Which brings up the initial terra incognita of the following days. I never returned to the trench to look into Harold’s duffel bag. But in the bottom of my duffel bag, I found a lump of gold, the size of an orange. As I have reported, I am now eighty-two years old. For the last sixty-four years, I have come up with no solution to this enigma.
Another question (among many) plagued me. Avoid the middle of what?
Thus ended my relationship with Harold Lightfoot.
I thought.
I also thought that I was never in the market for (using Harold’s word) “peregrinating” to Gatford, either for a visit or to settle down. Being so close to his awful death, I was sure (if I even considered going there) that it would constantly return to memory, the sight of his back ripped open—the white, shattered bones, the mincemeat lacerations of his organs, the puddling of gore over all of it. Visit Gatford with that at risk? Never.
In my life, “never” seems to have been a vanishing aspect of my lexicon. It should have always been, I now recognize, “Well, who the hell knows?” For who the hell knew what 1918 was to alter in the tide of events that controlled my existence? I am no unquestioning devotee of astrological observation, but for a long time, I have surrendered disbelief in what is referred to as fate. Fate seemed determined to transfer my bones to Gatford.
How?
Item One. The 1918 influenza death of my sister. She was, as you know, extremely dear to me. Her absence from the home scene created an unfillable gap.
Item Two. My mother’s demise in the same year, creating a further gap. Did it matter that the cause was not influenza? The cause was—
Item Three. Captain Bradford Smith White, USN. Who needed influenza when a marital horrorscape with the good Captain was always available? Knowledge of this infuriating fact was, in that same year, embellished by an invitation from Rasputin, USN. Now that I had “gotten” the AEF “misjudgment” out of my system, he was willing to overlook my “foolishness” and locate me a “noncombatant” position in the navy.
That did it. Gatford suddenly looked most inviting. Hades would have as well. In April 1918, when I was discharged from the hospital and all military service “due to physical impairment,” I made arrangements to locate Gatford.
No easy matter. It was not in Northern England but in Middle England—Harold’s first concealment of the facts. Did he mean I should “avoid” Middle England—entirely? As I said, who the hell knew? I prevailed, following counterinstructions he had given me pursuant to locating Gatford. It took me three weeks to find it. I almost gave up at several junctures. But recollection—and mental conjuring of my three nay items—kept me going. And on a sunny, breezy morning in May 1918, I located Harold’s hometown. There, having walked some distance from the bus stop, I sat on a grass-thick hillock, partly to relieve my right hip and leg, which still ached from my shrapnel wound—but mostly to take my first look at Gatford.
II
Chapter Five
Harold was right. Gatford was gorgeous. I believed it from my first view. I had reached the crest of a hill that overlooked … what? A sight no Technicolor image could match, much less surpass. Vivid colors—lustrous green for the carpeting of grass; deep-colored green for the foliage of ancient, warplimbed trees and distant mountain growth; pale, ethereal violet for the sky. And in the midst of this unearthly scene, an eye-catching gray stone cottage with a sloping roof of slate tiles, a covered chimney, two windows, and what appeared to be an open, welcoming doorway.
Below me was a modest stone enclosure. For a cow? I wondered. A sheep, a horse? Behind that was a mini-grove of what looked like pine trees and another tree (or giant bush) with a closely packed bouquet of orange yellow flowers topping it. Through the background of this idyllic landscape was a narrow, gently flowing stream. Heaven, I thought. A universe apart from Brooklyn, New York, a triple-cosmos distant from Captain Bradford—what was his last name again? I could not recall. Or chose not to, gazing at this vista of paradise.
Immediate questions vied for my attention. Was this the cottage Harold told me to buy? That was too coincidental to accept. In any case, was the cottage for sale or rent? If so, how would I pay for it? My army discharge pay would give me a few months’ rent, I assumed. But purchase? With what, my lump of gold? Hardly. The gold was, likely, worth more than the cottage—if it was for sale, and who would sell and depart from this ambrosial spot? No, the gold had to be sold. But to who? (Whom?) No idea.
