Buried Secrets

When I was fifteen, every Saturday, I would make my way to my neighbour, Ms. Murphy's house to do a little housekeeping in exchange for pocket money. It was no trouble - she and my grandmother had been close friends, so she was practically family.

Ms. Murphy lived alone, and at the grand age of ninety-nine, there were many things that she struggled with. While her late husband's estate paid for a carer five days a week, my parents helped out by providing meals, and the occasional chat over a cup of tea. With each passing week, we couldn't help noticing how much trouble she had remembering things. She could vividly recount her school days and early marriage, but not if she'd had breakfast that morning.

Then, one Saturday, she started addressing me by my grandmother's name.

"No Ms. Murphy, I'm Sophie, not Evelyn."

A slight quiver shot across her lips as she looked up at me, a gentle smile briefly pushing out her cheeks. "Oh, oh yes, you look so much like her, love." She carefully turned herself to the left, reaching for a photo frame from the side table to show me. "Evelyn's my best friend, you know."

I had turned away for only a few moments to return to dusting the TV when I heard a loud crash. I jumped as the frame slipped from Ms. Murphy's grip, clattering to the floor, and shattering into pieces.

"Oh dear." She tried to lean forward. "That was a bit heavier than I thought it would be."

"That's okay. Don't move, I'll clean it up." I set down the duster and grabbed a dustpan and brush instead. I carefully swept up the broken glass, checking to make sure none had gotten into her slippers. I then placed the remains of the frame and the photo on the table.

"I'll look upstairs after for a new frame." I said, taking the glass to the bin. When I returned, Ms. Murphy appeared visibly shaken.

"I'm so clumsy."

"Me too. I'm always dropping things at home." I grinned, trying my best to cheer her up. I studied the photo again to make sure it wasn't damaged.

It was of Ms. Murphy and my grandmother - Evelyn, along with two of their friends, Florence and Martha. Looking at my grandmother's face, I had to agree, I was the spitting image of her, obviously besides the early 40's hairstyle. The photo was of them together on a tractor when they were all about seventeen years old - I knew because my grandmother had a copy in her album. They'd been part of the Women's Land Army during the war - something my mum had always been fiercely proud of, being sure to share our family history with anyone who struck up a conversation.

All four of them looked so happy, but I couldn't imagine how hard it must have been to be a teenager during those years. I got upset with my mum for grounding me when I stayed out past ten - they'd had to deal with their fathers and brothers being sent away as soldiers, not to mention the horrors of living through air raids. I felt truly humbled by them.

One corner of the photo had been folded over slightly. I pulled it back and noticed there was another picture behind it. I flipped it to the front, my gaze locking onto it for a good long while. It was the same four girls, this time apparently in the woods somewhere. They seemed to be a little younger than in the other picture - possibly fourteen or fifteen. Two of them held shovels, and were standing on a mound of freshly dug earth... And then I saw the wooden cross behind them.

A shiver ran down my spine. My skin crawled with chills. I swallowed, casting my eye back upon Ms. Murphy as she drank her tea.

"Um..." I began, unsure how to ask. "What's this photo?" I turned it around to show her. She narrowed her gaze at it, lifting her glasses from around her neck to push them up on her face.

She smiled. "That's where we buried Edward."

I was speechless. My heart pounded in my chest. "E-Edward?"

She grinned again, continuing to sip at her tea as if she hadn't heard me.

***

I raced home with an urgency that found me immediately at my mum's side. I hastily asked if she knew who Edward was.

She shook her head, a puzzled expression captured in her features. "No, I don't know anyone of that name."

Undeterred, I embarked on a digital quest for answers. With the internet as my guide, I delved into the annals of old newspapers.

As evening descended, my dad suggested a film to lighten the mood. I couldn't be distracted. The mere mention of Edward had ignited a burning desire within me to uncover the truth.

Dinner came and went, leaving me restless and determined. Back at the computer, my eyes scanned the headlines before landing on one from 1939. The words jumped out at me, chilling me to the bone: 'Fourteen-Year-Old Edward Millar Still Missing.'

