village voice 70.pub - Dersingham Parish Council

Because of his failing health, Prince John had been placed in the capable hands of Nanny Lala
Bill at Wood Farm, the King's country retreat where it was felt the Norfolk air would be beneficial
for him. King George wanted his youngest son to be brought up as an ordinary lad which, of
course, he could never be. Although for most of the time Nellie remembered him as fitting in well
enough.
Sounds of cheering and a band striking up God Save the Queen could be heard from the station
now breaking into her memories.
'Not long now,' Nellie murmured aloud, leaning back against the gnarled tree. The seat under the
sycamores had become a special place over the years. It held their secrets and began Nellie's daily
pilgrimage.
Pulling the long grass away from the bole she felt for the carving. Her fingers traced the JW and
an inch or two lower NR; John Windsor and Nellie Rowe. It had been his idea to carve their
initials on the tree but low enough so that they would remain undetected.
Nellie's fingers moved upwards on the tree trunk until they paused at a second set of initials. TB
and NR.
'Dear Ted,' she whispered.
As teenagers they had remained close and the seat by the railway track became theirs as they
courted during the hot summer of 1917 and planned their future together. But one evening, instead
of discussing marriage as she thought, Ted had gripped both her hands so that she couldn't pull
away.
'I've enlisted in the Royal Norfolks Nellie,' he had told her. Her body stiffened. A silence built
up between them until Ted put his arms around her shoulders.
'Don't take on so, Nell. I'll soon be back and then we can be wed, eh?' His smile, as always, had
charmed the sadness from her face.
'Tell you what, dear, this is our special seat - this is our tree - let's carve our initials on it - then
whenever you come and sit here it'll be like I'm right here with you. What d'you say?'
Not trusting herself to speak, Nellie had merely nodded as she took the penknife from him.
Locating the initials already there, she had moved her fingers up a few inches and begun to carve.
Fifty years on and the initials hidden from the world behind their curtain of bluebells and tall
grass were still discernible to her searching fingers.
And Ted had been right, she thought. For it was at this seat that she felt he was never far away.
A rumble along the track drew Nellie's attention. She knew just how long it would take the train to
round the bend pass the signal box and then the gatehouse.
She had witnessed it take her fiance on his last journey from the village to be lost forever on the
fields of Flanders.
Two years later she had learned of her friend, Prince John's death in his sleep. Nellie had sobbed
her last tears as she stood by the side of the track as the Royal cortege left Wood Farm, making its
slow procession past the old school house, the gatehouse and the station enroute to its final resting
place at Sandringham.
Now the train that had enmeshed their lives was making steam as it, too, prepared to leave on its
final journey.
An uneasy quiet had fallen over the villagers as many fought to hold back the tears. From her
seat, along the track Nellie's fingers caressed for the last time, the two pairs of initials.
She straightened her shoulders and stood up.
The rhythmic clacking of the train's wheels grew louder as it chugged up the slight incline
Nellie moved to the side of the track.
Time to take my own farewell, she thought. Time for one last game of chicken.□
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