The Shell House by Linda Newbery Page B

Belgium. You know, those huge Memorials to the Missing, with thousands of names engraved on them? I’ve been to Thiepval, on the school battlefields trip. If I’d known about Edmund then, I could have looked for him.’
    ‘But perhaps he didn’t die at all,’ Greg said, thinking aloud.
    ‘You mean—?’ Faith lowered her cup carefully to its saucer, staring at him. ‘You’re not thinking he could still be alive? That’s impossible! He’d be over a hundred years old if he was twenty-one in nineteen seventeen.’
    ‘Don’t be daft. What I mean is, supposing he survived the war? He could have married, had children. There might be descendants.’
    ‘If he’d survived the war he’d have come back to Graveney,’ Faith pointed out. ‘Obviously. The book doesn’t mention him after the war.
Or
any descendants of his. Surely he, or they, would have taken over what was left of the house and the estate? It all went to some second cousin, the book says.’
    ‘What if he survived, came home, found Graveney burned out and decided to start again somewhere else?’ Greg was struck by a new idea. ‘Who wrote the book? Maybe we could ask him.’
    ‘I don’t know if we can. It was written ages ago, before the Friends took over—you can see how old-fashioned it looks, all that tiny print. It’s going to be re-done, with colour photos, when the work’s finished, if it ever
is
finished.’
    ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Greg conceded. ‘The most likely explanation is that he
did
die in the trenches. Poor sod. Only twenty-one. That’s only four years older than me, and he enlisted at eighteen. I bet he swallowed all that Rupert Brooke stuff about honour and glory.’
    Faith nodded. ‘
If I should die, think only this of me
— that’s the famous one, isn’t it? We read that.’
    ‘If he died in nineteen seventeen—that was after the Battle of the Somme—he’d have seen enough to change his mind,’ Greg said. ‘Can I have your sugar if you don’t want it?’
    Faith nodded; he reached over for the two brown chunks, put them in his mouth and crunched them.
    ‘There were two Edmund Pearsons,’ he said, thinking, his mouth full of sweetness, ‘and they both died young.’
    Faith gave him a quizzical look.
    ‘The first one died as a baby,’ Greg explained. ‘If he’d lived, he’d have been our Edmund’s uncle. Your grotto was made for him.’
    ‘Oh, that one. Yes, I know. You can see E and P in the mosaic patterns if you look hard.’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me when we were down there?’
    She smiled at him. ‘Didn’t know you well enough then, did I? It’s not the sort of thing I tell just anyone. The grotto’s my special place, remember? I’ll show you next time.’ She finished her coffee and scooped up the remaining foam with her spoon, scraping for every last smear. Greg watched her, bemused. That didn’t quite go with the air of sophistication she’d tried to convey when they came in. ‘I’ll ask my parents if they know anything else about Edmund Pearson the Second,’ she said, glancing up.
    ‘Are they very strict, your parents?’ he asked.
Being
Christians
, he meant, but he didn’t want to spark another argument.
    ‘In some ways. They wouldn’t let me go to all-night parties or anything like that. They always have to know where I’m going and who I’m with.’
    ‘Like now?’
    ‘No. Well, I didn’t know about it myself. Only thought of coming to look for you when I came out of school.’
    ‘Would they mind?’
    ‘I shouldn’t think so. I mean, they’ve met you. They’d prefer it if I was going out with a boy from the church, but those are as rare as hens’ teeth. That’s one of my dad’s weird sayings. Not enough to pick and choose from.’
    Greg shifted in his seat. Wait a minute! Who said anything about
going out
?
    ‘They don’t mind me having boyfriends,’ Faith went on. ‘They trust me to know what I’m doing and what I won’t do. I mean, I’d never have sex