Page 44 of The Dark of the Moon
‘We’ll go and check there then,’ said Mum. But Philly looked sad, and I knew it was because she’d already checked those war graves online and none of them had a date that might match up with Ben’s being here.
We went to the cemetery anyway, because Mum said we might as well take a look as it was on our way home in any case. There are ten war graves in the Saint-Martin cemetery, and they are all airmen. One is unknown, but his date is 1941 – too early to be Ben.One of the others had a date in August 1944, but his headstone said he was
J.W.Heavner
Pilot
Royal Canadian Airforce
12 August 1944
Age 21
Son of Harry and Clare Heavner
Flint, Mich., U.S.A.
So we knew it couldn’t be Ben in that grave either, but I made a rubbing anyway. Then Mum said, ‘Right, well, I think we’ve spent quite enough time in graveyards for one summer.’ And we got in the car and went home.
Philly showed me how to look up the records on the Commonwealth War Graves database when we got back to the house, because after I’d laminated the rubbing of his headstone I wanted to find out a bit more about John W. Heavner. He’d been flying a plane called a Bristol Beaufighter, which was shot down by flak while attacking German shipping.
I wondered whether Ben had seen the plane fly over and heard the flak being fired. Maybe he had even been made to help dig the grave, because I could just imagine the Germans making prisoners do that sort of work.
Then I asked Philly if we could go through all the other records for war graves in cemeteries on the Île de Ré, just to double-check again now we had concrete evidence that Ben had definitely been here. She showed me how she’d searched the records. There were two more cemeteries on the island with war graves that we hadn’t visited yet, but all the dates were wrong.
‘What a lot of war graves there are, just on this one small island,’ said Mum.
‘I know,’ said Philly. ‘It just goes to show.’
Then we were all quiet for a bit, thinking about all those people who’d been killed in the war, the ones whose graves we knew about and the ones we didn’t.
That evening, while we were having supper, Mum asked Philly what she’d like to do next. ‘You’re very welcome to stay longer if you’d like. But equally, we’ll understand if you want to get back.’
‘I’d love to stay longer, especially now we know Ben was actually here. But it’s probably time I thought about getting myself home,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I could stay a couple more days and get a flight booked for one day next week. Whatever is most convenient for you.’
‘We can’t thank you enough,’ said Dad. ‘For taking such good care of Finn.’
She laughed. ‘I think he took pretty good care of me. And Finn, you finding Ben’s name has been more than I ever hoped for.’
I’ve given her the laminated copy of the original rubbing to keep for the rest of her life and to show to the family. And I’ve put the photocopy into my collection instead.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to do before you leave?’ Mum asked her.
She shook her head. But then she thought a moment and said, ‘I think I’d like to go back to the cemetery up the lane one last time. I’ll say my goodbyes to the island there. And that pot of white heather we put on the grave of the unknown airman probably needs watering, don’t you think, Finn?’
I didn’t say that the old man would have watered it, because I’ve seen him do that to the pot plants left on other graves. I wanted to go back to the cemetery with her, and Mum couldn’t say no if it was what Philly wanted to do.
Philly
All four of us walk up the lane and along the road to the cemetery. It’s my last day – again! – and a silent veil of sea mist has crept over the island in the night, adding to the feeling that this is an ending, a first suggestion of autumn as summer draws to a close. It’s a little like being up in a plane again, I think, passing through the clouds before you break through the top into the sunlight above. The donkeys munch on fallen apples as we pass by, lifting their heads briefly before returning to their feast, and the fence around the orchard is festooned with spiders’ webs, their gossamer filaments rendered visible by the hundreds of diamond droplets that the mist has strung along their lengths.
By the time we reach the graveyard gate, the sun has started to burn through, beginning to dissolve the blanket of white. Finn pushes open the door in the wall and we file in. We take our time, slowly walking the length of the cemetery to the far corner where the propeller blades mark the section of war graves. The remnants of the mist add to the muffled silence contained within the walls, broken only by the quiet crunch of the gravel underfoot. We have the place to ourselves, apart from the old boy with the rake who seems to spend most of his days there. Perhaps, like me, he’s reached the age where he feels he has more in common with the dead than the living.
My pot of white heather is still here, just as I left it, slightly sunk into the gravel in front of the headstone for the unknown airman. I stoop to touch the surface of the soil with my fingertips and am surprised to find it well moistened. Perhaps the night mist has soaked it. Dan and Kendra step to one side, giving me space, reading the memorial plaques to the commando canoeists and those lost in the sinking of the RMSLancastria. And, as usual, Finn wanders off, paper and pencil in hand, in search of more names to add to his collection.
I lean on my walking stick, lost in thoughts of Teddy (the flowers of the white heather bringing him to mind again), and wondering whether Ben ever felt the same sensation of the sun burning away the night’s mist, perhaps while he carved his name into the stones beside the citadel. But then, all at once, the silence is disturbed by Finn’s call.
‘Philly! Come and look at this.’
