Sarah Morris Remembers
Page 32
“You said he fell over some barbed wire.”
“Oh yes, he gave his ankle a wrench; it wasn’t serious. As a matter of fact the most interesting thing about our walk from Hamburg was some notes I made about German airfields and munition dumps. I thought a few notes might be useful later – and they were. We had very few adventures and no hair-raising escapes,” added Charles with a smile.
I didn’t really believe this but I let it pass.
“The only difficulties arose when we reached our objective,” continued Charles. “I wasn’t surprised – I’d been wondering how I’d be received by the British authorities – but Bob was furious when I wasn’t welcomed with open arms.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was natural that they should be doubtful about me; I could easily have been a spy! If Bob hadn’t made a fuss about it I might have been interned in Britain until the end of the war. Fortunately for me Colonel Robert Loudon is a distinguished officer, so he was able to vouch for me, and he gave them rather a highly coloured account of our escape which helped considerably. They didn’t take any chances of course – why should they? – I was carefully screened and all my statements verified before they decided that I was all that I claimed to be.
“Then Bob and I were flown to London and interviewed at the War Office. We were able to give them some information about conditions in Germany, which they said would be useful, and they were interested in my notes. I raised the matter of my application for naturalisation – I told you about that, didn’t I? – and they promised they would put it through as soon as possible. I was told – unofficially – that they would be glad of my services at a base camp; they’re short of interpreters to interview the thousands of German prisoners who have been captured. Well, that’s about all,” said Charles. “After that Bob got leave and went home and I went to Fairfield. You know the rest of the story.”
Yes, I knew the rest of the story. “What a frightful time you’ve had, Charles!”
“It was pretty grim, but it’s over now and I don’t want to think about it any more.”
“You’ll have to tell grandpapa something about it.”
“Oh, I shall,” he agreed. “I just wanted to tell you first. There are several things I can’t tell him; about Anya, for instance.”
“Of course! Have you heard anything about your family?”
“No, and I’m not likely to hear anything until after the war.”
“But you won’t ever go back, will you?” I asked anxiously; it was a nightmare to me that some day he might want to go back.
“No, never,” replied Charles firmly.
For a few moments we walked on in silence. Then he said, “As I told you, I’ve promised to take on the job of interviewing German prisoners, which probably means that I shall be sent to a base camp somewhere in France. I shan’t be free until the war is over, but after that——”
“I shan’t be free either,” I told him.
“What do you mean?” he asked anxiously.
“Well, for one thing, I shall have to stay with Father and Willy; they couldn’t manage without me. After the war Father will be able to get another living, and I don’t suppose it will be difficult to find a good housekeeper for him. For another thing, I can’t leave my job at Barrington’s all of a sudden. In fact I practically promised Duncan Barrington that I would stay until after the war.”
“Who is Duncan Barrington?”
I smiled and replied, “The manager of Barrington’s – and a very good friend.”
“Oh,” said Charles, looking at me doubtfully. He was silent for a few moments and then added, “I’ve told you all my adventures and of course I want to hear what you’ve been doing, Sarah.”
“Keeping house for Father and Willy, helping in an air-raid shelter and working at Barrington’s from eleven to six every day. I’ll tell you all the details some time – but not now. Let’s enjoy ourselves this morning and talk about what we’re going to do when the war is over and we’re both free.”
“All I want is to settle down here, in Britain, for the rest of my life.”
This was good news. “Where?” I asked. “I mean where would you like to live? Would you like a flat in London, or a little house in Oxford or——”
“Goodness, no! I’m a countryman.”
“Well, where?”
“I wouldn’t mind living here,” replied Charles.
We had reached the top of Grey Ghyll and had paused there for a few moments. We could see for miles over the rounded rolling hills of the Border Country; they were tawny hills, covered with orange-coloured grass and withered heather, but the tops were still capped with a sprinkling of snow which sparkled in the sunshine.
“Here?” I echoed in astonishment . . . for to me Craignethan was a “holiday place”; it had never crossed my mind that we could settle down and live at Craignethan.
“It’s wild and free!” exclaimed Charles, standing upon the hill-top and stretching out his arms in the gesture I knew so well. He added earnestly, “Sarah, you can’t understand – nobody who hasn’t been imprisoned for years can understand the blessedness of freedom or appreciate the joy of walking for miles over moors and hills!”
“Yes, but Charles——”
“Of course I don’t mean we should park ourselves on Colonel and Mrs. Maitland, that would be out of the question, but perhaps the Colonel might like to sell us a piece of ground and we could build ourselves a cottage. Your ‘grans’ would like to have you near them, wouldn’t they?”
“Oh yes! But, Charles——”
“And we should be near the Loudons. Bob is one of the best fellows in the world; I know you’d like him.”
“Yes, I’m sure I’d like him, but——”
“But what?” asked Charles. “You keep on saying ‘but.’”
“It’s the weather, that’s all. The weather isn’t always like this.”
“Who cares!” he cried. “I’d like to see a storm here – all these tawny hills covered in snow! I’d like to see them swathed in mist! I’d like to hear the wild west wind howling in the chimneys.”
“You will if you live here,” I told him.
“Don’t you want to live here, Sarah?”
“There’s nothing I’d like better . . . if you’d be happy.”
“I shall be happy,” said Charles. “I shall have you – and books – and music – and the freedom of the hills. I shall be content with a quiet peaceful life; I’ve had more than my fill of adventures.”
“Perhaps you could finish your book?” I suggested.
“My book?” asked Charles in surprise. “Oh, my book about Oxford! I’d forgotten all about it!” He laughed and added, “It will be many a long day before people in Austria or Germany will want to read a book about Oxford. No, Sarah, my book is a back number; it belongs to the past. Let’s think about the future and all the things we’re going to do together when the war is over.”
I took his arm and we walked on slowly, making plans for buying a piece of land and building ourselves a cottage: I wanted a labour-saving kitchen and lots of roomy cupboards; Charles wanted a piano, shelves for books and a lavender hedge under the sitting-room window.
Presently we came to the old Drove Road and turned homewards to Craignethan . . . and now, by one accord, we hastened our steps: we were eager to see the grans and talk to them about our plans for the future.
*
Moffat,
Dumfriesshire,
August 1966.
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