The Truth is Out There, but so Are Lies and Misunderstandings

Accidental Hero #3 - A romance with one foot in the past

Continues from Ep 1 & Ep 2 where tennis captain Ben and his aloof crush Verity begin to research the medal from her uncle’s antique shop

Image by Engin Akyurt on Pixabay

I dropped my phone onto the mattress in exasperation. Patrick was blowing it up with accounts of last night’s activities at the restaurant and cinema, followed by a party that had got so out of hand that neighbours had called the police. Patrick and Rhona just managed to escape over the fences of several back gardens.

My friend’s unsubtle attempt to make me wish I’d joined them was having the opposite effect. Rhona being Patrick’s partner in crime was no coincidence. Since we broke up nine months ago, she’d waged a charm offensive on him. If she hoped to make me jealous, it did the opposite. I’d been fond of her; while we dated she seemed fun and friendly. But the manipulation and spite our split triggered made me realize my near miss; Rhona was a bunny boiler.

I stretched, then reached for the mug Mum had left on the desk. She let me lie in on Sundays but delivered a coffee at nine. Shoot, she needs to know I’ve invited Verity for supper. I gulped a mouthful, before heading for the shower.

Verity wore a slip dress over a long-sleeved t-shirt and the thick-soled boots she favored for school, pulling off a naïve demeanor while still looking kick-ass. I drew up alongside the kerb and grinned at the spear-like flowers she was holding. My mum was going to love her.

“Hop in.” I swung open the door.

Verity climbed into the car. I sucked in a breath, trying not to stare at smooth legs like a gazelle as her dress hiked up. I detected a peach fragrance combined with jasmine, like my mother grew over the pergola. It was almost as distracting.

“Shall I take these while you fasten your seatbelt?”

“They’re a hostess gift for your mother,” Verity explained with a tight face.

“She’ll be impressed you bought them. Mum loves flowers and everything about gardening.” An attempt to put Verity at ease without saying, Don’t be nervous.

Verity’s hands fluttered to her hair, which was loose apart from some combs that held back one side.

“I’ve found out that the 5th Norfolk regiment were recruited from all over north Norfolk,” Verity dispensed with small talk as we drove. “So not typical of the ‘pals battalions’.”

I nodded. Yesterday we had learned about the recruitment drive for pals battalions, which might be made up of a local football team or all the men who worked at a bank or mill. The upside was that the soldiers knew each other, allowing for better rapport. The downside was the terrible toll on a town or village if the battalion suffered great losses. Many or all the menfolk of consignment age could be wiped out in a single day of fierce fighting.

“… was sent to Gallipoli.” While I’d been thinking, Verity had continued speaking.

“To fight the Turks?”

“Yes, the Sandringham Company, which became known as the King’s company, was soon after reformed into the 5th Norfolk Regiment.”

“You researched this last night — instead of watching a film?”

“This morning. Last night I watched Rear Window with Grace Kelly and James Stewart, it holds up pretty well compared with contemporary plots. Some of Hitchcock’s thrillers can seem a little laboured.”

“I don’t know it, can you give me the Cliff notes?”

Verity enthusiastically explained the premise to Rear Window as I drove out of town, along the narrow lane to my family’s home.

“That ending wouldn’t work in a modern film,” I spoke cynically. “Grace’s character would have her mobile in her pocket, set to vibrate, so James could’ve warned her the murderer was coming back.”

“True. There is a modern version,” she countered. “The man with a broken leg’s character becomes a teenage boy under house arrest.”

“So you do watch contemporary films …” I teased her.

“Of course — I’d be a pompous snob to say the old films are the best without watching any recent ones to compare!”

We were both laughing when my mother opened the front door.

“Ben,” she smiled warmly, “and this must be Verity. Come in.”

Before we could move, Binky dashed past Mum’s legs onto the drive, barking happily and wagging her tail. Her pink tongue lolled and when Verity bent to make a fuss of her, Binky threw herself on her back, showing off a speckled tummy.

“She can stand a lot of that,” Mum said asfter Verity and I tickled and stroked the dog and were thanked with licks. “Come indoors, everyone.”

Mum was delighted with the gladioli, she immediately arranged them in a vase while the kettle boiled: Coffee for me, fruit tea for Verity and Mum.

“So you help in the antique store. What do your parents do, Verity?”

“My parents are both dead,” she answered, pink splashing her high cheekbones. “I live with my Uncle Colin over the shop.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Verity. I hate I raised a painful subject.”

