Under The Apple Tree by Jan Snook

Donald had intended to dig up the box himself one day. But Tim found it 80 years later . . .

DONALD wiped his hands on his corduroy trousers and stood the apple tree in the hole he’d dug, trying it for size.

“Mum’s not going to be best pleased,” Bert said, looking sideways at his elder brother.

“Doesn’t make much difference,” Donald replied. “I’ll be called up soon anyway, and I’d rather join up now. I’m going to the recruitment centre this afternoon.”

“I was just saying she won’t be happy, that’s all. Us both joining up at once, I mean.”

“Both?” Donald repeated. “Bert, you’re not old enough! She’d go mad!”

“Germans going to ask for my birth certificate, are they?” Bert said with a lopsided smile. “I’m coming with you. Anyway, we’ll be home again by Christmas.”

“Don’t know about that,” Donald said grimly.

“Have you told Daphne what you’re up to?” Bert asked, bending down to pick up the spade.

There was no answer and he looked up at his brother.

“She’s gone up to Scotland to see her gran. I think her parents are afraid she’ll do something stupid like marry me,” he added ruefully.

“Have you asked her yet?” Bert said curiously.

“How can I? She’s only seventeen. Same as you,” Donald added, glaring at his brother. “Her parents would never allow it. Anyway, I don’t want to tie her down.”

“Tie her down? What are you talking about?” Bert cried. “If she were mine I’d tie her down as soon as possible!”

“Will you keep your voice down? Look, this war could last for years. I could be killed. Who knows how she’ll feel when the war’s over? I’m just going to wait till I’m back home in one piece and then I’ll give her the ring.”

Bert was staring at him. “The ring? You’ve already bought one, have you?” he said in amazement. “Where is it, then?”

Donald didn’t speak for a moment.

“In a biscuit tin.”

Bert burst out laughing. “Well, you old romantic, you! Most people choose a little velvet box, but not our Donald . . .”

“Anything could happen, Bert,” Donald said seriously. “If I take it with me I could lose it, and if I leave it here the house could be bombed. Nowhere is safe. So I’m going to bury it with a few other things in a biscuit tin.

“If that’s all right with you,” he added sarcastically. “I’m going to bury it right here and plant the apple tree next to it. Then I’ll be able to find it when I get back. Or you will, if I don’t make it.”

“And if I don’t come back, either? What then?”

“Someone might dig it up one day. There’s a letter with it,” Donald mumbled.

Bert had stopped laughing.

“And that’s why we’re planting an apple tree, is it? As a marker?” Donald nodded. “And because Mum’s been asking Dad to plant one for years. It will be something to remember me by if . . .”

“Yes, all right. Stop going on about it. We’re both coming back, and that’s that!”

“Are you sure you want daffodils here?” Tim asked as the tip of the spade reluctantly penetrated the clay by another millimetre or two. “Why don’t I just plant them in the grass?”

Or better still, you could, he thought grumpily as his mother handed him a glass of cold lemonade.

The whole idea of buying this little house had been to get a foot on the property ladder, and to escape from his parents.

Not that he didn’t love them to pieces, but it would be nice to stretch his wings a bit. Twenty-six seemed a bit old still to be living at home.

In fact, when he had started thinking about buying his own place he’d had a flat in mind. A bachelor pad, with the emphasis on bachelor.

But he hadn’t saved

enough for a deposit, and he’d been very grateful for the offer of a loan from the Bank of Mum and Dad.

The trouble was, that meant they had a bit of a say in what he bought. Flats didn’t appreciate in value as much as houses, apparently, and his mother kept telling him he’d want somewhere with a bit of outside space when summer came.

Somewhere to put a chair in the sunshine while he had a cold beer after a hard day’s work. It seemed a bit sneaky, considering his mother didn’t usually encourage him to drink beer.

Anyway, he’d bought this little Victorian terraced house with its minute garden (the old gnarled apple tree almost filled it) and had moved in at the beginning of the summer.

And a chair in the garden with a beer had definitely never materialised.

He had spent most of his evenings – often, to be fair, with a parent or two in tow – cleaning, sanding, painting, repairing, reglazing and putting up shelves, before falling into bed exhausted.

And now that it was a fine autumn day, his dear mother had turned up with a huge bag of bulbs, which, according to her, needed planting at once.

“They’ll be an absolute picture in the spring,” she wheedled. “An apple tree with daffodils at the base of it will look idyllic.”

“But Mum, the ground’s rock hard.”

“What’s a bit of digging to a strong lad like you? You don’t want bulbs all over the lawn – where would you put a table and chairs?”

Ah. The famous seating arrangements again.

“Actually, I saw a nice little garden table and chairs in that junk shop on the corner,” she continued. “They’d be fine with a bit of sanding and a lick of paint –”

“No.” It came out more firmly than Tim had intended. “I am not spending any more time sanding. I’m buying something new.”