And so I stood there wondering, conjecturing, dreaming, for a long time. Until the sunlight had shifted and shadows began to creep across my property. (In my dreaming, I was already its owner.)
* * *
Realizing, then, that I was much in need of something to eat and a place to sleep for the coming night, I stood, grimacing as I always did when exerting pressure on my hip and leg, and started in the direction I took to be toward the town.
As I have often been, my geographical instinct was completely awry. Not—except for mounting hunger and hip-leg discomfort—that I minded. Why? Because (despite the fact that each ensuing view could not possibly equal the breathless delight of my first vision) I was exposed—or exposed myself, to be strictly accurate—to a virtually endless panorama of exquisite (to me, anyway) properties. A brick cottage in varied shades of pink, its face almost covered by an immense rosebush—with two three-sectioned leaded windows on its first and second floor, a gray wood door on the first, a sloping, dark brown tile roof. In front of the cottage was a panoply of spring flowers in yellow, orange, white, and different shades of red; two great cypress trees stood like sturdy guardians near the front edge of the garden, and the property had (not surprisingly) deep green lawns and dark green trees. No stream here. It wasn’t necessary.
A double-chimneyed, slate-roofed cottage made of mottled, textured stone and matrix of chalk and green sand. (I was told this later, lest you think I was an architectural scholar.) The design (I was also later informed) was foursquare—windows evenly placed with a central door, this one with a rose-hooded archway; hedges and trees and bright green lawns covered the rest of the property. Another eyecatching masterpiece. In the distance, the stream again. Perfect.
A red brick beauty with a heavily thatched roof that reached almost to the ground, windows on the second floor wearing hoods of straw. Enormous trees behind it, limbs in twisted growth, foliage thick. A long row of hedges in front, beyond that the sea green lawn. Far off, a slight view of the stream. Perfect again.
I might have walked (or rather, limped) the day away if I’d allowed it to happen. As it was, I saw a good many more of cottaged properties than I have described. You get the point, though. If Gatford was a beautiful woman, I had fallen hopelessly in love with her.
* * *
My tale grows darker here.
Access to the village—which I finally located in the middle of the afternoon (was that the “middle” Harold warned me to avoid?) was across a bridge that had none of the charm I’d seen repeatedly while searching for the village. Instead, the three-arched stone bridge was dark brown in color, approaching black. Its broadwall was cracked and broken, its dirt walk overgrown with dying weeds. Its two stream footings (the stream was wider here) looked on the verge of crumbling. The entire appearance of the bridge was one of—how shall I put it? If the bridge could speak, it would surely say, “Don’t bother crossing me, you aren’t wanted on the other side,” the other side conveying two visions, both ominous. One, an expanse of yellowing lawn on which two blackbirds sat like miniature statues; were they statues or real, unmoving creatures?
They were real, for they flapped away (sluggishly) as I started across the bridge. Did I imagine a sensation of physical discomfort as I crossed? Probably—the appearance of the bridge was certainly enough to put one “off one’s game” as they express it in Blighty. Whatever the reason, I felt undeniably queasy. Which feeling did not abate on the other side, because of the second vision—what might have been taken initially for a church,
but then as a construction fully as menacing as (or more so than) that of the bridge. Its belfry turret, churchlike façade, and arched windows were all encased or framed with lumps of limestone and flint. On each corner of the thatch-covered roof was a tower. On top of one—it seemed mockingly to me—stood a stone cross. On top of the other three were the stone figures of great birds about to take flight. I could not imagine anyone sitting in that Gothic structure, seeking God. On the contrary, to me (or to my Arthur Black persona; even at eighteen it was present) it seemed more like a proper setting for one of my later novels. MIDNIGHT ABBEY.
But enough of that. I was not looking for a forbidding first impression. I had loved everything I’d seen until now. Why let Arthur Black’s bleak, impending disposition undo my pleasure? I would not. I moved on.
