Shellshocked

1

Roses are shining in Picardy
In the hush of the silver dew
Roses are flowering in Picardy
But there is never a rose like you
And the roses will die with the summer time
And our roads may be far apart
But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy
'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart
And the years fly on forever
‘Til the shadows veil their sighs
But he loves to hold her little hand
And look in her sea blue eyes.
And he sees the rose by the poplars
Where they met in the bygone years
For the first little song of the roses
Is the last little song she hears
From the Roses of Picardy 1916

This is how I sometimes remember it:

I am singing: ‘My mother said, I never should, play with the gypsies in the wood…’

And Freddie is saying: ‘Well, when did we ever listen to her, or him, for that matter.’ And then he started to climb.

‘I’m going to get to that nest at the top.’ he said, and we both knew he would.

This was typical of Freddie, back then, when we were still young and the century was just beginning. If something was there to be climbed, Freddie couldn’t resist and no silly nursery rhyme from me was going to stop him.

We had been in the orchard, exploring amongst some deserted bee hives when Freddie suggested we take a look at the woods.

‘You can see where some of the old trenches used to be in there,’ he said. Freddie loved the idea of trenches. He wanted to be an archaeologist. I wanted to be an historian.

We had been let loose in the garden while our parents looked over the house one last time before buying it. They were trying to agree a price with the agent in the kitchen. I think they realised that if Freddie and I were allowed to explore, then we would fall in love with the place the way they had. But there was already one rule:

‘Stay away from the fenced off woodland,’ said Father.

‘why?’

‘Because, Freddie, it is an area littered with very old and very unexploded shells.’

‘But they will almost certainly be dud,’ said Freddie.

‘It’s out of bounds,’ said Father. ‘Life is much tougher without two arms, two legs and a head. Please try to stay in one piece. ’

We nodded our obedience and trotted off down the garden knowing we would disobey him. Father strode off across the lawn and back to the negotiating table.

Sure enough, after nosing around the crumbling remains of an old wall and the debris in the orchard, we took our first steps into the forbidden territory surrounding our new home.

Maybe it would have all been different if, at the moment we climbed over the barbed wire fence, Freddie had not looked up. Maybe we would have just wandered about a bit, looked at the indentations in the mossy floor at the foot of the trees and then gone back to the house and got on with our lives. But I doubt it.

Freddie wasn’t really interested in birds’ nests in trees, but it was all there and so it needed to be climbed, captured and claimed; another strange relic for the locked and battered trunk which held his collection.

As we moved away from the bee hives I remember us both gazing back at the house. I could see my father looking out of one of the upstairs windows. We didn’t know if he was watching us but I think we waved and gave a good impression of being totally absorbed by the orchard. Then he turned for a second to say something to our mother and we were gone. This was what we did as children. Slipping out of the sight of adults and staying hidden in our own world for as long as possible until they dragged us back to theirs.

Freddie dashed ahead of me and by the time I reached the foot of the first tree he already had both feet off the ground and was pulling himself up onto the first thick branch.

‘Help me up too, Freddie,’ I said.

‘No Flo, you stay there and catch me when I fall.’ This is Freddie’s sense of humour; mocking, taunting, sometimes cruel. ‘Anyway, I may need you to guide me to the nest. I may get lost in these tangles.’

And up he went. As I watched him I thought how familiar this was: Freddie struggling through an impossible obstacle to get to some forbidden treasure while I stood beneath him holding the ladder.

It is quiet when you are surrounded by trees. Life beyond the little wood seemed muffled. Not far away I could hear the hollow tock tock tock of a woodpecker doing what woodpeckers do to a tree and in the undergrowth the rustle of a small animal as it heaved its way through the fallen leaves. I wondered if we were the first children to play here.

I looked at the soft ground. At first it just appeared to undulate like a deep, sludge green sea, frozen in time. Then, as the brotherly grunts and groans above me moved higher, I noticed the patterns. They were neat furrows which suggested that they had once been a part of a bigger design, the way you see the ruts of medieval farm plots scored into the sides of hills in England. These were Freddie’s trenches. Between them were perfect circular dips in the ground. They looked as if they had been sucked into shape from beneath the surface by a giant with an immense straw.

‘Shell holes’, said Freddie.

I looked up. He was half way to the nest, wedged between two branches and looking down at me. ‘You can see a lot more from up here,’

‘What does it look like? Describe it too me,’ I asked. But in my mind I could already imagine what he was seeing.

‘Zigzags, he called back. ‘So that if a shell landed it didn’t kill anyone around the corner. Well, that was the theory… I better get on.’ Freddie started up the tree again.

‘I’m nearly there. I can almost reach it,’ he said.

I begged him to be careful. He was now high in the branches where the tree narrowed. It was beginning to sway and I could hear its twisted trunk creaking lower down. It began to get windy which rocked the tree even more. Just as Freddie made his last lunge towards the nest our Father called from the house. I could hear Freddie cursing, but I knew he would go on to the end of his mission and then attempt to get down and back into the garden before he got caught.

‘I’m there Flora.’

I was looking out for the enemy when he gave a cry. It was more of a yelp, like a puppy who’s had its paw trodden on.

‘Freddie, What is it?

There is a crashing and a cracking above me as my brother came down the tree feet first. He is no longer in control. His legs hanging free and his arms are desperately trying to break his fall. This is not like being caught stealing apples from a neighbour. This is panic.

