Greater Expectations (24 page)

My self-pity rapidly gave way to exhaustion and I felt my eyes, still closed, grow heavy. As sleep took me, Penny whispered into the void
“Trust in fate Z. Remember Douglas McElroy. Goodnight.”

As she hung up, my mind drifted to that beautiful autum
nal morning in northern France.

31

Lost In Translation

France - September 2000

The brown and yellow leaves lay strewn around both war graves that were located on opposite sides of the village. Driving slowly past each, I said a silent prayer for those interred who had died so valiantly to satisfy the voracious appetites of others. As I did so, it struck me as odd that these two cemeteries were within such a short distance of each other; why not a larger single plot? Still, I was pleased to see that they were both meticulously maintained, visual evidence of respect for all those who had made the ultimate sacrifice. The devastatingly simple white cross headstones seemed almost new, although they were all too many. The beautifully manicured grass could have easily adorned any of the world
’s most exclusive golf courses.

It was only a few short minutes thereafter that my destination presented itself. The tired factory signs directed me around to the rear of the building where a waiting forklift driver stood in an open loading bay door. As he flicked the ash off his cigarette, he lazily gestured to me that I should reverse onto this bay. In order to allow him access, I was required to stop just short and jump out of my cab to open the trailer doors. As trailers go, this one was quite unremarkable, adorned as it was in a plain white livery. Indeed, the only distinguishing features were two small Scotland flags that were defiantly set on either side of its number plate holder. Yet it was these very flags that were enough to arouse the curiosity of the forklift driver, who was still smoking in the open door, and cause him un
due concern.

“Chauffeur, en Écosse?” The question surprised me as, normally, it is universal behaviour to simply ignore the truck driver. Unless, of course, it is an informative hand gesture suggesting that it is time for our obligatory masturbation break. The public are most helpful like that. Well, at least, they are with me. In turning to see if the question was indeed directed at me, I found the forklift driver pointing with his cigarette in the general direction of the Scotland flags.

“Pardon?” I said in my best French, my thoughts were still with the fallen.

“You en Écosse?” repeated the forklift driver, whom I could now presume to be “Pierre”, for that was the name embroidered in red onto his grubby blue overalls. I snapped back into the moment. Not one to pass up an excellent opportunity to expand upon my non-existent French language skills, I replied simply “Oui”. The accent was obligatory along with the head nod, pursed lips, shrug of my shoulders, a
nd extended open hand gesture–palms up of course.

It only served to remind me of how much I really do hate stereotypes.

However, my response gave rise to much excitement from Pierre, who seemed to have wrongly concluded that I must be fluent in his native tongue. As such, he launched into a very animated, although altogether incoherent diatribe, that there was never any chance of my comprehending. All I could do was simply continue to nod, smile, shrug, and wonder how I had managed to get myself into this rapidly unfolding farce.

I could only blame myse
lf.

Obviously, my hitherto unknown thespian talents had perfectly complimented my masterful delivery of the two words that were the sum total of my contribution to our conversation thus far. Now I was in a complete quandary. Although I
had no idea what he was saying–and he was saying a lot–there were a few words that I did recognise within his ramblings.
“…Douglas McElroy…Hamilton…Giffnock…”
It was easy for me to recognise Hamilton and Giffnock as these are both areas of Glasgow, but the man’s name was as meaningless to me as pretty much everything else he said.

As he continued speaking, albeit more at me than to me, it struck me that he was still completely unaware that it was only he who was privy to this conversation. This realisation presented me with a new problem. My
pretence
could quite easily be mistaken for
offence
and he may think that I have been mocking him with my initial replies. If he adopted that attitude, I could end up sat here all day waiting for Pierre here to unload me and that was completely unacceptable.

How the fuck had I managed to get myself into this mess from the menial task of ope
ning two fucking trailer doors?

The silence was deafening.
How long had it been since Pierre had stopped talking?
My eyes scanned his face searching for help but he was simply looking back at me and smiling in anticipation of my response. I had
nothing
. With a long slow shrug of my shoulders, a sheepish look, and a smile that had long since gone from smug to limp, I simply stated as clearly and sincerely as possible: “Pardon et moi, non parlez-vous Français.” Before he could respond, I quickly scurried back to my truck and reversed it fully onto the allocated bay.

