Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart (6 page)

“Or family Bible records,” he smiles. “I find that equally endearing.”

I put the form into a tray on another counter, more in an attempt to appear willing than because I think it's of the slightest use to anyone. In the space for the first answer I have finally written—God help me—Tex Newman. (It could have been John Doe but that's even worse.) As Tom indicates, they must have something to address me by, when they summon me to interview.

Which happens surprisingly soon. An athletic black youth at the counter tells me my form appears to be lacking many essential details. I reply that I'm faced with certain difficulties that I should like to explain to someone. He glances at the five or six people waiting and—conceding that the matter may be complicated—decides to pass me on to a superior. This lady, he informs us, is the supervisor in charge of Passport Citizen Operations. What is equally impressive is that she, like the clerk, doesn't keep us hanging around: no more than three minutes before we're on our feet again.

She's an angular woman with greying hair piled high and spectacles dangling from a golden chain. She's British. She means to interview me over the counter but Tom asks if it couldn't be done in an office.

And it could. We pass through a door whose lock is opened by pressing the right combination of studs and she leads us to a room with grey Venetian blinds, the same grey-blue carpeting, and a striking vase of gladioli next to her typewriter.

We all sit. She gazes at us from across her desk with an air of solicitous refinement.

“Well, Mr Newman, as I was saying, I'm afraid that this form requires—”

“I'm not Mr Newman. I'm sorry but it's a good deal more complicated than that. You see…”

And I put her in the picture.

“Oh, you poor young man!” Mrs Bradley puts on her glasses and picks up my form again—finds nothing there she hadn't found before—replaces it upon her blotter. She takes off her glasses, sucks one of the hooked ends for a thoughtful moment, then leans forward eagerly. “I don't believe we've ever experienced quite this problem before…although strangely we did recently have occasion to assist an amnesia victim once he had recovered most of his memory.” She holds this out to me, almost literally, as a solid inducement to hope. “But tell me, have you seen a doctor?”

I assure her that I have.

Tom makes a suggestion.

“Oh, I'm afraid not,” she answers, most regretfully. “You need to understand, there must be millions of passports issued yearly in the U.S. and even if we
could
transmit a picture to every passport office in all the fifty states, it would be almost impossible to match it up.”

She smiles at me and pulls a face of deep apology.

“And supposing that your passport were issued in 1983, when the renewal period was made longer? Your photo would now be seven years old and, who knows, seven years ago you might have been just eighteen or nineteen…with spots and a crew-cut…?” She shrugs, eloquently.

This is dispiriting. “You mention all fifty states,” I say, “but doesn't my accent pin me down to someplace on the East Coast?”

A short pause. “Oh dear,” she says. “I must confess to being a little out of my depth here. You've set me a conundrum. So perhaps if you wouldn't mind waiting for just a minute…?”

It turns out to be more like fifteen. She sends us one Mr Herb Kramer, who's about forty, big, sandy-haired, blue-suited. He comes in alone and shakes our hands with warmth. Mr Kramer is the vice-consul.

“I believe I've been made conversant with your plight. I have to say a case like this puts us in a difficult position.”

“Not half as difficult as the one it puts me in.”

“No, I'm sure.” He laughs, genially. “You see, our problem is we can only provide assistance to someone we know to be an American citizen. You'll realize that given your memory loss this becomes a little awkward?”

“But my accent?”

“Yes, your accent. People do sometimes come to us with the most authentic-sounding…” He looks at me intently; looks at Tom; looks back at me. “Oh, hell. At a guess I'd say you come from New England. I'm a New Englander myself.”

“That's what I'd have said, too.” (On both counts.)

“However, I doubt there'd be much value in communicating with the New England passport offices; there's no way to systematically search their records. But I'll tell you what we can do. We can send a cable to the State Department on the chance that someone might have started an inquiry.”

He's perched on the edge of Mrs Bradley's desk, pensively stroking his moustache.

