Companionably, by my side, the charlady sounds wistful. “Never saw another which was half so nice!”
It’s a ring I’m being shown, one that’s studded with pearls and turquoise, and is certainly attractive. “I think it dates from about 1875,” the man tells us.
But then Matt says: “Rosalind, here’s what actually caught my eye.” And now he picks up another ring, again Victorian, also gold but this time far from delicate: black-enamelled, with a heart-shape at the front that has a flower and leaves etched on it, the leaf motif extending round the band. Well-defined gold tracery lightens the effect of the black.
“Oh, sweetheart, this one!” Brazen hussy; no question of Matt-oh-but-you-shouldn’t-you-can’t-possibly-afford-it. “This one—please!”
“You’re sure? Try them both on. Don’t be swayed by the prices.”
The enamelled ring is cheaper—although, naturally, far closer to ten pounds than to threepence.
It has engraving on the inside. If there had been any doubt before, this would instantly have dispelled it. ‘Always. Emily and Robert. May 1, 1840.’ I swiftly form a picture of Emily and Robert—and who cares a jot if it’s impossibly idealized? What matters is the sense of strong connection with the past. The date, the passion, the commitment. Always.
The owner of the shop stays neutral. His charlady can’t manage it.
“Oh, it’s dismal—would fast bring on the willies! You take the other one, my pet.” She tucks a wisp of greying hair back under her beige rayon scarf, as if scared too much exposure to Emily and Robert may start to turn it white.
“Is it dismal?” asks Matt, gently—not specifically of her. “Why should a mourning ring be more dismal or more spooky than any other that’s antique? Obviously, when any ring is that old, whoever wore it first must now be dead.”
Stupidly, it hadn’t even occurred to me that it’s a mourning ring.
“And, pet, it’s much too big for you. It’s really supposed to be worn by a gent.”
But Robert must have been slim-fingered. It is too big, admittedly, but it doesn’t look ridiculous. A clip will hold it firm.
I try on the turquoise ring as well. “Ah…,” says the charlady, on a sustained and dreamy note.
I smile at her.
“It’s no good. I’m sorry. You’re right, this is exquisite. But it’s the other one I want.”
“I hoped it would be,” says Matt.
I reach up and kiss him on the cheek.
“Well anyhow, my pet, we really wish you joy of it. And it’s nice to know it’s being rescued by a couple like you. I sometimes feel it’s awful how these ever so personal bits and pieces…what you’d think by rights ought to be seen as proper heirlooms…”
We all agree with her. “I promise you,” I say. “One day this will become a proper heirloom!”
There’s a fairly sober pause in which it seems likely we’re all thinking back a hundred and five years; or else thinking forward another fifty or sixty. “And now,” says the owner, “I wonder if there’s anywhere I can lay my hands on some little box…?”
Matt says: “I don’t suppose you’d have one of those clip things my…my fiancée mentioned just a while ago?” It’s the first time he’s ever used that word, in connection with myself.
I wish there was something I could get him. A candlestick? Warming pan? If he and I weren’t about the only two adults in this world who don’t smoke I could have bought him a cigarette case—I can see an attractive one. But unfortunately the rings they have here for men (other than mine, other than mine!) are disappointingly ordinary. Even the signet rings.
Actually I’d thought about buying him something before, a thank-you gift for all his generosity, but I’d been too worried about putting him under any kind of obligation—what I mean is, making him feel he was under one.
It’s not an omission, though, that spoils my enjoyment of the moment. (Incredible that enjoyment could inform any moment so close to his departure!) And I shall mail him something, do so at my leisure and choose the really perfect gift. In the meantime he can have my exquisitely coloured and patterned pebble, truly gemlike, joyfully salvaged from the stream in which we paddled yesterday whilst eating our sardine sandwiches.
Mr Wilton doesn’t have a clip. But in any case he recommends me not to bother. He says that a clip could easily cost three bob—and fairly soon wear out—when at a proper jeweller’s, and for roughly the same price, I could get the ring cut down and expertly soldered. I say I’ll act on his advice.