“Don’t worry Mrs — Carol,” Verity corrected herself. My mum had asked her not to be formal. “It was seven years ago, the pain has dulled a lot.”

I steeped the tea and spooned coffee into a mug, calculating it must have happened about the time we started secondary school. It’s a particularly tough stage for any child to navigate, without coping with grief. I hadn’t known she was an orphan.

I passed Verity her tea. She took it gratefully, likely glad of the distraction.

“We’re going to St Leonard’s church shortly,” I told Mum. “Looking at gravestones for our soldier.”

“He may have died on the battlefields,” Mum warned. “Many of those poor soldiers’ bodies were not buried, although the government erected monuments later, to record all those assumed dead. What was his name?”

“Walter Gibbons,” Verity replied softly. “Hopefully he has some relatives buried in the churchyard. Finding Walter’s grave would be a bonus.”

“Going at this time, you might be lucky and catch the Verger. He’s a local history buff, you can pick his brains.”

“Our plan precisely,” I chipped in. “We’ll take Binky to stretch her legs.”

A thump, thump, thump on the carpet told us the black and white spaniel was alert to the mention of her name.

Churchyard Image author’s own

St Leonard’s was a stone church with stained glass windows and a clock on its bell tower. It was set back from the road, surrounded by graves in various states of degeneration from age; few stood as upright as when they were first set in the ground. The sandy paths and grass between them were neatly maintained. A smattering of headstones had flowers left by descendants.

Verity immediately began to read inscriptions methodically, searching for the Gibbons clan. She held Binky’s lead, allowing the dog to snuffle around with interest, having never been brought here before.

“I’ll look for Mr Reynolds, the verger,” I suggested.

Verity smiled and nodded, her mind already absorbed by her task. I snatched the opportunity to gaze at her unguardedly, although perhaps the feelings her body stirred were not appropriate for hallowed ground.

I should try to impress her, otherwise, when this project was done, I’d be as forgotten as this ivy-covered ‘has been’, I thought as I stepped around an overgrown grave.

“Harsh,” I muttered softly before stepping into the vestry, pushing past the coarse, heavy wood of the main door, which was wedged open.The church interior was cool and still, dust motes danced in beams of light that settled as dappled colours on the stone floor.

I entertained a memory of being seven years old and dressed in a scratchy shepherd’s costume for a nativity play by my village school. My class sat cross-legged on the chilly steps near the altar and sang a song about riding on a donkey. How many such performances had this church witnessed, along with christenings, weddings, funerals, and regular Sunday worship?

“Can I help at all?”

My reverie was interrupted by a man in a grey shirt buttoned to the top over slacks in a similar shade.

“Are you Mr Reynolds?”

He nodded.

“I’m trying to find out information about a local man who was awarded a medal in the Great War.”

Mr Reynolds looked interested and gestured for me to join him in a nearby pew, which creaked as we sat.

“Do you have his name?”

“Walter Gibbons.”

“Gibbons … Gibbons,” Reynolds steepled his fingers and looked deep in thought. “I do believe we have a Gibbons or two buried in the churchyard.”

Our net is drawing in. I felt a tickle of excitement.

“I could consult our Parish Register,” he smiled.

“I’d be grateful if you would.” I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket on which I had noted my mobile number and email address. “My friend and I are compiling the information for a history assignment. Would you have a record of whether he had married?”

“If it happened in this parish, we will know the date of his birth, marriage, and death. Sadly, many soldiers did not come home from the war, so he might not be buried here. A terrible waste of young lives, the recruits were often poorly trained. Do you know his regiment?”

Thanks to Verity’s research this morning, I had an answer. “We think he was in the 5th Norfolk regiment.”

“The one sent to Gallipoli?” the verger’s eyebrows sprang towards his thin hairline.

“We believe so, yes.”

“Well, theirs was a tragic story indeed. One that for a long time was shrouded in mystery.”

Anticipation ran like insects up my spine as I waited for Mr Reynolds to continue.

“The soldiers were said to have been advancing along a sunken road towards the enemy. But when nothing more was seen or heard of them, it seemed that 250 soldiers, including about 15 officers, disappeared without a trace.”

For a moment I just stared at him, hoping there was a punchline to follow, except Mr Reynold’s face remained grave and pained.

“They can’t have disappeared,” I pressed.

“No, you’re right, although some crazy stories emerged much later about charging into a forest, and alien abduction. The sad truth seems to be that this part of the battalion, in an attempt to get behind enemy lines, advanced to a place in the landscape that was a natural bottleneck. The enemy had a machine gun trained on the narrow gap. All the 5th Norfolk regiment were systematically shot, apart from a handful who escaped sideways to a farm.

