The summer had been perfect: long sunny days, warm happy evenings—never ending; but it ended. The days shortened, there had been an early frost and my parents were already recalling last Christmas in preparation for the next. My Granddad who had lived with us for many years, recounted some of his childhood stories. My mother winked at me as a way of telling me to be tolerant of the old man in our midst. I winked back with both eyes.
Soon I was at a new school, in the first year. I carried my shiny leather satchel to the bus stop—my name neatly written inside the flap by my mother. I felt I was walking into a new and different world—my childhood was disappearing into the past, something fresh and urgent was beckoning me from the future.
On a dull November Saturday, my mother had invited a girl, whose mother she had met at the chapel, to play. My mother thought it would be good for me to have a friend from school. The girl was two years my senior. Already in the school she had a reputation for being ‘different’—radical, politically outspoken, demanding of her rights. All my mother knew was that she was well-spoken and from an educated family, and, she said, they always put at least five shillings on the collection plate.
It was exciting to play with Janet—she seemed so knowledgeable about everything, and she had an air of maturity which made me admire her. She said she had kissed a boy and now she ignored him whenever she saw him at the bus stop. I couldn’t imagine being like that to anyone. Her horizons were much broader, she said, than boys and kissing. She told me how politicians conspired for their own ends and how she intended to bring about a revolution.
During the afternoon, it started raining and we went inside. We looked inside an old box Janet unearthed behind a heavy wardrobe and found a flag. It was gaudy—a Union Jack in one corner, a mostly gold and silver cross made up of banners with names and dates sewn diagonally across its entirety. Janet held it up and studied it. Suddenly, she broke into a ranting derision. ‘It is a list of victories in Africa!’ she shouted. ‘British imperialism! They are still fighting against us in Rhodesia and Tanganyika. We should take a stand against British colonialism here and now! Burn the flag! Let us be the new army of independence. Burn the flag!’
I didn’t know what she was talking about but, when the sun came out again, we took the flag into the garden and ceremoniously set it on fire. Janet saluted it mockingly as it crinkled up into a pile of twisted ash. We both kicked amongst the smelly remnants and my white socks were covered in black and grey dust. It felt like having a sister—my very own conspirator.
My Granddad became ill the following year; my mother said he had worked down the mines too long and it was the gas from the war. He had his chair moved next to the fire and rarely moved from it. At school, I won the 11-15 verse speaking prize. I went up onto the stage to receive a shiny silver trophy. I cradled it in my arms all the way home on the bus, imagining that people in the street outside were looking in and seeing my prize.
My mother and Granddad handled the trophy with great pride and reverence. My Granddad placed a small flag on a stick into the silver cup and we all stood back and admired it. I have never since felt so filled with pride. After that day, my mother polished the cup every Saturday and sometimes, when I was in the room, my Granddad went to it and adjusted the flag. Once, he lifted it up as if he was toasting me and told me that just looking at it would ‘keep up my spirits’. I loved him so much.
One evening—already sensing the new spring and begrudging being called in from playing in the garden, I watched my Granddad as he sat by the fire. His face was drawn. My Grandmother had been dead some years and my mother said he had ‘never been the same’. He did not look over to me. I felt annoyed that he was not giving me any attention. He was staring at the trophy, at the little flag that rested at an angle against its rim, but somehow he was excluding me, and I was annoyed. I saw tears in his eyes—he looked so sad, as if he was recollecting something with great yet private pride. ‘I had a flag like that once,’ he said weakly. ‘I would like so much to see it again. I could drape it around your shoulders. I would be so proud.’
I encouraged my mother to search for the flag but it could not be found. I even believed it might be discovered somewhere, as if the destruction of it had been a dream, a fantasy, but in my heart I knew the search was a false one, and that my earnest contribution to the pointless search was a terrible treachery.
We all trudged to the funeral—the cemetery was close to our house. Everybody looked sad. My Uncle Tom told some jokes afterwards but no one seemed in the mood to enjoy them. I sat on his knee for a while and dropped crumbs from the cake I was eating onto his suit trousers. He let me brush them off. My mother asked me to come and help with the washing up. She was asked to speak about my Granddad. She held a handkerchief beneath her teary eyes as she held up an old letter she had obviously been saving for this moment.
Everything went silent—it was as if an apocalypse had opened up. Her voice was faltering.
2563812 Cpl. James B—
(Recommended for Bar to Military Medal)
For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty when a raid was made on the enemy trenches S.W. of CITE ST. ELIE on 8 September 1917. The raiding party found the enemy first and second line unoccupied, but the third line strongly held and protected by wire. Cpl. B—, who was in charge of a Lewis-gun, pressed forward and mounted his gun in an exposed position between the enemy first and second, and opened fire on the enemy third line. He caused an enemy machine-gun in the third line to change position several times. He remained with his gun in position although on the line of a 'minen werfer' barrage. There is no doubt that he harassed the enemy greatly, when they were firing heavily from their third line. When the raiding party withdrew, he remained behind to cover them and showed great coolness, although his gun jammed. Later he volunteered to carry a message from Cpl. V—, who had taken charge, to his Company Commander. He had to pass through an intense barrage, along a badly blown in trench. In doing so he was shaken and badly gassed but got through and delivered his message which restored touch between Company Head Quarters and the front line. He returned to his trench with a reply for Cpl. V— carrying a Battalion flag which he wanted to take to ‘keep up the men’s spirits’. He set a splendid example throughout. He was granted the Military Medal for gallantry at Gommecourt on July 3rd 1916. As a special tribute the Company Commander requests that he be allowed to retain the Battalion flag he so bravely carried back to his comrades. Strength of raiding party: 5 officers 123 Other Ranks.
Submitted 12/09/1917; Card of Recognition 15/09/1917; Awarded Bar of M.M. 17/09/1917
Uncle Tom put his arm around her shoulders and she folded into its welcome crook. For a few minutes she couldn’t stop crying. I stood and watched. I had never seen her like this—so out of control, so dissolute. In the end, she removed Uncle Tom’s arm, walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up my silver trophy. She held it up and tipped it towards me. ‘Now,’ she said, still crying. ‘Now, we have a new hero. Someone who will look after her Granddad’s flag and go into the future he so lovingly prepared for us with his sacrifice.’
I am older now. My Granddad is in my distant past, though the memory of him is still alive; as are my mother’s tears and her devotion to my future. I am here at his grave—staring down at the stone already worn by weather, already fading into history. I cannot imagine his heroism, and his silence, and his kindness and optimism, and most of all I cannot imagine the true meaning to him of the flag he placed in the cup I won for verse-speaking; it seemed to mean so much to him—I seemed to mean so much to him. I look down at my feet and imagine the dirty ash from the burned flag smeared across my socks. I realise the impurity of life, and I break down crying in the same way that my mother had cried at my Granddad’s funeral all those years ago.
ⓒ Holly Farrer
