Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart

by Stephen Benatar

He says it isn’t much, but as I feel that way and as it’s Sunday, oughtn’t I to be in church?

  “Well, it doesn’t follow; though I’d be happy to go, if you would.”

  “Yes,” he replies, slowly and rather unexpectedly. “Actually, I think I’d like it.”

  But since the morning service isn’t due to start for half an hour we wander around the green.

  Facing the green is the Cock, with its attractive inn sign.

  “Will it be open when the service ends?”

  “Straight out of church and into the pub—tch, tch, Lieutenant Cassidy! Do I approve?”

  “I think you’ve got the emphasis wrong, Miss Farr. What you mean is: oh, boy, do I approve! I saw you knocking back your Adnam’s the other night. And the word, my dear, is Lootenant.”

  I tell him he’s in England now: land of village greens and fine old pubs and men who answer to Leftenant. Land of Maria Marten and the Red Barn.

  He stares at me in some perplexity. Just as he was meant to.

  “Come. I shall lead you now down Marten Lane for the terrifying climax to this fleeting interlude of Grand Guignol. Not for the faint-hearted.”

  I take him by the hand. It seems so natural that I’m almost unaware of having done so. His own hand closes around mine; and from then on continues to hold it. Firmly.

  It needs only a few minutes to reach the thatched cottage where Maria Marten used to live. The red barn is there no longer, having been destroyed by fire.

  “Maria was a mole-catcher’s daughter,” I tell him, “William Corder a rich farmer’s son. One night he lured her to the barn with promises; and indeed wrote to her father announcing they were married—married and very happy. But Maria’s mother kept having dreams about the barn… Finally she persuaded her husband to go out and excavate. And then, of course, Maria’s body came to light. Are you bearing up manfully?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, it’s tough.”

  “Well, anyway, Corder was discovered near London, in a place called Brentford, where—thanks to an advertisement—he had found himself a rich wife. And guess what: they were running a seminary for young ladies! But in August 1828 he was hanged at Bury St Edmunds, in front of a crowd of ten thousand. The hangman sold the gallows rope at a guinea an inch and a book about the trial was bound in Corder’s skin, which the prison doctor had farsightedly removed for that very purpose. What do you have to say to that, Lootenant?”

  “Enterprising. Though I guess it was a fairly limited edition.”

  “Just one copy; still on display in Bury Museum. Like to go and see it?”

  “Any chance we’d be allowed to fondle it?”

  “Oh, don’t!”

  We begin to retrace our steps. But something impels me to stop again and look back at the cottage. “Actually we make light of it, we turn it into melodrama, we pull out all the stops. But this is a real person we’re talking about: silly perhaps but probably kindhearted and hopeful and trusting. Poor soul. At the end she must have felt terrified. We ought to say a prayer for her when we’re in church.”

  “Wouldn’t some interpret that as being a little late?” He smiles at me, then adds: “The idiots!”

  “That’s right. What idiots.”

  “After all,” he says, “how much do any of us really know about the complexities of time?”

  I regard him suspiciously. But his expression appears guileless.

  “And in any case,” he continues, “supposing that time is just linear. God himself is outside time—presumably, then, he’d have had knowledge, even on the night she died, of the prayer you’ll say this morning for Maria Marten. And so, if you believe in prayer, you must also believe it may have eased the pain for her, it may have helped her die less fearfully.”

  He pauses.

  “I’m saying all this as though you weren’t already perfectly aware of it. Forgive me.”

  “No, it’s good to hear it put in words.”

  So we make our intercessions for the murdered girl; and I throw in one for William Corder also, on the principle of judge not, lest ye be judged…

  The service, which began at eleven, is only sparsely attended. The church is Norman, primitive and simple. In the nave arcades, the arches are of brick; the clerestory also. Since the Normans are not supposed to have used brick, as we are later informed by the vicar, these are thought to be the earliest bricks made in England since Roman times; earlier than Coggeshall. The vicar is clearly proud of his church; he’s a gaunt old man with snowy white hair, a shuffling gait, a soft voice, and some difficulty in hearing. His sermon is gentle, not very inspiring. But at least the hymns are mostly ones I like and played in a comfortable key.

