Remembrance Day (36 page)

What a formidable force a strong family can forge when it has a mind. What a heap of compromise it took to swallow pride and bitterness and strong opinions, to give these young people a day to remember for the rest of their lives; what a feast of pies, hams and cornbreads, sauces, shoofly pie and pumpkin and squash cakes, zucchini cake and cordials; what songs and dancing and laughter breaking down so much of my hurt and heartache that evening way back in 1945.

The barn was laid out with straw bales, the fiddler played and called out the dances, the lanterns twinkled under the starlit sky. I even sang my blacksmith’s daughter song to cheers and clapping, made a right fool of myself, but it did the trick, I’m thinking.

To see young love in its first flush of passion softens the hardest of hearts. When your child is happy, how can your own feelings not burst with pride and joy? That’s all that mattered then and matters now as I look down over the line of children we produced from this unexpected merger.

In that opening up of hearts, something shifted for me too.
When Charlie and Shari settled near my dream home in Prescott, Arizona, I found myself helping them set up the vacation trekking trail for horses and riders in Skull Valley, not far from the Santa Fe railroad, a little ranch down an avenue of cottonwood trees. It wasn’t a happy time in Hollywood in the early fifties, with the McCarthy witchhunts in the studios. We decided to pool resources and find something permanent, take a risk and make a dream come true.

It was in Prescott I met Andy McKade. He’d retired from the army, a widower, who liked horses and country life, just like me. We made good companions for many years and I took him back to Yorkshire, where he renewed his lifelong passion for English ale.

Rose and Guy came to stay awhile after his first major operation. They came to enjoy the warm winter sunshine. I can’t say Rose and I were ever close, but her calm nursing was what was needed to see Guy through all the chemical treatments, all to no avail. He died a year later and with him a piece of my own history: the last connection with my West Sharland life until now.

Except that Shari, Charlie and Grace, their daughter, made contact with small groups in England, who worked behind the scenes to get those executed men pardoned. It was hard work to get even a hearing until the 1980s.

Those of us with relatives wrote endless letters to MPs and lobbied for our loved ones to be recognised as honest soldiers, many of whom were sold short measure of compassionate justice. It was a long slow process of gaining support in high places after that. A TV documentary helped, and books were written.

No one wants to be reminded of such uncomfortable
facts. Gradually more information was released and the names of the executed became public knowledge. More books were written on the subject and interviews given. I shared some of our precious letters to prove a point. The battle isn’t over yet, but we are hopeful of some official pardon in the future.

Then West Sharland got fed up with having no proper memorial, and as part of their Millennium celebrations decided to raise one in Elm Tree Square.

Hester had left a sum of money for such purpose in her will, on condition, of course, that Frank’s name was alongside his brother’s. I made contact with them and told them everything I knew about his case.

There were letters of protest in the Gazette and others of commendation about this whole sorry subject. We became experts in sifting through public opinion to plead our cause, hence all the media interest in this occasion.

An invitation was issued to all surviving relatives of the deceased and now this simple lump of rock, in which is embedded a bronzed rifle and helmet, stands by the entrance to St Wilfred’s.

Shari is standing by my side, but not Charlie. He passed away suddenly five years ago. Grace and her husband, Elliot, are here and my great-grandson, Curtis, who looks so much like Guy. He’s on his first visit to England.

Later we’re going to be entertained in Waterloo House, which is now, I’m told, a girls’ boarding house for Sharland School.

No one in the family ever claimed Guy’s inheritance. In proving his claim, the Cantrell history would have been made public. As he used to say on many occasions, ‘It’s only money.’

Shari replied it would have come in useful to help fund the
‘Shot at Dawn’ campaign. But it’s somewhere gathering interest, never to be claimed unless my confession stirs things up
…

We told all the kids about Frank, and my connection with Charles West, but I never told them his true identity. His children assumed he was Angus and we never enlightened them. What good would it do? It was his story and his choice to keep the illusion intact, but I think it has gone on long enough
…

It’s all here in my account, but some may discount this version as the ramblings of an old woman with an axe to grind against the Cantrells. I made my peace with them years ago. Providence has given us fair measure of recompense when I see these children, flesh of our flesh, making their way in this world.

Now it’s two minutes to midnight in my long life. I’ll not see another Remembrance Day. I’ve got all this stuff off my chest at last, but my bones are chilled with waiting to lay my wreath and take my leave of my brothers.

I hope Frank won’t feel the need to keep roaming up and down the old high road, scaring the hell out of motorists now he’s carved into stone with gold lettering alongside his brother at last.

Just the initials of first names are given with the full surname. That was another of Lady Hester’s instructions. She had the last say, and quite right too, so no one was missed out, especially G. A. C. Cantrell. Guy or Angus? Take your pick.

Who is there left to tell their story but me? I’m the last piece of living history, and quite a burden it’s been to bear at times. The truth and the rules that we lived by all those years ago are not what people can understand now. That’s why men like Frank were shot by their own side. It was a
different world and can’t be judged by today’s understanding of things.

Time and silence quieten all the gathered assembly now the sacred moment of remembrance is here at last. What is there to pray but rest in peace…As long as this stone stands, none of you will ever be forgotten.

Leah Fleming was born in Lancashire of Scottish parents, and is married with four grown-up children and six grandchildren. She lives in the Yorkshire Dales and is currently working on her next novel,
Winter’s Children
, to be published in 2010.

Find out more about Leah at www.leahfleming.co.uk and visit www.BookArmy.co.uk for exclusive updates.

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