“What's tantalizing is to think we could already have received a cable from them. Or from some other post. A caller might actually have been right here asking about you. Every last detail could be sitting there awaiting us. But without a name to enter into the lookout check…” He spreads his hands. “So we have nothing to fall back on but the memories of our staff. Just now Mrs Bradley and I were questioning everyone on duty today. Unfortunately without the least bit of success.”

“Thank you, anyhow.”

“Well, it's our job, of course. Your accent leads us to believe you're American and therefore we'll assume you are.” He says this in a fairly businesslike way but then he smiles. “Unless we happen to unearth some discouraging thing to the contrary.”

“Like what, for instance? That I'm a natural born mimic who's spent time in New England?”

“Oh, believe me, it happens! I notice, by the way, you're not totally uninfluenced by British speech patterns.”

This doesn't strike me as being loaded but I do reply that, seeing it from his point of view, my claim could unquestionably be a hoax. “Nice work if you can get it.”

“Exactly. Oh, you'd be surprised at some of the tricks people try to pull. Also, you'd be surprised at some of the ingenuity they put into them.”

“Do they, so far as you know, ever manage to get away with it?”

“I doubt it. Our tests are extremely stringent. We look for very special responses.”

“Such as?”

They both laugh.

“And even apart from those tests,” says Herb Kramer, “one very swiftly develops a sixth sense.”

Although I acknowledge that his answer will be meaningless: “And your sixth sense regarding me?”

“That you're genuine. Can I ask you a somewhat personal question? You have no credit cards nor traveller's cheques. What's your financial situation?”

“A real pain.”

Again he laughs. “Sure thing; must be! But the reason I ask is that it's possible for us to give you assistance in getting back to the States. We'd make contact with the Department of Health and Human Services and they, if necessary, would help you find a place to stay.”

I like this man. He seems to come from almost the same class of human being as Tom. I like his attitude of innocent till proven guilty. I like his tact, as well: the way he doesn't actually ask what I'm managing to live on. To say that Tom is keeping me would most likely convey a seriously misleading impression, especially to a man who, however well-disposed, is trained to be cynical. Even considering it in passing is something that makes me realize, all over again, how exceptional Tom is, and how incredibly lucky I was to have come across him. Unthinkingly, I flash him an affectionate smile, which could possibly confirm any suspicions my compatriot may have.

Herb Kramer takes my form and scribbles down some notes. Tom gives him a couple of photographs. The vice-consul promises he will do all in his power to speed up the inquiries.

He escorts us to the entrance (Mrs Bradley waves cheerily from a far corner and mouths the words “Good luck!”) and we leave the building in a fairly optimistic frame of mind.

We need all the optimism we can get. There's another day of visiting hotels ahead of us.

8

We'd had a date for the following Sunday.

This time it's Matt who has to change the plan. He phones on Saturday. I run into the kitchen without taking off my wellies. They're caked in mud. Already I can see wet lumps strewn across the tiles.

“Rosalind, I really am sorry. What about next Tuesday?”

“Next Tuesday?”

“V-E Day.”

“Are you sure, Matt? I listened to the lunchtime news. They claimed it was still only rumour.”

“Oh, Miss Farr,” he says.

“I see. Privileged information, Lootenant? A tip-off from Uncle Sam?”

“A tip-off from Donald Duck. And Donald Duck tells me you'll get Wednesday off as well.” Yes, the wireless had certainly spoken about two days' national holiday, just hadn't been able to say when. “He also wants you to know Walt and I will be driving down to London to be right in the thick of it—and looking for two brave girls who might be interested in joining us.”

“Well, I admit, I've always had a very soft spot for Donald Duck.”

“Must be reciprocal,” he says. “He's got you some nylons—no more cold legs in jeeps!” (And no more aggravation, either, with the tan cream and the eyebrow pencil!) Matt adds that if he puts them in the mail tomorrow they ought to get to me on Monday. His thoughtfulness has to be exceptional.

Therefore it's hardly fair to take advantage. “I know this is going to sound stuffy. But you wouldn't consider, I suppose…? I mean, before we leave for London…?”

