At last she raised her head. “Coffee?” she asked.
“Sure.” I followed her into the kitchen.
She said not a word until she had completed the ritual. When the coffee had been measured into the French press pot, the boiling water had been poured in, and sugar and cream and mugs and spoons were on the table, she sat down opposite me and began to talk. Being Jane, she began in the middle.
“Bill was a stranger in some ways. We’d been apart too long. Happened twice. Once when he was in the war and the prison camp. Seeing him when he came home was a shock, because nobody knew he was alive. Missing in action, he’d been listed. And he was odd. Didn’t want to talk about the war. That wasn’t unexpected. War had been hell for him. A few weeks of training and action, then years of pain and starvation and—well, as I said, he didn’t talk much. But he was—different. Quiet, all the time, about everything. A sorrowful man, not the happy boy I’d known years before. Thought it must be what he’d been through, but it wasn’t easy. In a way, almost a relief when he moved away.”
“But then he came back,” I said. “After a lot more years. I suppose that must have been a shock, too.”
Jane pushed down the plunger of the pot and poured us each a cup of steaming, fragrant coffee. “Not as bad as the first time,” she went on. “Both of us older, calmed down. Didn’t expect anything much of each other, only companionship. Couldn’t pick up where we left off. Too much water under the bridge. Not the same people. He was happier than in the bad time. Limped, of course. Never had proper care for his broken leg. In pain a lot of the time. But—content. Settled.”
She took a deep breath. “Until the last few weeks. He shut up again. Closed me out. Knew something was troubling him, but he wouldn’t talk. Thought it might have to do with the museum, so asked him what he was working on, if something interesting had come in.”
“What did he say?” I asked eagerly.
“Wouldn’t say. Said routine sorting work, nothing special. Got cross about it, so I left it alone. He relaxed a bit then, said we should go ahead and marry quietly, live in my house—you know about that.
“Then he disappeared, and you started in about the war. I remembered how he’d been when he came home, and I—wondered. Knew much of the collection at the museum had to do with the war. Didn’t know what it was about, and—ashamed to say it—didn’t want to know.”
I took a deep breath. “You’re afraid we’ll find out something to Bill’s discredit.”
“Don’t know what I’m afraid of. Stupid. Not like me.”
I sipped my coffee. I had to think carefully about what to say. “I think right now,” I said slowly, “maybe you’re just afraid that something else terrible will happen. The psychologists call it ‘undifferentiated anxiety,’ I think. A feeling that the sky’s been falling in big chunks and is likely to keep on falling.”
I watched her face. She didn’t look skeptical, so I went on. “The thing is, from what you’ve told me about Bill, I wouldn’t have said he was likely to be mixed up—recently or long ago—in anything shady. I sort of figured he was a pretty upright sort of guy, or you wouldn’t have been attracted to him.”
She nodded. “No plaster saint, but a steady, reliable sort.”
“Right. So we’re unlikely to find out anything awful about him. But what if we do? Wouldn’t it be better, in the long run, to know? You said yourself you felt a little better knowing what had happened to Bill. Isn’t this the same? Because if we don’t ever learn what’s been happening, you’ll always wonder, and you’ll always be uncomfortable with his memory. And I don’t know about you, but that’s sure not the way I want things to be.”
After a long pause, she looked me straight in the eye. “Very well. Fire when ready, Gridley”
I laughed, perhaps a trifle hysterically. It had been a long time since I’d seen a spark of humor in Jane. “Where’d you learn that one? That was Admiral Dewey, as I recall.”
“English are taught history. Unlike some nationalities.”
“Ouch! You got me, pal. All right. I’d like to go on talking to the people who knew Bill during the war. What about that pilot, Wing Commander What’s-His-Name? Is he still around?”
“Merrifield. Still alive, last I knew. Lives at Heatherwood House, but doesn’t get about easily. Even older than Stanley, nearly ninety. Don’t know how much help he’ll be.”
“Stanley didn’t like him much, did he?”
Jane made a sound that could almost have been a chuckle. “Stanley didn’t like officers. Except Bill. Even with him, some resentment. Younger chap, green, with a commission just because he could fly.”
“What do you think of Merrifield?”
