The Roots of the Tree

  About the author

  Amanda Roberts studied English Literature at university and became a staff writer on a b2b magazine with a small independent publishing company. Within twelve months she was promoted to editor of a new launch title. Amanda went on to establish her own publishing company in 1991, which thrived until the combined pressure of the recession and new media forced its eventual closure. She now freelances within the publishing industry. She lives with her partner and children in Oxfordshire.

  THE ROOTS

  OF THE TREE

  Amanda Roberts

  Afterwards I found I had got only a half-truth – or only a glimpse of one facet of the truth.

  H. G. Wells, The Time Machine

  Book Guild Publishing

  Sussex, England

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

  The Werks

  45 Church Road

  Hove, BN3 2BE

  Copyright © Amanda Roberts 2014

  The right of Amanda Roberts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting in Sabon by

  Ellipsis Digital Ltd, Glasgow

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  A catalogue record for this book is available from

  The British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 90971 686 5

  ePub ISBN 978 1 91029 841 1

  Mobi ISBN 978 1 91029 842 8

  Contents

  About the Author

  Prologue

  1

  A Fond Farewell

  2

  A Battle Lost

  3

  Picking Up the Pieces and a Discovery

  4

  Reactions and a Plan of Action

  5

  Bending the Truth

  6

  Letters from the War

  7

  A Family Conference

  8

  A Painful Vigil

  9

  Archives and a Family Feud

  10

  All About Lily

  11

  Too Many Victims

  12

  Back to Work

  13

  The National Archives

  14

  A Glimmer of Hope

  15

  An Old Lady Remembers

  16

  The Final Piece of the Puzzle

  17

  The End of the Trail

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  September 1931, Upper Chaddington, England

  Lily Williams turned around to wave to her mother who was standing in the front doorway of their small terraced house.

  ‘Have a lovely day,’ said Mrs Williams. ‘Take care and tell Mrs Johnson you’ve to be home by six p.m.’

  ‘Will do. See you later,’ was Lily’s only reply.

  Mrs Williams watched as her eldest daughter skipped down the path, opened the painted wooden gate and ran down the street without looking back. She carried a small parcel under her arm, wrapped in plain paper that she herself had decorated with colourful flowers, carefully shading in the petals and choosing different shades of green for the leaves.

  Lily had been looking forward to this day for the last week. Her best friend, Celia Johnson, had invited her to spend the day with her family to celebrate her birthday. Celia and Lily were in the same class at school and had been best friends for as long as either of them could remember. Celia would be ten years old tomorrow, but that was a school day, so a special outing was planned for today, a Sunday. Lily was very envious that her best friend would have reached double figures in just a few hours’ time, whereas she still had months to wait, until the 21st of February to be precise.

  The families had already attended the morning service at church. Now the plan was for the Johnson family, with Lily, to take a picnic down to Pickney Lock on the canal where they could watch the gaily painted narrowboats cruising slowly along the murky water and entering the lock. All the children enjoyed the theatre of the lock filling up with water to allow boats to pass from the lower to the higher level of the canal and the same in reverse.

  Lily hadn’t changed since returning from church and was dressed in her best outfit – a pale blue pinafore dress embroidered with tiny white flowers on top of a white shirt with a blue straw hat pressed firmly down onto her blonde curls, and flat blue shoes. She felt very smart and grown-up as she pushed open the gate into the small yard at the front of Celia’s house. It was a carbon copy of her own home, as most of the rows of terraced houses in the area were, and only a few streets away.

  Celia was just as excited as Lily as she opened the door to her friend. The two girls held hands and skipped around in a circle like two jumping beans on a spinning top. They shrieked with delight and Lily sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to her friend, neither of them seeming to notice that she was out of tune, missing each of the high notes by at least a semitone.

  ‘Is that Lily?’ called a female voice from inside the house.

  ‘Yes, Mummy,’ replied Celia, pulling her friend inside and taking the parcel that Lily pushed towards her. ‘And look, she’s brought me a present.’ She was beaming as she tore open the parcel, dropping the paper to the floor. ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘The Secret of Red Gate Farm, the latest Nancy Drew mystery. Thank you so much. It’s just what I wanted.’

  ‘That’s really kind of you, Lily,’ said Celia’s mum. ‘Would you two help me pack all of this food into the hamper so we can be on our way, and pick that paper up please and put it in the waste bin? I’ll go and tell those boys we are nearly ready to go.’

  ‘No problem, Mrs J,’ said Lily. ‘And thank you so much for allowing me to come today. Oh, and my mum says I’ve to be home by six p.m.’