  At the end of the service he’s of course standing by the door and as there are so few for him to say goodbye to, Matt and I talk to him about the church and the weather and the redecoration of the church hall (we have been invited to it for a cup of coffee and a biscuit but have made excuses; I already know that neither Camp Coffee nor Bev is what Matt most appreciates about England—and, anyhow, by now the Cock will probably be open). But the vicar has just asked where Matt’s home is. And when at last the old man hears the answer he suddenly exclaims that some twenty-five years ago he himself spent time in New Haven, with a family called the Taylors, who lived in…he struggles to remember the name of the district, or the road, and Matt, equally pleased and almost equally frustrated, struggles to assist his recollection. Professor Taylor taught History at Dartmouth College…

  And then, by one of those wonderful coincidences, Matt knows exactly whom he means, because the college mentioned is his own Alma Mater. And although he didn’t study under Professor Taylor, he’s not only spoken to him on several occasions but once came close to dating his youngest daughter, Jo—Meg—Beth? He’s sure it’s something out of ‘Little Women’…

  “Meg! Yes! Yes, you’re right! Oh, just a baby at the time! Of all the most extraordinary things! Now, who would ever have believed…?”

  The two of them stand beaming at one another and I reflect that Matt may shortly change his mind about the coffee but he doesn’t and he’s right: after that initial explosion of excitement there’s disappointingly little to sustain it. The talk deteriorates into stilted references to the rivalries between Yale and its nearby competitors; to the fact that the Winchester repeating rifle (‘the gun that tamed the West!’) and Samuel Colt’s improved repeating revolver were both developed in New Haven. Could that say anything significant one wonders—ahem—about the law-abiding nature of the city’s inhabitants, or possible lack thereof? And remind me now: what is the name of the river on which the town is built? (The Quinnipiac, sir, which is what the city itself was once called.) Ah, yes, and it’s even more industrialized these days, I’m sure. And are your people—er—in industry? (Yes, sir. My family’s in the meatpacking trade.)

  I sympathize with Mr Farlingham. What kind of comment runs trippingly off the tongue regarding a family that works in the meatpacking trade?

  “Ah, yes. How interesting! Meatpacking, you say…?”

  There’s a pause.

  “Well, it’s been great meeting you, sir, and we certainly enjoyed the service. Daresay we’ll be here again before too long.”

  Pure courtesy, of course. Nothing but the most fundamental form of politeness; the Americans are famed for it.

  But, even so, my heart leaps up—rejoicing.

  5

  “Come on, Tex, watch the birdie. Say cheese.”

  “I might say any number of things but cheese wouldn’t be among them.”

  “All right, say up yours; yet at least try not to grimace while you’re doing it.”

  Tom pulls the film out and waits for the picture to materialize.

  “Okay, that’s fine,” he says. “Now let’s go in.”

  The police station is on Savile Row, near Piccadilly. Tom has a friend there, someone whom he got to know during his own time on the force. Sergeant Payne is powerfully built, gap-toothed, beady-e
yed. He’s certainly no beauty.

  “Jim, this is Tex.”

  “Ritter?” the sergeant asks, shaking my hand.

  “Who knows?” My own dryness matches his. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Still looks pretty good, though, doesn’t he,” says Tom, “for someone who’s been dead for roughly fifteen years?”

  Then he explains.

  “Too bad,” observes his buddy. “I was hoping for a chorus of that thing from High Noon. ‘Do not forsake me oh my darling.’ Might have enlivened a bleak Tuesday.”

  I can understand why the two of them are trying to keep the tone cheerful but I have a fleeting image of a female face, strained, heavy-eyed with fatigue, and again I’m shocked at the ease with which I’m able to forget the pain of others. (I now feel sure there must be others.) It makes no difference if the face belongs simply to the woman in the snapshot. For the time being, because that photo’s the only thing I have to go upon, at least she can stand proxy. A slightly misplaced symbol, maybe—the gaiety, the liveliness—but never mind.