Neither can he find us a suitable box. He simply wraps the ring in tissue paper…but he knocks ten shillings off the cost of it, “as a small engagement gift, and with all our good wishes and warmest congratulations.”
“I hoped that bit would come in handy,” Matt tells me later, with a smile.
“I don’t blame you. It could also serve as a useful sort of prelude to proposal.”
“But I thought we’d covered all that. How else…the sort of plans which we’ve been making…?” He pulls into the side of the road.
“Even so, it would be nice to have it actually put into words. Call me an old-fashioned girl.”
“I’ll put it into writing if you like.”
The echo of this undertaking clearly lingers on (“Rosalind, will you marry me?” “Oh, darling, this is such a surprise!”), because afterwards I say: “You really will write as often as you can?”
“At least six times a day.”
“No, I’m being serious.”
“I’ll be back to get you very soon. The first minute I’m out of this crazy uniform—”
“Oh, Matt, how long…how long do you think…? There’s really no chance of your being sent to the Pacific?” Oh, God, I couldn’t stand it if he were.
“No, none at all.”
He swears he isn’t humouring me. “By gum! Can’t you see I’m not grinning that grin of mine!” He grins that grin of his.
Back on the road, a little reassured, I say, “But there’s no need for you to come over to collect me. More romantic, yes, but not so practical. On my own I could probably get on a liberty ship more easily. Even onto a Constellation. Besides, it would be cheaper.”
“The money isn’t really so important,” he says. “You’re marrying into… But, anyway, I’ll fill you in on all those rather boring details when I write.” Then he laughs, self-consciously. “No, what an affectation! Money isn’t in the least bit boring.”
He has to drop me at the railway station because this morning no girlfriends would be welcome on the base. The train is due to leave in just over an hour, at ten. The Americans will start to embark some twenty minutes earlier.
Since my instincts are all to be alone, I’d vaguely thought of wandering round the town—or, more probably, taking a brief stroll outside it. But I should have realized! The station is already filling up. There are people approaching from every direction…most of them young women. Some are carrying babies, some accompanied by mums. What even looks like whole families have come to make farewells: the Yanks have found a lot of friends in the neighbourhood and life is going to be extremely dull without them.
The station is a small one, not built for such a multitude of well-wishers. It’s no kind of junction where expresses roar through to more important destinations, leaving a legacy of soot and smoke and grime. It’s a place with flowerbeds and a rockery, hanging baskets, wooden benches. Fields and hedges stretching out beyond. You could refer to it as sleepy.
But not today. Today it sounds more like a football stadium before the match or even (oh, God!) more like the Mall on V-E Day—except that there aren’t any fireworks and there’s absolutely no cheering and absolutely no singing.
There’s a great resounding cry, however, when the Americans begin to arrive; and that’s when the real pushing starts. If you don’t catch sight of your man before he boards the train he may be lost to you forever. Women are jumping up, straining on tiptoe, standing on benches, crying out for Jack
or Joe or Bill, even climbing onto one another’s shoulders. Their babies, many of them bawling and red-faced, are raised above their heads. One woman holds up a placard—“I love you, Rob, please marry me”—while two others, less pathetic, share a banner which reads, “Don’t forget us, lads, you’re welcome back at any time.”
Then I spot him and frantically wave my arm while calling out his name.
“I was so afraid I wouldn’t find you.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Thank goodness for your yellow coat!”
I cling to him. “Matt, will you slip my ring onto your finger? For just an instant? So that I’ll always know I’m wearing something which…”
It fits him well. I see an expression cross his face which looks like a mirrored image of everything I feel myself.
“Don’t, my darling,” he says. “Remember, if you cry, I cry. Please don’t do that to me.”
He hands me back the ring. An instruction comes over the loudspeaker: all airmen to get on board. The instruction has to be repeated. Several times.
“Oh, Christ, I haven’t got a photo!”
