I should have known that Roger’s agreeability was a “smokescreen” for another purpose. As we made our way along the short stretch of country road that led into town, hugging the shoulder as cars whizzed past us at unnerving speeds, Roger studied the poor schematic from the guidebook that passed for our town map.
“I think if we go left at the intersection up there,” he said “we should find the main part of the village.”
Caroline, who had studied the map earlier, pointed out that the Sandon estate was to the right.
“But don’t you think it would be interesting to see the village?” he said with some insistence, leading us in that direction, past the Dog & Doublet pub to a traffic island at the busy main intersection, where stood the village’s World War I monument.
We paused to look at the memorial that commemorated the village’s “honour roll” of the Great War. Gregory counted the number of dead, whose names were carved in stone under a lifesize cast-iron sculpture of a British “Tommy.”
“Twenty-three,” he whistled after we had darted across the road. “I’ll bet that was a large percentage of the local men at that time.”
One of the sobering differences between England and the United States is the visible, ubiquitous toll that World War I took on the former. There is hardly a hamlet or village in the UK in which you cannot find a memorial – usually at the center of town – that makes plain the devastation of that war on the British male population. I wonder sometimes how the country ever recovered.
Roger had gone ahead to the little village store, from which he now emerged with a pack of cigarettes. Gregory and I exchanged glances. Caroline stalked away.
Roger, you see, disguises his marijuana in conventional cigarettes, and he had run out of his homemade shills. He pocketed the new pack and caught up to Caroline, trying to placate her as we headed up School Lane, which promised to take us to All Saints, the Church of England parish that was on the Sandon Hall estate.
Gregory and I followed at a distance – we have enough of our own marital spats, thank you very much.
“Why does your brother take such chances?” I asked over the din of a stream of passing lorries.
He shrugged. “I guess he figures it’s not so risky. I mean, what’s likely to happen in a small English village?”
Was he kidding? Hadn’t he read Miss Marple? Didn’t he know that English villages are breeding grounds for crime and mayhem?
I turned my attention to our walk. School Lane was named after the village’s 19th century schoolhouse that was now a private home. Incongruous in that Victorian setting, a tousled-haired thirty-something with bloodshot eyes stood in front of the schoolhouse, sponging down a bright red Mazda Miata with a pail of soapy water.
“Nice car,” Gregory offered.
“Yes, she’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he replied, the compliment bringing some rosiness into his otherwise green-gilled complexion.
A few yards later, we arrived at the cemetery, a requisite appendage to every C of E church. Strolling among the stately yew trees, we stopped to examine the old gravestones that looked out over a gorgeous field of grazing sheep. We noted recurring family names of Erdeswickes, Stafford, Harrowby.
We were soon to learn more about these local personages from the All Saints warden who was in the church that afternoon, readying it for a wedding the next day. It felt so fortuitous to us at the time that we should happen on the church when he was there – but his presence turned out to be anything but fortunate.
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LINKS
World War I ("The Great War")
Church of England ("C of E") architecture
The Erdeswickes Family
The Stafford Family
Earl of Harrowby
TRAVEL INFORMATION
Sandon Hall estate
The Dog & Doublet
All Saints Church, Sandon
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