  Do not forsake me oh my darling.

  The sergeant checks the computer for anybody of my description recently fed into it. We watch without speaking. I realize I’m drumming my fingers on the table by my chair.

  The computer gives us nothing.

  “Okay, then,” says the sergeant. “The card index at the Yard. I’ll phone and have them do a run-through.” He hesitates; it’s as though he’s apologizing in advance. “You see, Tex, missing persons only get priority if it’s known they may be ill or vulnerable in some way…people can go walkabout for weeks. Or months.” He shrugs and looks to Tom, wryly, for confirmation. “Years.”

  But I’m the one who answers.

  “Vulnerable? I suppose mere amnesia doesn’t count, then?”

  The sergeant says, “Yet who would know you’ve got it? Apart from us?”

  “I can’t remember.” This is intended to sound as bitter as some of my remarks earlier on, but they think I’m being funny—and reluctantly I also end up smiling. “Naturally you mean apart from us, a textiles company, a fashion school, a barbershop, a sandwich bar and the receptionist working late at the dental practice opposite.”

  “Opposite?”

  “Opposite Tom’s office.”

  Tom, once more, explains all this. “We were trying to discover what Tex was doing in Foley Street.”

  “A dentist, for God’s sake?” says the sergeant, as if a fashion school were quite to be expected.

  “We guessed he hadn’t just received treatment; but it could have been a checkup.”

  “Americans on holiday have checkups?”

  “How can we even feel certain Tex is on holiday? He might be working over here. And yes, before you say it, the embassy is most definitely one of our next ports of call.”

  “Oh, he’s incredibly thorough, your friend Tom.” For the second time I think I intend only irony, but there’s a trace of pride there too. “We even went into a pub, several shops, whatever offices were still open, a café, a Spanish restaurant…”

  “Okay! Okay! Stop!” The sergeant holds up his palms as if to ward off blows. “I’m convinced of it. Half of London knows you’ve got amnesia. But that still hasn’t got you onto the computer. Not yet, at any rate.”

  “And I don’t understand it. If I’ve left my jacket behind, along with my passport and all my money and traveller’s cheques, wouldn’t my wife, or my parents, or others on the same tour—I mean, if I am on vacation—wouldn’t someone have realized by now that something’s wrong?”

  But nothing can alter the fact I don’t appear on that damned computer.

  Nor in that damned card index at the Yard. (The sergeant’s call had been speedily returned.)

  He tips back in his seat. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for anything that comes in.”

  Tom produces the picture he took earlier…“in case you can’t get hold of us and—with any luck—are called on to put someone out of their suspense. We shan’t be at the office; a message at home will probably reach us faster.” He jots down details to do with nationality and appearance. “How are Bridget and the girls?”

  “Bridget will want to know when you’re next coming to supper.”

  The sergeant shakes my hand again.

  “Relax, Tex. Think how in time you’ll laugh at all of this and even see it had a purpose—that’s what my granny used to say.”

  It’s rather a sweet thought: great big Sergeant Payne learning at his wise old granny’s knee.

  On the sidewalk Tom takes more photos.

  “But why? You say that, anyway, all the hotels and boarding houses would get in touch with the police.”

  “True. Yet if you’re over here on your own it could take them time to realize you were missing. The chambermaid would see your bed hadn’t been slept in but might assume you’d spent the night in someone else’s or that you’d gone out of London for a while. Or the people she’d report it to would definitely assume that. And reception staff, of course, only work in shifts. So therefore…”

  “So therefore I can stop bellyaching about expenses? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Yep. You read me like a book. And each hotel will have to have a picture, so that the staff who come on later in the day…”

  I frown slightly but not at the price of photographs. “How many hotels?”

  “Oh, hundreds. Especially if your Rolex is misleading us and we need to lower our sights to the bed-and-breakfasts.”