Millar. It was my grandmother's maiden name. The realisation crashed down on me like a tidal wave, draining the colour from my face, and reflecting a rising sickness within me. It took me a minute to realise I had been sitting with my mouth open.

***

The following day, after a bit of back and forth, ifs and buts between me and my parents, we decided to go to the police. They confirmed that it had been listed as a cold case, but since it was so long ago, they couldn't do anything about it. They'd be wasting resources scouring the woods for near-century-old remains.

Determined to unravel the truth ourselves, we headed out to find the grave site. We were guided by the photograph, and my grandmother's many memories of playing in the woods behind Florence's family farm. It wasn't too far away from where she'd lived growing up - just one village over, though they'd all gone to the same school.

Still, we couldn't imagine there'd be much evidence of the grave left, so we'd have to employ our detective skills, with the help of our dog, Misty.

Arriving at the edge of the forest late in the morning, we retrieved the shovels from the boot, and set off into the trees. As we penetrated the depths, a shiver coursed through my body - a mix of trepidation and a silent prayer that our efforts would yield no results.

We could have simply asked Ms Murphy about it, but she had been especially tight-lipped after I'd asked her about the photo. She'd hurried me out the door, claiming to be tired. Her evasive response assured me there was a greater mystery afoot.

My grip on the shovel handle tightened as we walked, following the contours of the land, and using the photo to guess where the grave site would be.

Five arduous hours and a brief respite for lunch later, I stumbled upon the spot. Misty exhibited an unmistakable interest in the ground, while I detected a familiar pattern in the arrangement of the surrounding trees.

My hands trembled against the handle, my pulse hammering in my ears as I plunged the shovel into the soil. My parents joined in the excavation, and even Misty started to lend a paw or two.

The rooted ground, hardened by time, resisted our efforts. But we didn't need to dig for long before the tip of the spade hit something buried beneath the surface.

Mum shone her phone light over the unearthed object. It resembled a shoebox in size - its metallic surface covered in rust. Uncertainty washed over me, it seemed far too small to accommodate a human body.

With bated breath, we carefully extracted the box and forced open its lock with a spade. A moment of hesitation enveloped me as I closed my eyes and held my breath, preparing to open the lid...

I cautiously opened my eyes.

Before me lay a collection of timeworn photographs contained in a yellowed envelope, a mildewed school uniform, and a cap. My parents gathered around as I examined each photo meticulously. They depicted a young boy at various stages of his life, from infancy to adolescence. In some, he was accompanied by individuals recognisable as my great-grandparents.

My grandmother possessed only a few of their pictures in her album, but they had always featured them alone. There was no trace of her in those photographs.

***

Confused and filled with questions, we decided to visit Ms. Murphy later that evening. Mum brought her dinner as she usually did. I carried the box and the photos, hoping she would remember, and be kind enough to explain the mystery surrounding them. We sat down in the living room, and I showed her the box and the photos.

"I never thought I'd see this again," she whispered as she held the pictures delicately.

"What happened?" I asked. "Who was Edward?"

A look of sadness crossed Ms Murphy's face as she thought, "Edward was... Well, Evelyn was always Evelyn, dear. We all knew that. We accepted her exactly as she was... Her parents... They wouldn't. Evelyn decided she wanted to hold a funeral for Edward. We took all his photos and his old school uniform and buried them. She never spoke to her parents again."

I gasped, struggling to understand any of it. "Never?"

"She couldn't. They didn't want her, they wanted Edward. She came to me one day, crying her poor little heart out. They had shaved her head. She decided it would be for the best if Edward went away forever." She gazed sorrowfully at the pictures. "My parents took her in without question. They told everyone she was my cousin from the city." She chuckled softly. "We shared a lot of the same clothes..." Her grief returned, and she whispered, "I miss her every day."

I gazed at my shoes for a while, letting it sink in. "Me too."

We decided to bury the box back in the woods where we had found it. The next day, we visited my grandmother's grave.