“I’ll go inside and make us a sandwich, then, shall I?” his mother suggested, eyeing the stubborn dry earth.

Tim straightened up and stretched. All his childhood he’d watched his parents furiously gardening, but he’d had no idea it was such hard work. He took a deep breath and sank his spade in again.

Clunk! He’d struck something. It would be just his luck to have hit a drain or a gas pipe or something.

He eased the spade in again and there was another metallic clang.

Throwing his spade to one side, Tim knelt down and poked about a bit with a trowel. There was definitely something down there.

Gradually he uncovered what looked like the top of a tin box, maybe thirty centimetres square. Bit by bit he managed to loosen the soil around it until at last he could lever it out.

He brushed the soil off and examined it. Despite the rust he could just make out raised letters – Huntley & Palmers.

It was an old biscuit tin. But why had anyone buried it?

“Oh, well done!” his mother said, coming out at that moment. “You’ve dug quite a big hole. You’ll be able to get quite a few bulbs in there. And won’t it look lovely in the spring?

“Anyway, come in and have some lunch.” She glanced around and frowned. “What’s that?” Tim shrugged.

“An old biscuit tin. I can’t open it, but it feels empty.” He didn’t know why he’d said it, but he had an oddly proprietorial feeling about the tin.

And it was certainly not empty.

Tim stood in the kitchen surrounded by screwdrivers, a hammer, and even a can opener, and stared at the biscuit tin he’d been battling with for almost an hour before finally being able to prise off the lid.

He couldn’t help grinning. All this effort and it was probably full of rusty nails and bits of string.

He moved the lid aside. Whatever was inside was wrapped in newspaper.

He removed it carefully and his eye was caught by the date: December 12,

1939. That was getting on for 80 years ago!

He put the paper to one side and picked up the cigar box it concealed. He opened it carefully and gazed at the contents: a photograph, a small leather box and an envelope.

Tim picked up the photograph and peered at it. A young woman in a summer dress gazed back at him, smiling.

Her hair was carefully waved and was presumably blonde, though the photo was black and white. Across one corner was scrawled To dearest Donald, with love, Daphne.

Tim turned it over. On the back was the name of a photography studio on the south coast, only a few miles away from where he was now, and a date: April 1939.

Tim picked up the small leather box and undid the clasp. Inside was a ring set with three small red stones.

Could they be rubies? It was an engagement ring, surely. But why here, in this box? Had she said no?

He turned to the envelope hurriedly. It was addressed to My brother Bert, or whoever finds this,

and was unsealed. Tim slid the single sheet of paper out.

Bert, if you’re reading this it means that I haven’t made it back from the war,

it began starkly. I just pray that no-one else is reading this, for that would mean you haven’t made it back, either.

There was a gap, as though the writer wasn’t sure what to say next, and the tone became more formal.

To anyone else who has found this, I wish to tell you that I buried this on December 14, 1939, in order to keep the contents safe. The ring is intended

for Miss Daphne Smithers, who lives at 14 Drummond Terrace, and I would like her to have it, even though we can no longer be married.

If I have been killed, please tell her that being unable to fulfil our dream of a life together will be my greatest regret. I hope she has found happiness, and knows how much I loved her. It was signed simply Donald Dorreton.

Tim read the note again, his chest tight.

This Donald couldn’t have imagined that his biscuit tin would lie undiscovered for this long. He must have lived in this very house. And the Drummond Terrace he referred to must be the one a few streets away.

The chance of number 14 still having anything to do with the Smithers family was remote, to say the least, but Dorreton . . . That wasn’t a very common name, was it?

A quick search on his ipad revealed telephone numbers for four Dorretons living in the area, but the first two were non-starters.

Feeling deflated, Tim tried the third number on the list.

“Hello, this is Freya Dorreton,” a bubbly voice said, and she listened patiently while Tim explained that he’d recently moved house and found some items belonging to a Donald Dorreton. There was a pause.

“Mum!” she called. “Mum, those medals upstairs – who did they belong to?”

There was the background murmuring of a woman’s voice, then Freya’s returned to the phone.

“Yes, there was a Donald in our family who was killed . . .”

Tim had meant simply to drop the box off when he located Donald’s family, but instead he found himself arranging to meet Freya in a local café the following Saturday.

He arrived early, but Freya was already there. She was just as pretty as she’d sounded on

the phone, Tim thought, looking at her blonde hair and big blue eyes. She was probably just a year or two younger than him.

Finding the biscuit tin had definitely been worth it, if only for this!

They ordered some coffee then both looked at the photo.

“My dad’s just gone to New Zealand for a month on business,” Freya told him. “Mum doesn’t know much about his family, but she did say that Donald was always talked about as a war hero, though obviously she never met him.