To more Arthur Black versus Lasting Optimism moments. Who can say which was the victor? It was a battle royal. A nasty squabble, at any rate. For the more I saw of the village, the less enchanted I became. Instead of perfection, the cottages seemed slipshod, thrown up with lack of interest, certainly lack of care. Hurriedly, in fact. As though—
No, no, I struggled. Arthur Black be gone! I didn’t call him by name then; he didn’t exist yet.
But I really had to fight the negative reaction. Oh, it was somewhat better as I reached what I suppose, laughingly, could be described as “downtown” Gatford, a gathering of cottages close together, uninviting shops, and narrow alleys. Not much better.
In one of the alleys, I ran across the Golden Coach, a pub. Not a charmer, not inviting, totally belying its romantic name. But nonetheless a pub, and I was both thirsty and hungry. So I entered same in search of respite. Did I find it? Judge for yourself as I describe what happened.
“ ’Ello, soljer,” said the man behind the counter.
The interior was so dimly lit that I didn’t see him at first, seeing only dark paneled walls, dark chairs and tables, one small window.
I then caught sight of the barkeep, a bulky bearded man with jet-black hair, wearing an oversize red-stained shirt (not with blood, I trusted), his arms and hands thick with beardlike hair. Despite his apelike appearance, he seemed amiable enough. “Y’new in Gatf’d?” he added to his initial greeting.
“Yes, sir, I am,” I responded.
“Just arrived?”
“This morning,” I said.
“Ah-ha.” He nodded as though my reply had some significance, then said, “Wot’s yer name, lad?”
“Alex,” I told him. “Alex White.”
“Alex White,” he repeated. “Good name.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’m Tom,” he said, extending his right hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, the word “meet” emerging like a wheeze as his bone-crushing grip crushed the bones in my hand. Felt like it, anyway.
“So wot’s yer pleasure, Mr. Whitehead?” he inquired. Jesus, I thought, was getting my last name wrong something in the water? First Harold, now Tom. “Ale,” I told him.
He rattled off the names of seven different brands. I replied that any one would do; give me the one he thought was the best. While he drew the brew (good rhyme, that), I stopped and opened my duffel bag to take out the lump of gold.
If I had placed a giant rearing spider on the counter, I doubt I would have evoked more of a recoil on his part—so excessive that he splashed out half my ale. “Whoa!” he cried.
I could not disguise my surprise: another good rhyme. “What?” I asked.
His next words were equally surprising. “Take it off,” he said, actually he ordered.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, confused.
“I just…” He grimaced as though in anger—or in pain.
A chill ran up my back. He sounded alarmed, almost frightened. I removed the lump of gold from the counter and slipped it into my jacket pocket. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why does it bother you?”
“Where did you get it?” he asked—again, demanded.
“From a friend,” I said.
“A friend?” he sounded—at the very least—dubious.
“Yes,” I answered. “A British soldier.”
“Named Lightfoot?” he said, he didn’t ask.
Now I was totally perplexed. “Yes, Harold Lightfoot,” I told him, “in France.”
“Why did he give it to you?” he wanted to know.
I was becoming irritated by then. “Because he was dying,” I said coldly.
“Dying.”
“That’s right, dying,” I said.
He stared at me, then said, “Harold Lightfoot.”
“Yes,” I said. I was really angry now. “What’s the problem anyway? It’s just a piece of gold.”
“I know it’s a piece of gold, Whitehead,” he said. Christ! I thought, it’s White! White!
“So?” I demanded now, “What’s the problem?”
His change of manner was as confounding as his obvious dismay had been. He smiled pleasantly. “No problem,” he said, “one doesn’t see gold lumps that big very often, or ever.” He smiled again. “Sorry I railed at you.” I knew, somehow, that he was lying. There was more to this than rarely—or ever—seeing lumps of gold that big. A good deal more. But what?
Our conversation after that—if it could be called a conversation—was empty talk. Where was I from? What was it like in France? Was I planning to stay in Gatford? I soon gave up trying for an explanation of his cold behavior re the lump of gold. Taking my glass of ale and duffel bag across the room, I sat at a table by the window—through which precious little daylight penetrated. There I sat, mulling over the peculiar—aggravating—incident. I took the lump of gold from my jacket and examined it. Mystery on mystery, I thought. What was the answer?
