Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart

by Stephen Benatar

  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 gath
ered 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!

  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.