Cautiously, I entered the warehouse and looked for a quiet and discreet spot to observe the delivery. The dank and musty environment was in keeping with Pierre’s own appearance and it was immediately obvious that this was his sole domain. There was a brush and bucket beside the door through which I had just made my entrance but it could only be presumed that they were for symbolic purposes. In stark contrast to the surroundings and his well-worn uniform, Pierre’s forklift seemed relatively new. Proudly sitting atop the shiny machine, he struck me as much like a king on his throne overlooking his realm. In blissful ignorance to my thoughts, I could hear the excitement in his voice that was penetrating the silence. Only, this time, it was not directed at me but rather some other lucky soul on the rec
eiving end of his mobile phone.

It was becoming painfully apparent that Pierre was not much of a listener.

Suddenly he saw me and became even more animated. Jumping down from his perch, he eagerly made his way towards me. It was all but impossible for me to tell if he was upset from our earlier encounter, which was quite what I was expecting him to be. However, as he approached, he smiled widely and handed me his phone and signalled that I should talk. My surprise and relief caused me to accept without pause and automatically say “Bonjour”.

A rather pleasant and soft spoken male voice replied “Bonjour, ça va?”

Fuck, here we go again
. Once more I was utterly perplexed as to what was going on. My sense of relief had been clearly premature and was now replaced with feelings of foolishness and frustration at my own ignorance of the French language. Why had I not paid more attention to this bloody subject at school? Exasperated, I knew that there really was no other option but to merely repeat what I had said all too recently to Pierre. “Pardon et moi, non parlez-vous Français. Me en Écosse.” It seemed that I had unconsciously slipped back into character and incorporated the obligatory accent, although thankfully, I successfully managed to omit the complimentary gesticulations.

The voice immediately responded, “You’re Scottish?” His own French accent was replaced with one as natural and broad as my own, and his excitement was palpable.

“Yes indeed, but I have absolutely no idea what is happening right now. I was just handed this phone by your friend Pierre here and I have no clue who you are.
Sorry
.” The mention of his name caused him to point at the embroidery on his overalls, smile wider that he already was, and nod in agreement–then he gave me a
thumbs up
sign. He was obviously happy that we are talking about him.

“I’m Douglas McElroy.” He stated this as if it clarified everything. It really did not. “Tell me, are you going to be there long?”

“About an hour, why?” My question was unduly abrupt but my patience was wearing thin with this charade. Never had I wanted more to just be unloaded and sent on my merry way.

Undeterred, Douglas continued, “Would you mind if I came down to see you? You see, I’m Scottish too but now live here so it would be nice to have a chat with someone from home. As I am sure you will understand, it’s not everyday that I have this opportunity. Only if it is okay with you of course?” Seeing no harm in it whatsoever, I agreed. Anything that would end this conversation and allow Pierre here to get on with his job of unloading me as, since handing me his phone, his eyes had never left me and his knowing smile
was now really freaking me out.

Yet it was Pierre’s tenacity that ensured a meeting that would last under an h
our but endure for a lifetime–and one for which I would be eternally grateful.

32

Douglas McElroy

France - September 2000

The transparent plastic roof panels of the warehouse were intended to compliment the natural light that was streaming in from the
wide-open entrance at its front end. However, years of neglect had left the panels in desperate need of cleaning and so the whole storage area was unnecessarily dim. As such, when the man appeared at that far entrance, his silhouette cast a long shadow towards me that would prove altogether more reflective of his true stature. Strictly adhering to the faintly painted walkway, and without the aid of a cane that was so obviously needed, he laboured with a very heavy limp down the full length of the warehouse towards us.

As he approached me, I looked down upon him to the right hand that he had enthusiastically extended all too prematurely. “Hi, I’m Douglas McElroy.” In the process of shaking his hand and introducing myself, our eyes locked and an eerie calmness came over me. Inexplicably, in that moment, I just knew that this was a very special man and that this meeting would be one that would live with me forever and so one I would never forget.

An experience to be savoured and enjoyed.

At 5’4” and 83 years of age, he was a giant of a man. In less than an hour, he managed to limp into, and out of, my life. In that tragically brief period of time, he became unquestionably the single most impressive person I have ever met, and ever likely to meet.

Thankfully, he also proved that all my instincts were working perfectly.

“So you are who Pierre here has been going on about?” Since returning his phone, he had been incessantly talking away to me in French. My protestations of ignorance were met with a smile and him repeatedly pointing to his watch and then at the far entrance from where Douglas emerged. Now, as the man himself stood here in front of me, his military background was obvious; highly polished shoes, impeccable grooming, and the razor like edges on his shirt and trousers. Clean-shaven, there was just the faintest hint of aftershave.

“Yes indeed. You see, his mother and I dated during the war.” Douglas allowed his wistful gaze to fall on Pierre but I knew that he was really seeing the man’s mother all those years ago.