Chapter Six
“Mr. White,” said the quiet voice, making me start.
I looked up. Standing by the table was a shadowy figure.
“Yes?” I said.
“May I sit down?” he asked, sitting down.
Since I did not have to respond to his pointless request, I didn’t. I regarded him as he sat across from me. He was elderly, I saw, lean, his expression sedate. Later, I learned that his sedate expression did not denote peace of mind so much as permanent sedation; he lived on drugs.
“My name is Brean,” he told me, “Michael Brean.” He extended his right hand in a “shake” position. I felt I could not ignore the gesture, so I shook it. “Hello,” I said.
“And hello to you, Mr. White,” he responded. Just as I was wondering how he knew my correct name, he added, “I overheard your discourse with Tom.” Discourse, I thought. Is that what it was?
A few moments’ silence. Then he said, “About your gold.”
Aha! I thought. Suspicion? I suppose.
“May I look at it?” he asked. At that very second, sunset light managed through the grimy window, altering his look of sedation to one of—well, close to it, anyway—menace. “Well, I don’t know,” I heard myself say. Impulsively—unthinkingly.
“Oh, please,” he said, “I’m Gatford’s only jeweler.”
Does that mean anything? I thought. Then greed o’erwhelmed suspicion, as Shakespeare might have put it. Might he actually purchase the lump of gold? I set it on the table before him. “Let me know what you think,” I said.
Did I imagine it, or did he really lick his upper lip, really bare his teeth? It must have been imagined; another early sign of Arthur Black’s bugbears. Or else it really happened. In light of future events, it was certainly possible. But let that go for now. I know it was true that Mr. Brean eyed the gold lump with a covetous eye. The breath he drew in was a strained breath. The rapidity with which he unpocketed his spectacles was not imagined.
He must have examined the lump of gold for several minutes (it seemed longer) before he said, in a remarkably calm voice (it occurred to me later), “Yes, it’s gold, all right. Pure gold.”
“Care to buy it?” I asked quickly—greedily—obviously.<
br />
He looked at me with hooded eyes. Was he suspecting me now? Was I a thief? Had I purloined the lump? Or—more likely—found it by some roadside and made no attempt to find its rightful owner? All visible on his sedate but questioning features.
Then he said, “Well, let’s discuss it.”
A dropping sensation in my stomach. He wasn’t going to make an offer. Nothing like it.
“Sure,” I said. Then I added, suspicious again, “I know it must be valuable, though.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” he said, apparently agreeing.
I felt better then. Part of me cautioned, Don’t let him flummox you now. But not so strongly as it might have been. I was, fundamentally, ready to do business.
“You got it from—where?” the old man asked.
“A soldier friend in France,” I said.
“Lightfoot.” He nodded.
“Yes.”
“And he got it from?” he asked.
“His family,” I answered.
“Ah.” He nodded again. “His family.” I didn’t like the way he said that.
* * *
The conversation—or, as you may suspect, the interrogation—went on for some time. He asked me if I knew that ancient Egyptians were obsessed by gold. (To vindicate his own obvious inclination?) Pharaohs were buried in gold coffins; they referred to gold as “the flesh of the gods.” Although gold had little practical use (he assumed that I knew), it had always possessed a magical enchantment for mankind—and, clearly, him.
Gradually, my suspicions faded. Not about the lump of gold. I grew more curious about its source all the time. No, my suspicion regarding Mr. Brean. It became obvious that he wanted to own the gold, that he regarded it as a highly desirable piece of Nature’s handiwork. Simply put, he wanted to purchase it at a price.
Which is what it sold for—a price, that being one hundred pounds. I knew it had to be worth more, and so did he. Accordingly, in the written contract (I thought I was being very shrewd insisting on it), Mr. Sedate Face agreed that if the lump of gold brought in more return from the city emporium he did business with (never identified), he would share the profit with me. How this worked out—shall I hint horrendously?—I will reveal later. Another mystery on mystery.
Other Kingdoms Page 3