Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart (7 page)

On our leaving the church Mr Farlingham doesn't at first appear to recognize us. “Professor Taylor,” Matt reminds him, with a grin. “New Haven, Connecticut.”

“Why, yes, of course,” says the old man. “My nice young couple from some weeks ago!” And to me: “I think you said that you were Meg. God bless you, my children. God bless you. And a very happy peace!”

“The same to you, Mr Farlingham.”

There are tears in his eyes. He calls after us: “And to your father and the family! Oh, if only your fine president had been alive to see this day!”

We don't immediately return to the jeep. Matt wants to find a shop where he can still buy flags. I tell him he doesn't stand a chance. But marvellously, ten minutes later, he's earned the right to shake his head at me indulgently: “O ye of little faith!” The children are ecstatic; our stockings run an even greater risk. The jeep itself now sports a flag as well.

And Trix and I now wear rosettes.

We drive the young Crawfords back to the farm. One of them (Matt's, thank heaven!) is complaining, sulking. In a way I feel tempted to plead his cause—
their
cause—but I can see that it's impractical and know it's not for me to be magnanimous. “We'll bring you back a souvenir! Something nice for each of you.” Yet, even there, the instant I've said it, I'm aware that I've been rash.

But then, after we've waved goodbye (poor Dick refuses to respond), phase two of this auspicious day begins.

It's inaugurated by Walt, who's still the driver. “Right! London! Here we come!”

And he makes excellent time, despite a last-minute mistake which puts us on the wrong side of Oxford Circus and loses us some quarter of an hour. By ten-past-two, however, we're back precisely where we wanted to be and driving around Trafalgar Square (“But are you sure this can be London, folks? There isn't any fog!”). I haven't seen so much traffic in years, certainly not since the coronation. Where on earth have people found the petrol? But, anyway, we're lucky with the parking: Northumberland Avenue, near the river. We walk along the Embankment to Westminster and mingle with the crowds streaming in across the bridge, all making for the Ministry of Works. Whitehall's packed but not impenetrable and thanks to the size of Matt and Walt—their shamelessness as well (but they defend themselves by saying that they were only doing it for our sakes!)—we end up in a very good position.

Hardly have we reached it, moreover, before Big Ben strikes. Three o'clock. All eyes are looking at the balcony. Mr Churchill must now be on his way.

And then he's there, that rotund, well-loved figure in the dark suit and bow tie, watch-chain stretched across the waistcoat, white handkerchief showing at his breast pocket. A tumultuous cheer bursts out.

Yet this is soon replaced by a silence almost more amazing.

It now becomes official: the Channel Islands have been liberated—Norway, too—and hostilities will end at one minute past midnight.

Tears mix with laughter. The name of Eisenhower and mention of ‘our Russian comrades' provoke a further storm of clapping.

“Advance, Britannia! Long live the cause of freedom! God save the King!”

The buglers of the Scots Guards sound the ceremonial cease-fire. The band strikes up the National Anthem.

Eventually, Mr Churchill is permitted to depart.

And next stop the palace. Again the four of us do well. The central balcony is hung with gold and scarlet. At about a quarter-past-four there's a frenzy of cheering as the King himself walks onto it.

He's in naval dress but bareheaded. He stands alone for a few seconds, waving to us with his nice yet serious smile, and then the Queen comes out. She's wearing powder blue. She raises her hand and joins him in acknowledging the roar of cheers. “Jesus but she's swell,” exclaims Walt.

The two princesses make their appearance. Princess Elizabeth in her A.T.S. uniform—also bareheaded—stands at the side of the Queen, while Princess Margaret, in blue, stands next to her father.

People wave their flags and hats and scarves like crazy. When the royal party returns inside, the crowd sings, “For they are jolly good fellows,” and although many hundreds leave the forefront of the palace, most of us remain; scarcely another five minutes have gone before voices are shouting “We want the King!” and this refrain is taken up in every quarter. It's interspersed with another chant. “We want Winston! W-I-N-S-T-O-N!” While we wait an Australian soldier climbs the gates of the palace, waves his flag like a baton and leads us in community singing.

