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Tyneham, Dorset, December 1943
Lady Veronica stood shivering in front of the crowd of over two hundred faces in the village square. She desperately hoped none of them had heard the events of last night. Each one of the villagers was a familiar face, and each looked expectantly at her and the handsome man at her side, who was gripping her hand so tightly it hurt. He was expected to say something; a few words of encouragement were all the villagers needed to assure them that they were doing the right thing. It was something they could be proud of – leaving the village, giving it over to the war effort for the troops to use for training. They were doing something that would go down in the history books as an act of incredible sacrifice for the war and for their country.
‘Sir Albert?’ the vicar prompted, indicating it was time to speak.
The man at her side nodded. He stepped forward a few paces and Veronica moved with him. He gripped her hand tighter. Her fingers felt the thick gold band of the wedding ring he was wearing and she shuddered.
Feeling dizzy, she put her free hand to the back of her head to touch the large lump that had formed. She had managed to wash away most of the blood – of which there had been plenty – but a few traces of thick, oozing red liquid still appeared on her fingers when she pulled them out of her hair. She wiped it off on the black fabric of her dress. Black for mourning. She felt it appropriate given that today marked the death of the village.
He looked down at her, adjusting his grip, his expression blank, as if to check she was still there, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what was happening. And then he looked back towards the crowd to speak.
‘Today is a historic day,’ he started. ‘Today the people of Tyneham sacrifice our village for the good of the nation; for the good of the war. We leave, not forever, but until this war is won. We leave together, united in our separation, united in our displacement. This war will only be won by good deeds carried out by good people. You are not alone in sacrificing your home and your livelihood. Each tenant farmer, each shopkeeper, every man, woman and child, including us at Tyneham House – we are all in this together. And when this war is won, we will return together.’
His short speech was met with a sea of subdued faces, but applause started the moment he had finished, despite the sadness of the occasion. Veronica was glad. She knew the speech had to be rousing enough to console the villagers into leaving without a fight, although there was nothing they could do to stop the requisition now. As the residents of Tyneham prepared to gather their few remaining belongings, Veronica closed her eyes, reliving the events of last night over and over until she thought she might scream. But she only had to keep up her façade for a few minutes longer. She would not miss this village and she would not miss Tyneham House.
We will return together, he had said. No, thought Veronica. They would not. She never wanted to see this place again.
Melissa didn’t know why on earth she was doing this now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. When she’d read about the ‘Forgotten Village’ in the local paper, it had sounded romantic: a village lost in time, dramatically stolen from its people in 1943 and given to the troops to prepare for the D-Day landings. And now it was being handed back, in part, all these years later. This vast expanse of derelict land, pub, houses, church, school, shops, and a plethora of other buildings should have been returned as soon as the war had finished, so The Purbeck Times had said that morning, but it never was. The villagers had been all but conned. And now Melissa was sitting in a painfully slow mass of traffic on her way to the grand reopening of the village of Tyneham, along with at least two hundred other vehicles – all of which were crawling along. She hadn’t been the only one eager to see the latest tourist attraction to open on the Dorset coast.
Melissa adjusted the fan in the car, which she despairingly realised was already at maximum chill factor. It was having no effect on what had to be the hottest day of the year so far. Perhaps it was simply the sitting still, or perhaps it was sitting still in the unbearable July heat. As she felt her sunglasses slide down her nose, she cast them off and threw them onto the empty passenger seat. They bounced off the fabric and clattered onto the side of the door’s interior. Melissa reached over to grab them again and shoved them back on her face. The heat was making her grouchy.
‘Why is this taking so long?’ she asked, thumping the steering wheel with the palm of her hand.
It wasn’t really the heat, or even the traffic, that had annoyed her. It was more the fact her boyfriend, Liam, had promised her a romantic fortnight away in Dorset, but he had in fact spent every waking moment so far knee-deep in surf and rip tide, or whatever else he did while paddling in and out of the coast on his board. Where was her romantic holiday? Melissa had tried to understand; agreeing that it was wonderful the weather was so excellent for surfing. Of course he should go and enjoy himself. After all, he’d paid so much money for his weekend pad in Kimmeridge, which he’d bought as an escape from his boring but overpaid job in banking. He deserved to let loose. But she hadn’t expected to be alone every day. She’d tried surfing with Liam when they’d first got together eight months ago, but he had no patience with her, especially when it became apparent she was never going to be able to even stand up on the board, let alone master catching a wave. He’d put up no fight when she suggested she leave him to it. But Melissa was a bit surprised that every day since they’d arrived, Liam had gone surfing.
When she’d asked this morning if they should do something together, something touristy, he’d simply said ‘maybe another day’. Alone and bored and on the umpteenth walk around the chocolate-box village of Kimmeridge, she’d popped into the newsagent, hoping to pick up a couple of glossy magazines to read while Liam was out. The woman behind the counter had been reading the story on the front page of the local paper.
‘Not before time,’ she’d said as Melissa approached the counter. ‘Utter disgrace, keeping it out of bounds this long. They’re still not allowed back there to live.’
‘Who aren’t?’ Melissa had enquired, simply out of politeness.
‘The residents of Tyneham, of course. Ex-residents, I should say.’ The woman tapped the front cover. ‘The village is reopening today.’ She shook her head. ‘After all this time. That’ll be a sight to be seen.’
The bell above the door had sounded as another customer entered and queued politely behind Melissa. And so, without really thinking, Melissa reached over to the newspaper rack and took a copy out for herself, glancing quickly at the headline: Forgotten Village Returned. She paid for her magazines and the paper and stepped out into the sunshine to read the lead story. She was no longer interested in the celebrity gossip and overpriced fashion; instead it was the potted history of a long-abandoned village that kept Melissa’s eyes on the page. Perhaps it wasn’t her usual kind of holiday activity, but it was something to do.
Armed with the paper and the crumpled map she kept in the glove compartment, Melissa had ventured into the countryside expecting a quiet day wandering around the so-called forgotten village, perhaps with a handful of pensioners doing the same. But by the time she finally parked, guided into a makeshift parking bay, Melissa fancied she might have made a mistake coming to Tyneham. If the hundreds of cars were anything to go by, it was going to be busy.
The launch day was evidently a big deal to the local area. She wondered if anyone here had been