“Haven’t seen him for years, or not to talk to. Bill used to mention him now and again, said he almost never left his room. Pleasant, or used to be, a gentleman. RAF was his career, not just for the war. Retired as an air commodore; Stanley told you that. Probably a better flier than Stanley says.”
“Okay, I’d like to see him if it’s possible. Do you want to call Heatherwood House to check, or shall I?”
“Know the number,” Jane said quietly, and picked up the phone.
Yes, Air Commodore Merrifield was certainly still alive and in quite good health for his age, Jane reported. He rested for a time after lunch every day, but would be up for his walk around three and would welcome visitors. “‘A remarkable gentleman,’” Jane quoted, imitating the condescending tones of the nurse.
“Yes, well, let’s hope he really is. At ninety he has a lot of experience to draw on, and he could be some help to us if his memory is still any good.”
“Apt to be, that far back,” Jane said. “Recent events first to go.”
“Don’t I know it! I can’t remember where I put my glasses two minutes ago, but ask me about my college days and I can go on for as long as Stanley Rutherford.”
Jane actually laughed, and then she sobered. “Dorothy,” she said, looking at her hands. “Sorry about—didn’t want to talk for fear—behaved badly—”
“Don’t give it another thought. You’ve been under stress. Now, you are going to drive me out to Heatherwood House, aren’t you? Because there’s that roundabout between here and there, and I still can’t negotiate it with my eyes open.”
Heatherwood House is a very lovely old house on the outskirts of Sherebury. Built in the early 1700s by a family named Delacourt, it’s made of red brick accented by stone that was probably once white but has now mellowed to the color of sun-washed sand. The Delacourts, originally wealthy wool merchants, somehow found the money to keep on living there until they died out in 1980 or so. At that point the heir, a cousin far removed in both relationship and distance, put the place on the market, and it was bought by a firm that was just beginning to establish nursing homes in southeastern England. Jane once told me how much had been spent in repairs and remodeling, but the figure was too fantastic to lodge in my brain.
At any rate, they’d made a success of the place. From the outside, except for a discreet wheelchair ramp up to a side door, the house looked exactly as it must have when it was a family home. The gardens had been simplified for easier maintenance, Jane said, but they were still peaceful and beautiful. On a summer day residents could be seen dotted around the grounds in wheelchairs or comfortable lawn chairs. This afternoon, though the sun still shone, the air was chill. An evergreen wreath hung on the massive front door, and electric “candles” shone in each of the front windows, but no human being was in sight as we rolled up the drive and parked in the “Visitor” area.
A reception desk in the magnificent front hall was the first sign that this was no longer a manor house. A pleasant young woman, after asking our names, told us Air Commodore Merrifield was waiting for us in the sun porch, and pointed. “It’s just down that corridor. Oh, and he never uses his rank. He’s been retired for a long time, and he prefers to be called Mr. Merrifield. Now, shall I show you the way?”
“Know where it i
s,” said Jane a trifle brusquely. Now that I was back on her wavelength, I thought I could hear the suppressed tears in her voice. The last time she’d visited here, it had undoubtedly been to see Bill. The holly and ivy festooned about the hall, the lighted Christmas tree in the corner would simply serve to deepen her sadness.
“You won’t stay too long, will you, or let him walk too far? This is a good day for him, so he may overestimate his stamina. And then, you know, he sees very few people besides his son, and conversation with anyone else takes its toll.”
We promised not to exhaust Mr. Merrifield and started down the hall to the back of the house.
The sun porch had obviously been converted from a conservatory in the old house. On a windy, cloudy day it was probably drafty and miserable, with all its windows, but today it was almost too warm. Merrifield, seated on an upright chair near the door, rose somewhat stiffly, with the aid of a cane, and greeted Jane warmly.
“My dear! It’s been far too long. You are a welcome sight, indeed. And how is it that you have not changed at all, while I have become an old man?”
“Flatterer,” said Jane gruffly, a smile trying to work its way out. “Want you to meet my friend Dorothy Martin.”
He extended a courtly hand. “John Merrifield. I’m delighted to meet you. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
His voice was warm and strong, his handshake firm. He was a handsome man still, high cheekbones accenting a thin, aristocratic sort of face. David Niven with snow-white hair. Doubtless he had once been a commanding figure. Now his aging body was thin and frail, but I could feel the strength of his character. “I hope the reports of me haven’t been too lurid,” I said, smiling.