Roughly an hour later Mr Churchill does indeed join the royal family on the balcony—following his arrival in an open car, when, to a rapturous reception, he stood and waved his hat, and mounted policemen had the heck of a job clearing him a pathway. Now he stands between the King and Queen and flourishes his cigar in greeting to us all. Being last to leave the balcony he gets a special round of cheering and applause.

When we do at length tear ourselves away we go back to the jeep and eat our picnic. Afterwards, in Piccadilly Circus, we see a British sailor, a GI and a Pole perform a striptease; they get plenty of encouragement. (Trixie exhorts Walt and Matt to join in and is almost set to have a go herself.) An American paratrooper whose face is covered in lipstick is asking all the women in his path to add to his collection. From Trixie he gets perhaps more than he had bargained for, a real smacker on the lips, and from me a laughing peck upon the cheek.

“Here!” says Matt. “These damn Yanks! What nerve! It's time I got in on this!”

I brush my lips against his cheek in similar friendly fashion. He looks at me…and then returns this gesture with a close embrace and proper kiss.

I'm aware of his erection.

Aware, as well, of my own arousal.

Disorientating.

The next few hours pass in a blur. I know that Walt and Trixie decide to leave us. I know that at some point we find ourselves in the blessed serenity of Westminster Abbey, where people's heads are bowed in thanksgiving and where the pilgrimage to the tomb of the Unknown Warrior appears unending. I know that at some point we're standing beside the lake in St James's Park. I feel quite sorry when it's time to hear the King's speech.

We infiltrate a small hotel near Piccadilly, with probably a hundred others, to listen on the radio.

We've arranged to meet Walt and Trixie outside Rainbow Corner, in Coventry Street, where, two or three years back, the American Red Cross set up a club for GIs. Pushing our way through, we find all faces turned towards a lamppost outside the London Pavilion as an RAF officer and a red-bereted airborne officer compete to climb to the top with a Union Jack.

Ten minutes later the Stars and Stripes is fastened next to it—and then the Russian flag as well: the three Great Powers fluttering side by side.

Even women are trying to climb the lampposts. A bit further on, a girl in a red coat earns the crowd's approval. I can imagine the swirl of colour from up there: the carnival caps, the uniforms, the women in their prettiest frocks. The sashes of bunting. The flowers and ribbons of red and white and blue, pinned either in the hair or on the clothing. Viewed from the lamppost it must be wonderfully impressive.

Tonight nothing is unsuitable. Evening garments saved from prewar days, full skirts, hobble skirts, backless dresses, long-sleeved day dresses; strangely you don't see many pairs of slacks.

We get to Rainbow Corner.

“Isn't this great!” Walt greets us. “Who said the British never let their hair down!”

“I don't know,” I reply, a little drily. “Tell us. Who did?”

“But listen, kids, we've managed to get two hotel rooms in some little place called Bayswater.”

People are trying to get enough stuff together to start a bonfire in the middle of the street; there's even a hawker's barrow to which a strip of card is still attached (‘Flags of all the Allies'). “Some bloody profiteer trying to charge five quid for a single Union Jack!” self-justifies the swaggerer who's commandeered and overturned it. There's much aggressive laughter. I say to Matt: “I thought that we were driving back tonight.”

“Me, too. Walt? What is all this?”

“Don't be a schmuck. Me and Trix managed to pull a few strings.” They look at each other proudly. “In fact, we just about had to move heaven and earth—didn't we, babe? 'Cause who in their right mind wants to be driving back to camp through half the friggin' night? Matt, you sap! This is Victory-in-Europe Day! Hasn't anybody told you?”

Trixie grips my arm, imploringly. “Come on, Roz. Don't be a spoilsport. You know how much you like the lad.”

She adds in a whisper, “And you needn't worry. We've even been and got some of those…well, thingamabobs. So everything's been taken care of.”

Oh, Trix. You'll maybe never guess how
much
I do like the lad. Nor how sorely tempted I could feel.

But it wouldn't be right; I know it wouldn't be right. And I don't mean just because of Marjorie or because of morals. It's all much vaguer than that. More the thought of some seedy jumped-up boarding house in Bayswater, its every nook and cranny let out to servicemen and their girls at hugely inflated prices, and of some oily little clerk peering with a knowing smirk at what we've written in the register.