“Photographs!” I exclaim. It seems so ludicrous; such an improbable oversight. “I haven’t got a photograph of you!”
“I’ll send you one,” he promises. “You send me one, as well.”
I nod. I can’t get out the words. But then I remember something…dip my hand into my pocket; not so easy in this fearful crush. All the Yanks have now embarked, although Matt is one of the lucky ones who’s ended up with space beside a window. “I’ve got a snap that Trixie took! Three weeks ago! I meant to let you see!”
The whistle blows. My fingers find the photo. One edge is caught up in the lining; it’s difficult to free—like in some panic dream. The train’s already moving as I thrust the snapshot in his hand. There’s hardly time for one last kiss before the engine picks up speed.
“There’ll never be anybody else! Never! Never!” I don’t know if he hears.
I stand there blowing kisses—everybody does—until none of the heads or arms or waving hands is any longer distinguishable. The final carriage rounds a bend. Only a plume of smoke remains.
Gradually the people on both platforms turn away. Drift aimlessly towards the exits.
At least half of us are crying. Some of us, howling.
I lean against a piece of metal on the wall—advertisement for Mazawattee—and feel first faint, then sick.
It’s there that Trixie finds me.
“I never said goodbye to Walt,” I tell her, tonelessly.
We walk a short way from the station. By now the crowds are thinning out. “Oh, Trixie, isn’t this awful!” We hold each other’s hand. The tears are pouring down our faces.
We go and have a cup of tea…no, several cups of tea. But every time we think we’ve got ourselves under control a fresh attack of sobbing starts. The waitress stares at us indifferently.
Trixie gets the giggles; they’re close to being hysteria. “Look at the two of us sitting here in our posh dresses and laddered nylons. And both with these soppy little evening bags. No wonder that the fat cow stares!”
Our own train leaves in roughly an hour. While we’re waiting for it, not wanting to return to the station one minute earlier than we have to, we listlessly look about us for a jeweller’s.
But I’ve decided to ignore Mr Wilton’s advice. I don’t trust the soldering. However expert. I don’t trust it not to damage the inscription.
Besides, it wouldn’t any longer be quite the same ring which Matt has handled. Briefly worn.
And I might even need to leave it and have it posted back to me. I couldn’t do that. What if it got lost?
Anyway, I want to wear it.
Wear it immediately.
Wear it forever.
No. A clip will do just fine.
17
Herb Kramer is impressed—as he damn well ought to be. With so much information on my father, and even a photograph, he’s confident he’ll soon have news—“maybe only a matter of hours! And didn’t we just prophesy you came from that part of the world?” Again he escorts us to the main door.
Tom and I pause on the sidewalk. “One-twenty-five,” he says. “Time to feed the inner man.”
But no, I tell him. I’d rather be getting on with things. Getting them over with.
“Then why, if you feel like that, don’t I come with you?”
“No point.”
He hesitates. “All right. So don’t forget: Central Line to Tottenham Court Road, Northern Line from there to Hampstead.”
He directs me to the Bond Street tube. The car is parked the other way, maybe a mile from where we stand.
“Good luck, Tex. I reckon I’ll probably stay at the office till half-past-five.”
When I’ve crossed the road I glance back. Tom raises his hand. “And don’t forget,” he calls, “you haven’t eaten!”
Old fuss-budget—I don’t know, I guess I feel this huge affection for the guy—in Oxford Street I buy a large banana.
(Yet…no particular fault of the banana…after just one bite I have to stop myself from throwing it in a bin.)
I get to Hampstead half an hour later; ask at least six times for Worsley Road. One old man with an oversized Adam’s apple scratches his head and keeps on telling me, “That sounds familiar, son…now if only I could lay my finger on it…where was it you said?” There’s a post office nearby but I’d maybe have to stand in line for ten or fifteen minutes. In a bookstore I ask to look at street guides. There’s a Worsley Road listed in E11 and a Worsley Bridge Road in SE26. Worsley Road in NW3 apparently doesn’t exist.