“So you are his father?” It was a foolish question and, in my own inimitable style, asked without any forethought. I instantly felt stupid for being so impertinent. Of course he was his father, how could he not be?

“Sadly, no. That was not to be my destiny. Fate had other plans.” His eyes now diverted away from Pierre and looked out from the warehouse and far into the fields. What they were seeing there were those years long gone, in a time before I was born.

“I really am sorry Douglas, but you now have me completely lost.” This was no exaggeration. He had dated Pierre’s mother during the war and here he was living in this part of France, so how could he not be his father? Given his age, I also berated myself for addressing him so casually. It should have been “Mr McElroy”. My mother would have jumped up to clip me round the ear had she been here.

“Well, therein lies a story.
Our
story…” He snapped back into the now and stared deep into my eyes. The twinkle that I saw was both youthful and mischievous.

Magical
.

After enlisting in 1940, Douglas had completed the most basic of training and soon thereafter joined his
regiment on the Western Front
“…which, somewhat ironically, was 20 miles or so to the east of here.”
Never had I been told nor otherwise read that the troops were entitled to rest and recuperation during the conflict. So it came as a complete surprise to me that they worked for three weeks at the front, with two weeks back for R+R. It was like listening to a living historian and it was both quite insightful and, on reflection, wholly logical.

It was also completely captivating.

“It was during this time that Pierre’s mother and I met and fell in love.” Their love had flourished and grown throughout the next eighteen months.

“Then it happened.”

It was said as if “it” had been inevitable. His mood changed in that instant and a sadness seemed to almost overwhelm him. In the few moments he took to compose himself, I noticed that he was looking down in the general direction of his right hand that was gently rubbing his bad side. Obviously his limp had been caused by “it”. Drawing a deep breath, Douglas explained in a voice that bore no malice nor grudge, that he had been trapped in his trench when a German Panzer tank had driven over the top of him. As the sides collapsed, he was trapped and incapacitated. For the six months thereafter, he was kept in a state of traction on a hospital ward to allow his broken body to heal and repair itself.

Perhaps most tragically of all, this had rendered him unable to communicate.

After a successful recuperation, –he explained that merely being kept alive was regarded as a “success” –he was given a medical discharge. His war was now officially over. Naïvely, I hastily concluded that this presented him the perfect opportunity to pick up his romance and so was confused further still in the knowledge that he wasn’t Pierre’s father. His explanation proved to be painful and distressing to me so I could only imagine what it was like for Douglas himself.

“So that’s when you got back in touch with his mum?” My thumb was aimed in the general direction of Pierre who was noisily hurtling around the warehouse, blissfully ignorant of my despair at his parentage. It was wholly illogical yet I was caught up in it all and completely immersed in this story. No doubt it was a story that Pierre had heard many times before but it is one in which, for me at least, he enjoys a fundamental role. So rapt and invested was I with Douglas’ tale that I was actually beginning to envy this grubby little forklift driver.

“No son” his answer was soft and full of regret. The kind of regret that only comes from hindsight and experience.

My face contorted in bewilderment and my response was more of a challenge than a question,
“WHY NOT?”
Quickly realising that I was shouting, I motioned that it was necessary over the noise of Pierre’s bloody forklift in such a confined area. In truth, it erupted from my disappointment at the younger version of this man who now stood in front of me, imploring that same man from 60 years ago to make contact. One letter would have satisfied my frustration. It was a harsh realisation, knowing that none of this was about me.

His answer, however, would stay with me to my grave.

In the most serene and earnest of tones, he looked directly at me and said “Son, she had done her grieving. For in those days, those long days, long months, long years of war, if you never heard from a soldier over the course of six months then you naturally assumed them to be dead. I was being cruel to be kind for I had no intention of going home. I still wanted to be part of the war effort. That was my duty. I loved her so much that I had no choice but to let her go.”

I felt foolish for ever doubting his reasons as I just knew that they had to be
honourable and sincere which–in itself–was, ironically, rather foolish for I had only known this man for 15 minutes. On reflection, this was also the exact moment that I knew that I would never understand the craziness of war, nor a soldier’s thought processes within its theatre. It is something altogether different and, as Douglas explained it, going home on a medical discharge would have been a sign of weakness and tantamount to abandoning his Band of Brothers. All the traits of a coward and a traitor in his eyes.

Such betrayal was inconceivable to him. If his happiness and the love of his life was the sacrifice, then that was perfectly acceptable. Others had sacrificed more.
Much more
. His decision also saved her from the stress, worry, heartache, and–most importantly–the prospect of grieving over him for a second time. To her, he was dead and better for them both that she continued to think so. After all, death is such a ghastly experience that it is only recommended the once–for everyone. As such, his decision was selfless, generous, considerate, and kind.