The wireless had also spoken about arrangements being made by the government for a morning thanksgiving service to be held in towns and villages across the country.

“I guess I know what's in your mind.”

“You do?”

“But I was thinking of after we'd gotten there, not before we left.”

And it's absurd: why should my eyes begin to water?

“Yet you're right,” he continues. “St Paul's will be too crowded—and maybe even a bit too grand? Besides, God knows what time we'd have to set out. So how about our old friend Mr Farlingham? After all, it's nearly a week since we said we'd look him up and I reckon by now he must be missing us.”

“Oh, bless you, Matt. I imagine you're aware you must be psychic?” The church at Polstead is nicer than the one nearer home, where the party from the farm is going. Trixie and I find St Leonard's a little too austere—even at Christmas or on Easter Sunday. “Just so long as you can square it with Walt,” I mention, smiling.

They get to us at half-past-eight. (And Donald Duck was right: V-E Day!—and the war in Europe most wonderfully and most beautifully brought to a glorious end!) They were supposed to be having a guided tour of the farm by daylight but after the violent storm of a few hours back the ground is far too muddy. Never mind, at least they can see the moat and the farmyard—which are the pretty-pretty bits—and say “Wow!” and “Gosh!” and “Gee!” in most satisfactory style.

Then we take them into the kitchen. Today there are about a dozen gathered there—still, at
this
hour!—mostly with braces dangling and collars attached only by a back stud; they're drinking strong tea, half-listening to the radio, not openly excited but companionable, content, smoking their Woodbines or the cigarettes they roll themselves. Werner sits there with the rest, in no way ostracized but understandably subdued. I make the introductions. Nods, handshakes, pleasantries (for the most part unintelligible—several times I have to translate). Matt goes to chat with Fred, while Walt helps Amy carry off her three hitherto protesting sons to get them smartened up. Then Trixie and I start packing into baskets the picnic things we'd been preparing when Matt and Walt arrived. We haven't told them yet and no doubt they both confidently expect (being men and being American) to march at any time into any restaurant and have their pick of whatever's printed on the menu; but with all the millions prophesied to be in London today, the reality will quite assuredly be different. We weren't Girl Guides for nothing.

We leave the farm at roughly nine-thirty. The children, with their scrubbed knees, grey flannel suits and shirts, school ties and caps—and patently smitten with hero worship—have begged to be allowed to come to Polstead. They climb onto our laps, mine and Matt's and Trixie's (“Though if you kick me and snag my nylons,” she says, “I'll bloody well use one of 'em to strangle you!”) and spend their journey first enjoying the novelty of the transport and after that the novelty of the decorations in the village. (The novelty of air-sea rescue work has finally—and mercifully—been permitted to subside.) Masses of bunting. Prams, cycles, cars all bear their flags…so why not ours, Matt and Walt get asked reproachfully. The three young Crawfords point pathetically to other children carrying flags. So what, says Trixie—other women wear rosettes. I try to cause a diversion by pointing to a Scottie trotting along beside its owner with a rosette at its neck and, strapped around its perky little body, a coat which also exactly matches hers.

The church is really crowded—how different to nine days ago! Yet Mr Farlingham is just as shuffling and unflustered. Before long he'll surely have to stand down for one of the younger men returning to civvy street, but today he has a helper, someone not much less decrepit than himself.

We learn from the printed sheet which we've all been given (or been asked to share) that the service is to follow a set line: Thanksgiving for Victory. Maybe most of us could have predicted the choice of psalm, ‘O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious', but possibly it has seldom been said
en masse
with so much sincerity. Mr Farlingham chooses a passage from another psalm for his text, ‘When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion', and after a shaky start his sermon, this time, by the grace of God, manages to rise to the occasion. The whole service is as uplifting as the church bells which are now being heard again throughout the land; I imagine we shall really appreciate the peal of bells from now on, and still feel grateful that never once in all the long years of silence (silence, except for that one November Sunday when we celebrated Monty's victory at El Alamein) did they need to warn us of invasion!