Not in the early nineties, that is; but sure as hell it existed in the middle forties. I need to check at the town hall.
On my way I pass a police station. The desk sergeant is about fifty. He remembers that Worsley Road is now called Pilgrim’s Lane, although it used to be simply the continuation of it. It’s very near.
I walk the length of Pilgrim’s Lane, feel a spurt of satisfaction on seeing faint remnants of the ley: a superimposed street sign at the further end. House numbers have been changed. But in her first letter to Trixie, Rosalind had spoken of a bombsite being next door. There’s only one three-storey house adjacent to something that’s comparatively new. I walk slowly up the front steps; scan the names beside a row of bells; choose for starters the apartment on the lowest floor.
I realize, of course, that at two-thirty on a Monday afternoon the whole house is likely to be empty. But I wait for maybe half a minute—am about to put my finger to the next bell up—when I hear the opening of an inside door and shortly afterwards find an old lady eyeing me with interest through a chain-restricted aperture.
“If you’re a Jehovah’s Witness or a Mormon…if you’re selling double glazing or encyclopedias…then I’m sorry but the answer’s no.”
“Nothing like that, ma’am. I’m trying to trace somebody who lived in this house immediately after the war.”
“I lived in this house immediately after the war.”
“You did?”
“Immediately before it too. Which war are we speaking of?”
“Second World War, ma’am.”
She’s quick, though. She sees my disappointment. “No, I haven’t gone senile, young man. I’m almost ninety years of age but I’m sure I have a memory practically as sharp as yours. I was born in this house—I was married from this house—and God willing I shall die in it, too. I think you’d better come in.”
She conducts me to her sitting room, the first door on the left off the hallway. She looks trim in a black pants-suit, green roll-neck and red sneakers. She moves with agility.
“Put Henry on the floor,” she says. It’s a choice between that or disposing of two leaning piles of books which occupy another chair. “I trust you aren’t allergic to these things?”
“No, ma’am. On the whole I’d say I like them.”
“I approve of your reservation. To say you like cats w
ould be as foolish as to say you like people. Or children. Some cats have characters that just aren’t likable. And I apologize for the smell. Who is it that you’re trying to trace?”
“A young woman called Rosalind Farr. Well, at the time we’re talking of she was certainly a young woman.”
“And a very lovely one.”
“What?”
She smiles at me, enjoying my surprise. “I told you. I’ve lived here, on and off, for nearly ninety years.”
“But I can’t believe that it should be so easy.” It doesn’t seem quite real.
And yet there’s nothing unreal about her, this amazing old lady whose pants-suit is covered in cat hair and whose anklets and underclothing, along with a blouse and a night robe and some dish towels, are airing in front of an unlit and antiquated gas fire. “Yes, I remember her vividly. And it wasn’t just the niceness of the creature, it was the circumstances which attended her stay here. May I ask the reason for your interest?”
“She was a friend of my father’s.”
“Your father?” She stares at me intently, stops stroking the large gingery creature in her lap. “And by any chance, then…can your name be Cassidy?”
For a moment I stare back at her. “But how…? How on earth…?”
“Mine, by the way, is Farnsworth. Jane Farnsworth.” She resumes her rhythmic strokes. “You know, it’s not such a mystery. It’s just that you’re American and your father was a figure of some importance in Rosalind’s life. So for as long as I retain my faculties it’s not a name I’m likely to forget. Matthew Cassidy.”
“That’s it, ma’am. Matthew—or Matt—Cassidy.”
“Alias, the sod.”
I can’t believe I’ve heard her right.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Young man. Don’t say that I’ve managed to shock you! How much has your father ever told you about Rosalind?”
“Not a great deal,” I reply, carefully. “But at the same time…” The thing is, I don’t want to put him in a worse light than I have to, and speaking about the baby and possible desertion may not even prove necessary. I suppose I could tell her the truth regarding the condition I’m in, yet I feel reluctant to sidetrack her.
Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart Page 10