I look at the pavement, see that somebody's been sick. Transfer my gaze to the upturned barrow in the middle of the road, where things seem to be growing increasingly unpleasant.

“No,” Matt says quickly. “You two take the jeep. I guess it won't be any problem getting rid of that second room.” He suggests we all meet up again at noon the following day.

I slip my hand into his—and squeeze—and hope this pressure will tell him my reaction was in no way a rejection of Matt Cassidy, only of Bayswater. But, after all, I remind myself: isn't he the Great Clairvoyant? The Amazing Mr Mind-Reader? Surely he already knows.

“Then what are you gonna do?” asks Walt. “Wander round the streets all night?”

“Why not? There'll be more than enough going on. It's all part of history and we don't mean to let a single moment of it pass us by.”

“That's right,” I say. “And even if we do change our minds I know my mother would be glad to put us up.” I plan to ring her, anyway, as soon as I get the chance—simply to say, Hello, isn't this great, just listen to London. “Chesham's only some twenty-five miles away.”

Matthew grins. “In other words we could take the jeep and these two can walk or thumb a lift.”

I agree, cheerfully. “Plenty of trams around! Pity about the taxis.”

Trixie looks at Walt and gives a tolerant shrug. “The pair of them are loony but so far as I'm concerned they're more than welcome to the jeep—eh, sweetheart? In any case,
we
won't be walking. We'll be flying, more like!”

9

Thursday. I spend an aimless day on my own. Am unable to concentrate on books or newspapers or television. Go for a walk on Hampstead Heath and do a small amount of marketing, even a bit of vacuuming. Can't stop worrying about my future. Or my past.

I now look back almost with fondness on our hours of trekking round hotels.

Cooking the evening meal is the only thing that affords me any true escape. All that cutting meat and bacon into cubes, peeling shallots, slicing mushrooms and onions, foraging for garlic and bay leaves and thyme, searing and browning and sprinkling and stirring. Pouring in cider. The sauce is rich, the chuck steak tender. By halving the quantities, I've cooked enough—allegedly—for three. Tom and I dispose of it with ease. He even wipes some bread around his plate, then round the cooking pot. “Perhaps,” he says, “we shouldn't have gone to reception to ask about missing guests. We should have marched right into the kitchens to ask about missing chefs.”

“It would certainly have gotten us as far.”

He tells me he's employed a firm to phone the bed-and-breakfasts.

“I've also been faxing off copies of that snapshot to various contacts round the country.”

“Why?”

“To try to identify the church. With a magnifying glass one can make out a fair amount of detail. I spent an hour at the Royal Institute of British Architecture. Hoped that Pevsner or some other authority might come up with the answer.”

“I don't see that it's important. She was only a day-tripper.”

“Any pudding?” he asks.

“Cheesecake.” I start to clear the dishes and Tom gets up to help. “No,” I say, “
I'll
do it!” My tone sounds testy.

“Why just you?”

“Earn my keep.”

“Balls.” He continues to help. He says after a minute, “No, I agree with you. About the photo. It does have an air of holiday. But at the moment it's the only thing we've got.”

He hesitates.

“And if we locate that church it will at least give us an area to home in on. Maybe we could even publish the picture in the local press.”

“In the hope that our doing so will produce my father's name?”

“It could do.”

“I'd have thought he'd have produced it himself—if he was missing me.”

Tom bites his lip. Doesn't answer.

“Oh, sure. Not that anyone does appear to be missing me.” There hasn't been any word from Herb Kramer. Nor from Sergeant Payne.

“No… Well, I'd say it now looks increasingly as though you came to London on your own.”

“No loving wife? No family?”

“Not here at all events.”

“Or anywhere, I guess. A married man doesn't vacation without his wife. And I was hardly dressed for business.”

“Perhaps you were taking the day off.”

“On a Monday?”

“Why not?”

“I can't continue to impose on you like this.”

“That's a dazzlingly logical progression!” He grins that grin of his—the one that had stopped me leaving his office within the first fifteen minutes.