“When the Turkish local returned to his farmland after the war, it was littered with many bodies of fallen soldiers, which he moved into a ravine.”

My blood ran cold. Such an event starkly outlined the futility of war, as I imagined the horror and confusion of the massacre.

Reynolds must have thought along similar lines because he continued. “British soldiers were imbued with an etiquette not appropriate for the battlefield. I’ve heard that incoming soldiers were ordered to march, not run, down the boards to take up their places in the trenches. This allowed the German artillery to pick them off one by one.”

With a sick sensation, I imagined them like the duck targets in a fairground attraction, where customers used an air rifle to knock them down and win a prize. I shuddered.

“That was only part of the battalion. Some soldiers survived. But it was a while before news was relayed and the story was pieced together. One soldier wrote to his mother while recovering at a hospital in Constantinople. Others who’d managed to dodge the heavy fire found their way back to friendly lines. Perhaps Walter Gibbons was one of the lucky ones. I’ll check my records and the sites I use.”

Mr Reynolds pocketed my contact details, and we parted. I emerged into the sunshine, with some relief. Verity and Binky were moving slowly between the lichen-streaked headstones. I became more determined than ever to seize the day.

“I’ve found Evangeline Gibbons, wife of Edgar; and from the dates, I think they could be Walter’s parents,” she called out.

“Great work!” A smile split my face.

She looks so pretty; and more relaxed than at school. I strode towards her, but was intercepted by a wagging dog, poking her wet nose at me for attention.

“What did you discover?”

“Nothing concrete about Walter,” I told her, “but a tragic event in the history of his regiment.”

Verity’s expression clouded immediately.

“Have you finished? The verger said that if Walter was born, married or buried here, he’d find it in the parish records. He’s going to check for us.”

“Great. Well, Binky’s been chasing butterflies.” Verity looked fondly at the dog. “It’s hard to be cross with her.”

“That’s Binky’s secret weapon. C’mon let’s go home.”

As we walked down the narrow lanes, I noticed scarlet self-seeded poppies growing freely amongst cow parsley, bright buttercups, and long grass on the verge. A message. Poppies symbolise those who risked and gave their lives in two great wars, the simple flowers are laid at monuments for fallen soldiers.

I plucked a buttercup and put my hand on Verity’s arm. When she halted, I tucked it into her coppery waves. Her clear blue eyes searched my face. I want to kiss her, but does she feel the same?

“I’m sorry if I sound maudlin,” I told her, “but learning about young soldiers fighting for their country and marching towards certain death makes me realize how lucky I am, and that I’m wasting precious time coasting.”

She was still looking steadily at me, so I continued. “Patrick always wants me to lighten up and have fun, but he’s the one with the wrong attitude. I prefer to reach for things and make my life count.”

“Patrick, pffft!” Verity made a dreisive snort. “Never give a sucker an even break, and always keep an eye on your pals.” She did the stern eyebrow thing again.

“That sounds like a quote from a film.”

She nodded, “Cary Grant in Mr Lucky.”

“You don’t like my friend,” I wanted to tackle any obstacles, “and he’s not complimentary about you.”

“Patrick liked me just fine when he tried to put his hand up my skirt. He changed his opinion when I stamped on his foot and elbowed him in the ribs.” Verity glared down the road at the haze of heat hovering over the tarmac, her face was tight with fury.

“He did what? When?” I was gobsmacked.

“A few months ago. When we had that supply teacher for English who was rubbish at class control. Your pal, Mr Life of the Party thought he could cop a feel and I would be flattered. I wasn’t, but I can look after myself.”

It was no stretch of the imagination to believe Patrick would try it on with Verity, but he’d never said a thing to me about the incident. Anger licked over me like a log in a fire. This explained why he always badmouthed her. It was ‘my way or the highway’ with him. In our group, nobody challenged Patrick except me, he was surrounded by a clique of sycophants.

I was raging on Verity’s behalf, and even more determined to break away from Patrick’s louche influence.

At that moment, Binky began to strain at the lead, realizing we were home.

“Whatever your mother is cooking,” Verity changed the subject. “Smells delicious.”

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Thanks to the UK History site for hosting the story of the 5th Norfolk Regiment. This mini-series has an anchor in truth. It was originally hosted by Cocktail Club Publications on Medium To be continued on Thursday 30 Jan 2025