“She’s never even seen a photo of him. Dad will be really excited to see this. If you wouldn’t mind lending it to me, of course, when he gets back. I can’t believe –”

“But it belongs to your family,” Tim interrupted, surprised. “Of course you must have it.”

“But you found it,” Freya objected.

“Here, read the note,” Tim said, handing it to her, and he watched as she read, her eyes filling with tears.

“You must think me so stupid,” she said as she dabbed at her eyes. “It’s all so long ago.”

“I got a real lump in my throat when I read it, too,” Tim confided, “and they’re nothing to do with me.”

Her tears resurfaced as she looked at the engagement ring, and this time Tim took her hand tentatively.

“Why don’t we finish our coffee and go for a walk?” he suggested. “I’d like to hear about the rest of your family. What happened to Bert – or Albert, as I suppose he was – do you know?”

They paid the bill and headed for the local park, while Freya talked.

“I’ve never heard of a Bert in the family at all,” she said, “but it sounds as though he was killed in the war, too. I’ll have to wait to see if my father can shed any more light on it when he gets back.

“Then perhaps I could phone you,” she added shyly.

There were lots of phone calls in the next few weeks, interspersed with trips to the cinema and quite a few meals – some of which Freya cooked in Tim’s little kitchen.

She also proved to be rather good at DIY, and the next time Tim’s mother rang to offer to help him paint the spare bedroom, Tim had to admit that he and Freya had already done it.

He could imagine his mother’s raised eyebrows at the other end of the phone, and the uncharacteristic silence that followed meant that his mother was biting her tongue.

In a very short time Tim felt that he’d known Freya for years, and he was pleased – though a bit nervous – when Freya invited him to Sunday lunch to meet her father when he returned from New Zealand.

Someone else would be joining them, she’d told him excitedly, but wouldn’t say who.

Tim walked up the neat drive to her parents’ front door, carrying the now familiar biscuit tin, and rang the bell.

“I’ve got so much to tell you!” Freya said as she kissed him swiftly and showed him into the sitting-room.

The room seemed to be full of people.

Tim said hello to Freya’s mother, whom he’d already met, and was then introduced to her father, Nigel, and her two older sisters and their husbands.

He was trying not to stare, but evidently failing, as Freya began to laugh.

“I know,” she said. “Dad looks exactly like Donald, doesn’t he? I couldn’t believe it when I first saw the photo. We didn’t have any photos of him, and neither did Granny.”

She indicated the last person in the room, a little old lady who was sitting in a chair that almost swallowed her up.

“Yes,” Freya’s father said. “Come and meet my mother.”

He paused dramatically. “Mrs Daphne Dorreton.” “Daphne?” Tim said, looking questioningly from the old lady and back to Freya. “Not the Daphne surely?”

Freya clapped her hands in delight.

“Dad picked her up this morning. I’ve only just found out myself. Everyone just calls her Granny. Dad’s dad died before I was born, and guess what? His name was Herbert. And it just never occurred to me that . . .”

“Herbert!” Tim said in amazement. “Not Albert at all! Bert was a Herbert. And he married Daphne, his brother’s girl? But surely if Bert did come back from the war, he would have dug up the box? Why didn’t he?”

“May I see this famous box?” a surprisingly strong voice said from the depths of the armchair.

There was silence for quite a few minutes as Daphne picked out the items in the tin, tilting the photos this way and that, reading the letter and at last opening the small leather box, with Nigel looking over her shoulder.

“I’ll go and get us all a drink,” Nigel said rather gruffly.

“And you girls can come into the kitchen and help me with the lunch,” Freya’s mother said.

Their husbands went outside to look at a new car, and Tim found himself suddenly alone with Daphne, who patted the seat next to her in invitation.

“So you married Bert,” Tim mused, looking at her. “I wonder why he didn’t dig up the box?”

To his surprise, Daphne laughed.

“Well, he was invalided out of the Army, and spent a long time in hospital afterwards. I used to visit him regularly – he was my only link to Donald, and I knew that Bert had always had a soft spot for me. By the time he was fit enough to go digging up boxes, well, we’d decided to get married.

“What would you have done?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “Present me with a ring and a love letter from someone else?”

Tim smiled.

“I hope it hasn’t upset you too much, looking at them now,” he said. “Freya certainly cried when she saw them.”

“Poor child,” Daphne said with a sad smile. “May I keep the letter and the photo?”

“Of course!” Tim replied. “And the ring. It was for you, after all.”

“No,” she said softly, reaching across and patting his hand. “It wouldn’t fit on my old fingers now. You keep it.”

She lowered her voice as the door opened and Freya came back into the livingroom.

“I have a feeling that you’ll find a use for it quite soon.” n