  The boys were Celia’s brothers – Edward, who was two years older than Celia, Archie, who was just seven, and William, nearly five. Lily often thanked her lucky stars that she only had younger sisters when she watched the boisterous behaviour of the young Johnsons. Not only were they incredibly loud and full of mischief, they were usually also filthy dirty from playing games in the mud and climbing trees and were never happier than when dissecting insects or pulling the legs off daddy-long-legs. She heard them clattering down the stairs as she carefully placed sandwiches, pies, fruit, cheese, slices of cake and bottles of cherryade into the wicker picnic hamper. Archie tried to grab at a piece of cake as he rushed through the kitchen towards the back door, but Celia deftly swatted his hand away as it darted towards the hamper.

  ‘No you don’t,’ she scolded.

  Archie dodged out of her reach and into the garden, laughing. Celia and Lily exchanged a look that feigned exasperation.

  ‘Brothers,’ Celia muttered.

  By way of contrast, Edward was the subject of much admiration from Celia’s friends, Lily included. At twelve years old he was already as tall as his mother with very dark brown hair, which would curl if he didn’t keep it shortly cropped. He was good at sports, but he was also an intellectual boy who loved to read, found school work easy and was invariably top of the class. It was a constant source of pri
de to his parents that he had won a scholarship to the local grammar school. Mr Johnson wanted nothing more for his firstborn son than that he should be able to rise above the level of a manual labourer in the steel, coal mining or construction industries, the professions most young men of the neighbourhood found themselves in. He wanted Edward to get a good job in an office somewhere that would mean he didn’t have to get his hands dirty every day.

  Finally, the hamper was packed, the boys had all found their shoes and the family was ready to set off. It was a fine autumn day, the sort that would be described as an Indian summer. If it wasn’t for the leaves on the trees, which were already turning from green to shades of red and bronze, it could easily be mistaken for a true summer’s day. The sun was beating down from a sky which was dotted with fine white clouds. The birds could be heard still tweeting cheerfully in the trees and a very slight breeze gently stirred the leaves, making them crackle like logs burning on a fire as the edges, turning brittle with age, rubbed together.

  The group headed noisily along the canal towpath to Pickney Lock, Mr Johnson carrying the picnic hamper, the girls chattering non-stop and the younger boys running circles around each other, pushing and jostling for position with Mrs Johnson entreating them to be careful at the water’s edge. Edward brought up the rear, walking several paces behind the rest and clutching a well-worn copy of H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine.

  When they reached the lock, Mrs Johnson spread out the picnic blanket along the grassy bank, which was a popular spot with people from the village, and opened up the hamper. Several other families had already claimed their own patch of grass and were relaxing, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the freedom of a leisurely Sunday afternoon. Archie and William headed for the nearby woods to find a tree to climb, Edward moved to a shady spot a little away from the family with his book and Celia and Lily spread themselves out on the blanket, kicking off their shoes and removing their stockings to wiggle their toes in the warm sunshine. Mr and Mrs Johnson took some sandwiches from the hamper and sat on a picnic bench nearby.

  ‘This is so lovely,’ sighed Lily. ‘When can we have cake?’

  ‘Mummy says we need to have some sensible food first,’ replied Celia. ‘And believe me, she will notice if we try to go straight for the cake. She’s got eyes everywhere.’

  The two girls helped themselves to some sandwiches – made with tinned salmon as it was such a special day – and fruit and lay on their fronts, contentedly munching and watching boats passing along the canal, in and out of the lock. Lily had never been on a boat on the canal and thought the people who lived on them seemed so colourful and so much more interesting than ordinary people. How, she could not define, but it seemed as if they had turned their backs on the lifestyle that most people found normal in favour of something that gave them more freedom – freedom to move around and not have to look at the same view out of your bedroom window every day.

  Celia produced several brightly coloured ribbons from her pocket. ‘Look what Edward gave me for my birthday,’ she said. ‘I know he shouldn’t have given them to me until tomorrow, but he said he thought I would like to have them today, since this is my birthday treat.’

  Lily admired the ribbons. She chose one in a deep fuchsia pink. ‘Here, let me tie this in your hair,’ she said, beckoning Celia to tilt her head of brown, shoulder-length hair towards her. Lily selected a handful of the glossy strands and tied the ribbon around them in a neat bow close to her friend’s scalp.

  ‘My turn now,’ said Celia.

  Lily removed her hat and shook her hair free. Celia chose a bright, sky-blue ribbon, which she tied to the end of a lock of Lily’s blonde curls.

  Archie and William climbed down from their trees and helped themselves to pies and cherryade before running back into the woods. Edward seemed completely engrossed in his book, leaning casually against the trunk of a large oak tree, one hand idly twisting fronds of long grass at his side. Lily and Celia kept up their non-stop chatter. Mr and Mrs Johnson dozed in the sun. A distant woodpecker drummed rhythmically at the bark of a tree. Four more narrowboats crowded into the lock, the gates closing behind them.

  ‘Oh look,’ cried Lily. ‘There’s Betty and Sylvia on the other side of the canal. Let’s go and say hello.’ She scrambled to her feet and without bothering to put her shoes back on, ran down the bank towards the lock.