  Despite his smile, ‘hundreds’ doesn’t prove that much of an exaggeration. During the next eight or nine hours, while concentrating solely on the larger and grander establishments, we hand out thirty photographs—together with thirty of Tom’s printed cards—and realize there are still innumerable places we haven’t been able to cover. (And the prospect of the bed-and-breakfasts is truly terrifying—even if, mostly, we may get away with just making phone calls.)

  “Tom, I don’t know how you can stand this sort of grind, day after day. The monotony, the disappointment.”

  “I don’t do it day after day. In any case it’s simple. That old thing about hoping for the best while only expecting the worst.”

  “Newman the philosopher,” I say. “Newman the philanthropist.”

  “You also learn to ignore the jibes.”

  “But clearly not how to recognize a compliment. A sincere compliment.”

  “Sincere, then, but half-witted. After we’ve eaten I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  “Right. Only thank God we are going to eat.”

  He nods. “I feel we’ve earned ourselves a good dinner. My treat, not yours. Are you exhausted?”

  We go to Rules in Maiden Lane. Steak and kidney pudding, homemade raspberry ice, Stilton cheese, undoing all the benefits of last night’s Lean Cuisine, if either of us was actually needing to lose weight.

  We drive back to Golders Green along Tottenham Court Road. Suddenly Tom makes a right turn and pulls up outside a hospital. University College. Accidents and Outpatients.

  “My God, he means it!”

  He smiles at my expression. “No, I know somebody who works here. Let’s see if he’s around.”

  He knows damned well that he’s around. Dr Ramtullah, who isn’t much older than me and who may be one of the gangliest creatures I’ve ever encountered, gives Tom a hug as though he would wrap his arms about him twice, and fills his small office like a loose-limbed spider with an Oxford accent.

  After he’s questioned me quite lengthily, he spends several minutes parting my hair with his fingers, running his hands across my neck, feeling my temples, forehead, nose, jaw. He looks inside my mouth; shines a torch into my eyes. He seems very conscientious but apparently discovers nothing. He returns to his chair.

  “So what’s the treatment?” inquires Tom.

  “Wonder-drugs, you mean? I’m afraid there’s no drug yet invented which can restore a lost memory.”
<
br />   “All right, no drug,” says Tom, “but what about hypnosis?”

  The doctor gives a shrug. “Personally I would recommend you to wait until the amnesiac state has resolved itself naturally.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, although a hypnotist may tell you that hypnosis can take care of anything, I and a lot of others are sceptical: we believe there are still areas that remain outside its province. Even if we’re wrong, it would undoubtedly take time, several sessions at the very least. My own feeling is that left to itself,” he inclines his head in my direction, “your memory will return within a week.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “And if it doesn’t…well, then by all means think about hypnosis; I should be happy to refer you. Yet be prepared for disappointment.”

  He adds: “In any case, I would still favour the more natural method. If you are subconsciously blocking out some memory which is painful, I should prefer that it come back at a speed you can cope with.”

  Dr Ramtullah unwinds himself. He stands up. We all do.

  “Well, Tom, why don’t you bring him back next Tuesday. In the meantime, Mr Tex, rest as much as you can. Try not to worry. And be patient.”

  “Ranjit’s a good chap,” says Tom, while we descend in the elevator. “Did you find him reassuring?”

  “Not especially. I found him patronizing.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s only his manner. He doesn’t at all mean—”

  “And what about you? Do you at all mean…?” I draw breath. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. We weren’t seen by accident. You must have telephoned at some point, yes? Since we all know how incredibly thorough you are.”

  He admits that he did.

  “Then why couldn’t you have told me?”

  He sighs. “I suppose I thought you’d make a fuss.”

  “Well, I’m damned well making one now. I resent being treated like a ten-year-old.”

  “So would I—who wouldn’t?”

  “Yes. Well. Please remember that.” And all through the silent ride back to Golders Green I refuse to let my knowledge of his good intentions mitigate the offence.

  When we get home he offers me a whisky. I decline. I leave him in the sitting room with the curtest of goodnights and a closing of the door which is practically a slam.