“No, no, quite complimentary. You look exactly as I would have expected.” He smiled at my hat. “I must say, though, you don’t sound like a Hoosier.”
I smiled a little at his pronunciation of the Indiana nickname, something like “Who’s your?”
“No, I’ve lived in England long enough to take the edge off,” I said, and found a chair. The three of us, and the inevitable Christmas tree, were not the only occupants of the room, but the two old ladies over by the windows were dozing. I thought we could carry on a reasonably private conversation there, and anyway there was nothing confidential about the questions I wanted to ask. I was mostly looking for Bill’s background, more details to light his shadowy past.
I wasn’t sure how to begin, so I was relieved when Jane spoke first. “Wanted to talk about Bill. What you remember about him. What happened in the war.”
Merrifield nodded, a look of compassion on his face. “I was so sorry for your loss. I seldom saw Bill of latter years, even when he moved to Heatherwood House. I seldom see anyone except nurses, indeed, and my son, of course. They will have told you I’ve become quite a hermit. I am not suited to the communal life, I fear. After my retirement, my dear wife and I gloried in the privacy one could never achieve in the Air Force. However, I do of course hear the news that circulates, and I was stunned to hear of Bill’s death. I thought he was in excellent health.”
Jane simply nodded.
Merrifield looked around the room. The two old ladies were still slumbering peacefully, but the old man shook his head. “I was about to go for a little walk. I walk every afternoon, rain or shine. One must keep moving, I find, or the joints cease operating altogether. If you’d care to accompany me, we could talk privately.”
My pulse quickened a little. If he desired privacy, did it mean that he had something to tell us that was off the record?
FOURTEEN
A DOOR LED FROM THE SUN PORCH STRAIGHT OUT INTO THE grounds. There was a graveled path leading to a rose garden, now sere of leaf and barren of flower, but beautifully tidy. I wondered in passing how much it cost to live at Heatherwood House. They obviously had a complete and hardworking staff, and that doesn’t come cheap.
“You’ve asked about Bill’s war experiences,” Merrifield began. “I’m afraid I knew him for only a few months. He joined up early in 1943, April if I recall correctly—”
“March,” said Jane.
“Ah, yes, you would remember better than I, of course. He had just turned eighteen, I believe.”
Jane nodded.
“He was assigned to my squadron. We flew out of Luftwich Airfield, not far from Great Yarmouth in Norfolk. You’ll remember that, I expect” He looked at Jane, who nodded again.
“The field is long gone now, of course. It was all a long time ago. A long time ago.” He was silent for a moment, then resumed his narrative tone. “Bill was very young, but boys grew up fast back then. They had to. So many of them died or were wounded before they ever saw their twenty-first birthday.” He sighed. “At any rate, I was dubious when Bill was assigned to my wing, but I soon learned that he was an excellent flyer, and reliable, as well.” He hesitated for a moment. “There were some young officers commissioned at that time who—well, shall we say they never seemed quite to understand the responsibilities of an officer. Bill was quite different. Although his background was perhaps somewhat lacking in polish, he learned quickly, not only the technical aspects of what we were doing, but the social niceties as well.”
I stole a glance at Jane behind Merrifield’s back, wondering how she was reacting to his comments about Bill’s working-class origins. I’m often uncomfortable about England’s class structure, which I find a good deal more rigid than what I was used to in America. Apparently, though, Jane was unperturbed. Well, she’d lived with it all her life, after all.
“So he got along well with the other officers?” I asked.
“And with the men as well. He was quite popular in the mess, though he was a quiet chap. Not at all hail-fellow-well-met, but friendly, and with a sense of humor. He had a tendency to fraternize with the lower ranks a bit too much; I had to call him down a time or two about that. It wouldn’t do, you know An officer must be respected. I suppose you find that undemocratic?” he added to me, smiling.
The man was perceptive, wasn’t he? “A little, perhaps, but I do understand. When an officer gives orders, they have to be obeyed without question. Especially in wartime.”
