At the bottom of the hill below my cottage is a quiet shady road called Memorial Drive, named for the cenotaph and a small garden of remembrance to honour those local lads who fought in the First World War. Subsequent plaques have been added over the decades for other wars of the last century: the Second World War, Vietnam and Afghanistan.
Every day on my way to work I drive past this cenotaph, and somehow the knowledge of what it stands for provides me with a link to the soldiers in my own family history. It makes me think of my grandfather and all the other young men he mentioned in his diaries. Those diaries inspired my historical romance novella From Daisy with Love.
My grandmother Daisy was a letter writer for soldiers during the Great War, helping both injured and illiterate young men to stay in touch with their families and loved ones far away. I am far away now from where both of them were during that war, but the sentiments and memories have not changed with time or distance.
On Remembrance Sunday last November I had been hoping to attend a commemorative wreath-laying ceremony at this cenotaph, but our municipality chose to hold these ceremonies at four larger cenotaphs in more built-up areas instead, perhaps because ours is such a quiet, rural area.
So I attended a wreath-laying ceremony near my church that day, only about ten minutes’ drive away. It was understated but moving, and well-presented by a local scout troop. It was good to see that not only older people attended, but several youngsters as well. In this country, they don’t forget or cast aside their war dead.
Later that afternoon I drove past the little cenotaph in Memorial Drive, but it was bare. Not a wreath in sight, not even a single flower. I went home, fetched some green plant-tie wire, and attached it to the pin at the back of the red poppy from my lapel. I drove back down to the cenotaph. I was the only person there, and I don’t think anyone saw me quietly pushing the green wire stem of the poppy into a crevice between the stones of the cenotaph.
For weeks afterwards, every time I drove past it, that small dot of red near the base of the cenotaph reminded me that my reminder was still there. Early in January it disappeared after a heavy, violent storm. I knew it wouldn’t be there forever, but the two month stretch that it had lasted was longer than I had anticipated.
However, about two weeks later on my daily drive past, I saw a small dot of red on the cenotaph once more, slightly higher than where my poppy had been. I was elated that someone else had done the same thing. And then I began to wonder if it was the same poppy.
On the very next Sunday, I took a stroll around my neighbourhood with my camera. It was a beautiful hot summer’s day, and for some weeks I had wanted to capture the views across the valley, as well as the beautiful trees in the side road leading to my cottage – see the picture to the left. I began my walk with no particular destination in mind, and took several photographs along the way, but as I neared the bottom of the hill I knew exactly where my path would eventually lead me.
Along Memorial Drive the cenotaph was deserted once more, apart from the poppy. My poppy. I recognised it immediately. It was in surprisingly good shape, with its green plant-tie still attached to the pin at the back. Some kind soul had picked it up from where the wind and rain had deposited it, perhaps realised where it had come from, and had wedged it back between the stones.
It gives me a warm feeling to know that someone in my rural neighbourhood thinks along the same lines that I do.