The ultimate act of love.

Gazing upon him through eyes that were despondent and full of sorrow, my thoughts had taken too long to process and had resulted in an uncomfortable silence. “I’m sorry, I am just trying to get my head around what you just said.” I spoke in the knowledge that my admiration for this little man was complete and absolute. Here was the soldier speaking so openly about love in such horrific and incomprehensible circumstances, it defied practically every stereotype.

I loved it.

“So what did you do then, after you were discharged?” Genuinely intrigued, it was the only logical question left in my arsenal.

“Well I joined The Resistance.” Douglas stated this in a manner that was so matter of fact as to be the most natural answer in the world.

To my eternal shame, I spluttered,
“You?”
and took a step back in unadulterated judgment, looked him up and down, and continued,
“You
joined the
…The Resistance?”
My mind framed his image and compared it to those that I had seen in the movies.
Those
brave and dashing men were tall and debonair, and even with the most generous of imaginations, Douglas could never be perceived as such.

Exercising a patience and understanding that I certainly did not merit, he calmly replied “Yes son, I was in The Resistance. You see, I have only ever had one talent in my life and that was for languages. In those days, I was fluent in four: English, French, German and Latin. So I was invaluable to The Resistance effort for many of its members could not understand German. Whereas, I could.”

“Wow…”
was all I could muster by way of response. My mouth was hanging freely, though I barley noticed and could not have cared less.

Kindly, he chose to ignore me and continued. “What you see in those old war movies, believe me, they are far more accurate than you would imagine. It was my job to simply sit in bistros and restaurants, enjoying a coffee or a meal, and
listen
. In my own humble opinion, it was the German’s arrogance that beat them, not the Allies numbers, greater tactics, nor superior soldiers. None of that. They would enter these bistros and restaurants and ask every single person in the place if they spoke German. Naturally, we would all say ‘No’. After that, they would pull out detailed maps of the local area and discuss their plans. I sat back and listened until they left, at which point I would make a phone call to pass along the information. Then the roads, railway lines, telephone lines, whatever was strategically important to those German plans, was blown up.”

Thankfully, I was stunned into silence and so there was no opportunity for me to say anything else that was either ignorant or stupid. As the old saying goes, “Better to say nothing and be thought a fool than open your mouth and proving it”. Douglas generously took my cue and continued, all the while Pierre was whistling to himself in the background, still happily working away.

After the war, Douglas had gone back to Scotland and opened a hotel. It transpired that he was from Hamilton although his new enterprise was located in Giffnock. This explained what Pierre had been trying to tell me when we first spoke. Douglas had married and started a family and, together, they had built up their hotel and elevated it from a two-star to an altogether more respectable four-star rating.

No small feat.

“Life moved on and it wasn’t until the early 1980’s that things started to get interesting again for me.” He said this all too effortlessly yet it was not lost on me that Douglas had so casually dismissed over 40 years of his life as “disinteresting”.

“You see, by that point, my wife had died and I had passed the hotel on to my son and daughter and considered myself all but retired. However, hospitality is a very unsociable career and demands many sacrifices, especially regarding your family. Therefore, in order to allow my children time to spend with their own children; and also to save myself from sitting at home going stir crazy, I used to keep my hand in by working on
Tuesday and Wednesday nights.”

Although he was vague about the precise year, not that it made any difference to me, he did say it was in the month of January when things got
“interesting”
. Here was the master of understatement, for what he really meant was that this was when all his stars aligned to allow Cupid and fate to conspire together on his behalf.

Similar to my own profession, the month of January is a quiet time for the hotel industry but they were fortunate to have some regular year round guests. One such guest was a travelling salesman who based himself in their establishment from Monday through to Thursday and, on the weeken
d, he would fly home to France.

On this particular Tuesday night, Douglas was tending the bar as usual, with the salesman was his only patron. In an attempt to keep himself busy; he had stocked all the shelves, wiped down every table, and even cleaned all the glasses and put them away. Yet he found that it was still early and there was absolutely nothing else to do. So in a valiant last attempt to evade the desperate throes of boredom, and against his better judgment, he ventured a conversation with his guest. This particular guest was known to be extremely private and reclusive, and so not a man to welcome nor court such interaction. Indeed, he seemed to epitomise the stereotypical French attitude that English is a crude language that is only to be used when absolutely necessary, rather
than engaged in for enjoyment.