  ‘Wait,’ said Celia. ‘I have to put my shoes on. Mum will go mad if I don’t.’

  Lily paid no attention and, reaching the lock into which the water was now rapidly gushing, opted to take a shortcut over the lock gate itself rather than using the bridge. Celia, rushing to fasten her shoelaces, heard a stranger’s voice shout, ‘Careful, love, that’s slippery wood,’ followed by a scream. When she looked up, Lily had vanished. The people on the boats and the side of the lock were peering into the water and Betty and Sylvia were standing shocked and motionless on the other side of the lock.

  ‘Can you see her?’ a voice shouted.

  ‘No,’ was the reply. ‘She’s slipped under the boats and there’s no room for her to get back.’

  ‘Empty the lock,’ urged another voice, but the lock keeper had already started rotating the handles that would open the gates and let the water flow back out into the canal.

  To Celia, time passed as if in slow motion. She got to her feet and ran to the lock, one shoe on and one shoe off, then shouted, ‘Lily!’, the panic showing in her voice.

  A stranger caught her at the side of the lock. ‘Steady on now, love. Is she your friend? Can she swim?’

  Celia shook her head and turned towards the picnic benches, her eyes searching for her parents. Her father was already running across the grass. ‘Daddy!’ she shrieked. ‘It’s Lily. She’s fallen in.’ Celia turned back to the lock. The water was now gushing out back into the canal, but it was so slow. The people in the barges were leaning over, their arms skimming the water, trying to peer through the gloomy depths to catch a glimpse of a blue dress or a strand of blonde hair. The lock emptied, the gates opened, the barges slowly chugged out. Still nothing, except a sky-blue ribbon floating on the surface of the water. For a moment there was perfect silence, broken only by the persistent drumming of the woodpecker and then a high-pitched scream as Celia collapsed onto the ground.

  1

  A Fond Farewell

  June 2004, Lower Chaddington, England

  Suzie looked up as she heard the sound of car tyres on the gravel drive.

  ‘They’re here,’ said her mother, Annie, from the other side of the room by the window where she had been anxiously keeping vigil for the past ten minutes. She looked pale but composed, her voice was steady but her hand shook slightly as she went to open the front door.

  The funeral hearse plus two additional cars for mourners was parked outside. The drivers, dressed in formal black suits, had respectfully removed their black top hats and were holding the doors open to allow the family to climb in. Suzie, her husband, David, Annie and Great Aunt Emily got into the first car; Suzie’s younger sister, Marie, with her fiancé, Peter, and Emily’s son, Steven, into the second. Other members of the family and friends would meet them at the church.

  As the funeral cortege pulled up outside the small, picturesque village church, which dated back to Anglo Saxon times, the bell started to toll. This wasn’t the cheerful cacophony of the church bells ringing for a joyful occasion, such as a wedding or Christmas, but the solitary toll of a single bell, marking the final journey of one of the members of this parish to his ultimate resting place. It was a sombre sound that Suzie found chilling in spite of the warmth of the day. She shivered and David put a comforting arm around her shoulders, and squeezed her hand. It was, in fact, a perfect summer’s day, warm and sunny with a slight breeze rippling the treetops in the churchyard. The roses along the wall were in full bloom, their delicate petals unfurled like the sails of a yacht, appearing to dance as they billowed in the breeze. The birds were twittering gaily. It was just the sor
t of day he would have loved. She could picture him, sitting outside in a garden chair with his binoculars in one hand and a cigar in the other. It seemed oddly appropriate to bid him a final farewell on such a day.

  The coffin bearers easily took the weight onto their shoulders, the family stepped into place behind and the small procession made its way into the church. The two rows of pews on either side of the aisle were already crowded with friends and neighbours keen to pay their last respects, but the front row had been left empty, as was the custom, for the immediate family to occupy. Suzie noticed her father, Jack Yates, sitting a few rows back and gave him a half wave. Annie kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead of her at a point somewhere behind the altar. The church was simply decorated with fresh lilies, his favourite flower, their powerful, fragrant aroma permeating the air of the centuries-old building.

  The service was simple and moving, featuring his favourite hymns and a tribute from Annie, as his only child. She struggled to keep control of her voice, which was trembling with suppressed emotion as she fought back the tears that threatened to spill out and overcome her. With a sheer effort of will, Annie won the battle and Suzie, Marie and Jack all breathed a silent whisper of thanks and relief as she returned to her place in the front pew.

  Then the service was over and the pallbearers once again hoisted the coffin into the air and carried it into the graveyard and across to the freshly dug hole in the ground that filled Suzie with dread. The thought of having worms and bugs as your companions in your final resting place made her shudder. She made a mental note to remember to leave instructions that she should be cremated when her time came.

  The coffin was carefully lowered into the grave and the vicar started the final prayers. ‘We commend unto thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father, the soul of this our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’