“Precisely. Well, as I say, Bill was with me for only a few months, but he was a valued member of the wing. I was extremely sorry to lose him—especially because, of course, I thought he had probably been killed.”
“Can you tell me what happened, exactly? When the plane went down, I mean.”
Merrifield smiled a little. “No, I can’t, exactly. I’ve never been sure myself. I don’t imagine you can picture what it was like. We had completed our mission, quite successfully. It was a bombing raid on Berlin, did you know?”
“I know a little about it,” I said. “One of Bill’s buddies told us the bare details.”
“That will have been Rutherford, I expect. How he did hate me, to be sure! His account may have been a trifle skewed, and of course, he wasn’t there.
“You realize there were hundreds of planes involved in the operation, many from Luftwich. You have never, probably, been involved in any kind of military operation, but believe me, the level of noise and confusion is like nothing any civilian can conceive. Apart from anything else, the smoke from the bombs and, I’m afraid, from a good many planes that had been hit made it impossible to see anything clearly. It was a night raid—we did most of our bombing at night—and I had to rely quite heavily on my instruments to have any idea of where I was.
“You probably know that the planes were extremely primitive compared to anything we have now. The instruments were limited in number and not terribly sophisticated. We flew by sight whenever we could, relying on landmarks to find our way. That was impossible on that particular night. Once we had dropped our bombs I wanted, of course, to get out of there as fast as I could. The Luftwaffe was out in force, naturally, and there was heavy antiaircraft fire from the ground as well. I put the plane on a compass heading for home, but flying by compass alone can be disastrous, because it doesn’t
account for wind drift. The wind that night was from the north. I had no desire to find myself pushed southward over France, so I was flying as low as I dared, and just above stall speed, in the hopes of spotting something that would give me my bearings. Of course that kept us below radar range, as well, so it was quite standard procedure.
“Unfortunately, exactly what I had feared was what happened. It was nearly dawn before there was enough light to see anything, and then what I saw was the coast of the Channel—but the wrong coast. I was far off my course, over France, at about Boulogne, I reckoned. I was just making the turn straight north to make for home when all hell let loose. A burst of antiaircraft fire caught us, and the plane caught fire at once.”
A pair of stone benches stood by the path. Merrifield paused. “I’m feeling a little tired. Would you mind if we sit for a little, or will you be too cold?”
“No, of course not,” I said with some dismay, “but should we turn back? They told us—I mean, I don’t want to wear you out.”
“They told you I tire easily, I suppose. It’s true, I do. Only to be expected at the incredible age I’ve achieved. What they don’t realize is that a little rest refreshes me quite thoroughly. So if you really don’t object …” and he lowered himself gingerly to the cold bench.
Jane and I sat on the other. It was freezing. The sun had lost all its warmth and most of its light by now.
“So the plane was on fire,” Jane prompted.
“Yes. If hell is meant for punishment, I shall never have to see it in the next world, for I already have done in this. I won’t attempt to describe it. I haven’t the words, and if I had, they would distress you immeasurably. I could do nothing to save the plane or my crew. I was scarcely able to think at all. The plane was falling to pieces around me, but I managed somehow to get out and inflate my parachute. I hoped the rest of the crew had done the same.
“You probably know the rest. Bill will have told you, or you have Rutherford’s version. I was extremely lucky. I passed out shortly after I landed—I’d been rather badly burned and was in a good deal of pain—but when I woke, I was in a barn, tucked up very nicely in the haymow I’d been fortunate enough to come down on a farm owned by a member of the Resistance. He was an old man, or so I thought then. Perhaps sixty or so. Seems a mere stripling now At any rate, he was kindness itself. My French isn’t bad, so we had no trouble communicating. He dressed my burns, checked me over, and hustled me out of that conspicuous barn to a rather nasty little hole under one of the sheds. The Germans were all over the place almost at once, of course. They’d seen the plane come down and wanted to make quite sure that the crew were all dead. I lay there in my hole trying not to breathe; they came very close to me, but they never knew I was there. I don’t speak German, so I didn’t know what they were saying, and I doubt the farmer understood much either. At least he pretended he didn’t. He played up beautifully, the stupid peasant to the life. Jean Leclerc, his name was. I’ve never forgotten him. I owe him my life.
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