finding a vase.
‘Thomas Jenkins,’ she said.
‘Good. And I’ve done Robert, his younger brother.’
‘Did they both die in the war?’ Amy looked horrified.
‘Sadly, yes. I can’t imagine how their poor mother coped with losing both her sons. Robert was just eighteen, Thomas was twenty.’
Amy finished the next posy in silence.
‘Andrew’s just eighteen,’ she said quietly. Andrew was her older brother. He was still at school but more interested in playing football or computer games than studying. ‘I can’t think how he’d cope if there was a war.’
‘Let’s be extra thankful, today of all days, that he won’t ever have to enlist.’
‘He’d make a rubbish soldier,’ Amy told her Gran. ‘He’s no good at getting up on time and his room’s a mess and as for polishing his boots!’ She paused with a flower in her hand, ‘Nowadays, it wouldn’t just be the men who serve their country. I’d have to sign up too. Can you imagine that?’ Helen gave her a hug as they both fought back their emotions.
‘This one’s for Joseph Barnes. The Barnes family lived in this house. He was a baker and had three young children. I don’t suppose he wanted to go to war either, but he didn’t have a choice. It must have been hard for his wife when he went, and even harder when he didn’t return.’
‘And he lived here?’
‘Have you ever noticed someone’s carved Joe Barnes 1913 on the bannisters?’
Amy nodded, deep in thought. They finished the rest of the posies in reflective silence.
Inside the house Helen watched as Amy went to inspect the graffiti on the stairs.
‘I can’t believe I’ve never really looked before. I used to run my fingers over the rough surface, but I never appreciated its significance.’
‘This is Joseph Barnes and his cousin William,’ Helen held out a sepia photograph of two young men in uniform. ‘It was probably taken as they said their farewells.’
‘They look quite happy,’ Amy remarked. ‘William reminds me of someone at school.’
‘I suppose many of them thought it was going to be a great adventure. A bit like those games your brother plays, but of course the reality was more dreadful than we can ever imagine.’
‘Did he own The Barn Owl Tearooms?’ Amy asked.
‘No. But he’d have been proud of his youngest daughter who carried on the family business,’ Helen gathered her thoughts. ‘And about four or five generations later, the Barnes girls are still baking!’
‘Cool,’ Amy said. ‘I noticed they’re advertising for staff. I’d like to do that when I’m sixteen, and who knows, one day I might have my own café or restaurant. Maybe I’ll be a celebrity chef?’
‘And I’d be very proud of you,’ Helen told her. ‘Now, I suppose I’d better go and get changed. Are you sure you won’t come?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ Amy said. ‘But I’ll watch the parade from your bedroom window, if that’s ok? It’s warmer there.’
‘If, you’re sure.’ Helen agreed. ‘The parade lasts about twenty minutes, and the service will be another forty-five. You could come over to the church hall and meet me after, if you want.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got homework to do.’
Helen was pleased she’d worn several layers as she walked behind the standard bearer on that bitter November day. She was relieved the Brownies all turned up, and thankful to Brown Owl for training them well. Not one of them dropped a vase of flowers.
Once the service was over, Helen headed for the church hall, and a welcome coffee.
‘Amy?’ she said when she saw her grand-daughter setting out cups with Margaret who always served the refreshments.
‘I was thanking her for making a posy for my great grandfather, William Sutton,’ Margaret said. ‘It’s thanks to men like him that we live as we do. Life’s not perfect, but we do have freedom, and we don’t have a dictator. Men like him gave us choices, and I’m very pleased she chose to come and give me a hand.’
‘William Sutton?’ Amy repeated. ‘No wonder he looked familiar in that photo. We’ve got a Liam Sutton at school.’
‘And he’s my grandson,’ Margaret said, as she offered Amy a biscuit.
‘My maths homework didn’t take as long as I thought,’ Amy explained to her Gran, ‘And…well, until this weekend, I know this sounds dumb, but I’d never really thought of those soldiers as real people. I get it now, but I still can’t imagine what it must be like to have to fight a war like in Ukraine.’
‘And let’s pray you never find out,’ Helen said, giving her grand-daughter a big hug. ‘Thank you again for your help today. Together, we’ve done the village proud.’
About the author
Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She also writes novels, usually historical, and has a growing number of large print books available in libraries and online. www.sarahswatridge.co.uk
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