Short Stories & Tall Tales

SACRIFICES

As I joined the mourners I noticed an elderly gentleman, standing alone beneath the old beech tree on the green. Although his features were difficult to make out in the shade, I could see he was watching us. An old wartime colleague of her husband Frank perhaps. I know that he had fought behind the lines in France alongside the Marquis; the French Resistance.

I smiled, recalling the time I had embarrassed myself by asking Miss Palmer whether Frank had known the legendary Marquis Commander, Isabella Colbert. Had she met her? And in a moment of sheer hubris: was she Miss Colbert? She had appraised me with that half smile and said she had known her and no she was not Miss Colbert. She had died along time ago in Paris.

From the church gate we walked up the main street and along to the secluded lane at the far end of the village. A few steps along the single track road and I was at the door of the 16th century stone cottage that she had owned for as long as I could remember. We all filed in, a solemn group lost in thoughts and memories. Miss Lillian Palmer had been special to all of us. She had no surviving family so it fell to us her friends, colleagues and former pupils to do the honours, serving tea, playing host and so forth.

We gathered in her front parlour, which seemed so small now. Like a body without a heart, we stood and made small talk, but she was gone. I thought of the times she and I had sat here over a cup of tea and some home made cake discussing the school. She was long on advice and short on criticism when it came to the roll I had inherited from her after thirty or so years in the position as head of the village school

Ex pupils were now parents themselves with children under my tutelage. There were photographs on the side board and on the wall of just one person, her ex husband. None of Miss Palmer herself. She was that kind of woman. Discreet, self-effacing, not one to draw attention to herself. Speakers at the church had talked of her quiet, reflective demeanour and the solace she sought in the well being of others, especially the children.

"Headmaster?"

It was the elderly gentleman from the green. He approached, slightly stooped, allowing a thick blackthorn walking cane to bear his weight. Despite a limp he cut an imposing figure.

"Alexander King," his voice was commanding, authoritative even, despite his years. We shook hands and I wondered if we had met before. He cut to the chase without ceremony.

"I have something for you."

He dug deep into his suit pocket and produced a small case; the kind you might keep a valuable watch in. His clipped manner suggested military. He continued. "She made me promise to put this into the right hands. I'm an old friend."

"Did you serve with Frank Palmer?" I wondered.

"I did, and Lillian wanted this," he indicated the box, "to go to someone in the village. She was quite explicit. Would you be kind enough to point out Jane Morris?"

"This is Mrs Morris," I said indicating a smiling forty something woman going around with the teapot just a few feet away.

"Jane...this gentleman..."

She came over.

"Alexander King, an old friend of Miss Palmer, you were once a pupil of hers?" he said, looking intently at her. Searching for something?

"A long time ago Mister King, when I was Jane Wallace."

"This is for you," he said, "I promised to give this to you in person. Perhaps it could be passed on to your daughter someday."

He handed her the case and the conversation caught the ears of others. Curiosity drew people closer. Mrs Morris put the teapot down and opened the lid. It was a Croix de Guerre medal, the French award for gallantry during the two world wars. Miss Morris was at a loss. She looked enquiringly at me and then at Mister King.