Father is calling again. He is walking towards the orchard. Mother is on the terrace with our little sister, Picardy, in her arms. She wants to get back to the agent. They have made their mind up. The deal is done.

Freddie crashes to the ground. Panting and sweating. His face streaked with the grime from the bark of the tree.

‘Freddie. What?’ I can feel his panic too.

Freddie is breathing hard. He waves me away with his hand. He is still unable to speak - excited and scared.

‘What is it?’ I look up at the tree. The Nest is still there. It has been moved slightly. It doesn’t look so much like a nest now; it is too rounded. I look back at Freddie. I think he is going to be sick. He is coughing and spluttering and trying to regain some composure.

Father is about to enter the orchard and is looking for us.

Freddie is on his feet and he has caught hold of my hand. We are heading for the fence and the garden. I look at Freddie and I see he is almost laughing but maybe crying and there is a string of snot stuck across his face. He is very excited, elated; the way you get after you have been made to jump at a scary movie. We crouch down in the bushes. Father stands still and looks around and then heads back to the house. I see him shrug his shoulders to mother and then call to us again.

‘Come out, come out, wherever you are. Time to go.’

In our hiding place I turn to Freddie. I realise that he doesn’t want to be discovered yet. He wants to stay in our world of trees and nests and impossible, dangerous quests. He has to tell me something and it has nothing to do with adults.

‘Freddie - what happened? Where’s the nest? You absolutely did scare me this time.’ I say.

Freddie rolled onto his back - now he really is laughing.

‘Oh Flo, we have to live here. We have to be here.’ he says. He points backwards and up to the tree. ‘That. It’s not a nest,’ he says.

But he leaves his secret out of my reach for a moment longer. We go back to the house brushing our guilt from our clothes and smearing innocence over our faces. I know Freddie won’t be able to last long. He will have to blurt it out sooner rather than later.

I had to wait as we all gathered in the kitchen of our new home and made it official with some cider the agent happened to bring with her. The adults are all rabbiting on in French. Now Freddie and I will have to learn it too. They are celebrating but there is no elation or excitement. Mother and father are looking at each other. Their eyes say. Thank god that is sorted.

As we all stood around I could see my brother squirming. He wanted to get back outside. He wanted to let me in on the secret. He was about to burst.

‘So?’

We are by the car waiting for the adults to say their goodbyes. We are all heading back to England that evening but we will return to our new home in just over a month. Would we be going to school here, too? Neither of us dared to ask.

‘ So?’

Freddie holds my shoulders and puts on his serious look. ‘It’s not a nest Flora,’ he says. His eyes widen. ‘It’s a face.’

I look blank but in my mind I can see a face too. ‘What do you mean; a face?’

‘Just that - the remains of a face. it’s a body. There is a body in the tree. Well the head anyway. It was a human skull.’

‘How did it get up there?’ I ask, still not sure what Freddie is saying. Is he teasing again? We are keeping our voices downwind from the adults.

‘I have no idea - not yet - but it’s a sign Flora - it’s a sign that this place is… special.

We didn’t say much on the way back to Calais in the car. Freddie waited until we were on the ferry and at sea to tell me more. I think he needed to work it out in his head. He liked signs - he believed in them and always wanted to decipher their meaning.

On board we left our parents in the café and headed for somewhere to talk. We ended up in the children‘s play area. We took Picardy with us. She ran off to the little bouncy castle. I sat and watched her while Freddie went off to buy drinks from the Coke machine. I remember thinking how small and unprotected she looked. Like the girl from Peter Pan, sitting alone in the garden, before she had to care about anything. As I watched her she lifted her head and returned my gaze. All around her children were falling about in their self induced hysteria of play; and there was Picardy, in the eye of the storm; calm, almost serene, with that knowing smile.

Freddie handed me a can of fizzy something. He was ready.

‘I felt strange for a while, Flo. In the tree as I pulled myself up… I was expecting a nest and I thought that’s what it was and my eyes were just playing tricks. But there they were. Two eye sockets and a gaping jaw. It even had teeth.’

Freddie was trying to get everything in the right order as he told his story. He kept wincing as the memory went round and round in this head like a tape on a loop.

‘Freddie, what else? What aren’t you telling me?‘

He looks out of the window at the cold English Channel.

‘For a flash, when I looked into the skull, I could see hundreds of them. And some still had faces. The skin was still attached and they were… screaming. I felt…’

There is another silence. The cries and squeals of excited toddlers surrounding us is starting to distract him - calling him back to their carefree universe.

‘Go on, Freddie,’

‘I felt I knew some of them’ he said. ’And the skull... It was as if I recognised his face.’

And that is how it began for us. We were two children growing into their alien, teenage skins and learning to fit into a new environment. They say it is a difficult time; the moment you let go of your childhood and prepare to leave childish things behind. But for Freddie and me it was different. As we started a new life in that valley in France our childhood was travelling in the opposite direction. It was catching up with us.

This is the story I have to tell. I have gathered up the fragments and put the pieces back together: All those things that were so tightly wrapped up and kept hidden. Well, they were all bound to unravel eventually. And the first little piece of thread burst loose when Freddie reached the top of that tree.

There are still some bits missing, but at least I can tell our story: The story of my brother, of me and of our little sister; the story of all those wasted and forgotten lives; and those who were half remembered between the faded pages of a battered notebook that must have fallen from the sky to guide us on our way. And of course, our Father, who stared it all and then buried it beneath his good nature.

We went down to the woods, my brother and I. And after the woods it was the crater. And after the crater…