War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 13
Three weeks after their encounter, Jack turned up at the reception desk on her ward at Grove Park. She saw him before he saw her, striking and substantial in his olive drab service uniform, the khaki tie slightly askew, his fingers working his garrison cap. Her hand rose first to smooth her hair, then to her own uniform, to straighten her skirt as she moved down the hall toward him.
“Jack—hello! Is Colin alright?”
“He’s great, Beryl. Just fine. Sends his love. Wants you to know biology is not getting the best of him.”
She smiled. She would stand here all day to hear tidbits like this.
“Says he has you to thank for that—and his dad for his math skills. So, Beryl, could we meet later maybe?” Jack asked. “After you get off?”
“Well, I’m mid-shift—can’t exactly get away this moment but as you’ve come all the way to London… You’re on a pass, I’m assuming?”
“I am. Another five missions checked off, so they send us away on three-day passes. Our schedule is gonna be pretty full coming up real soon, so a lot of us are taking the time we can. I apologize for not telephoning first.” He dropped his voice and looked at her steadily. “I didn’t want to give you the chance to say you wouldn’t meet me.”
“Of course I would meet you,” she responded, hearing the intimacy in his voice. “Jack, I’m fine. Really. We’re fine. I’m glad you’ve come. We’ve got some air clearing to do, I know that, but all’s well. Truly. You started me thinking, and that’s what I’ve been doing. Not saying it’s been easy. So, I work until six tomorrow morning and take my meal break around midnight. Not exactly good for arranging dinner with friends.”
“Tomorrow’s fine, really. I’m booked at the Dorchester—have some briefings with some muckety-mucks in from—never mind about that, I guess. Listen, tomorrow is fine. Do you want to meet for breakfast at the hotel? Or should I head over to your place?”
She considered the safest course. “I’ll come by there when I’m out of work. I’ll have to run by my flat to feed the cat first so it may be seven, seven-thirty. Shall we meet in the café?”
“Yes. Great. Perfect. Thank you, Beryl. Appreciate it. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Right, Jack. Tomorrow then.”
. . .
He waited, consuming cup after cup of ersatz coffee—the hotel often ran low and substituted a foul chicory—before switching to tea an hour later. The waiter circled attentively at first, before discreetly concluding no further service would be needed as this was not, after all, a party of two. She changed her mind, Jack realized, and would not meet him. He did not fault her. He had clumsily, dishonorably, stolen a kiss from a married woman, betraying her, and her husband, their son whom they all loved, and himself. He had come to apologize—to promise never to overstep like that again. But privately, he wished it could be different for them, that there was a way forward that did not involve deceiving people who loved and trusted them.
At nine, Jack rose and paid his tab, walking out of the hotel unsure of his destination. The truth of it was, when he pictured his time in London, he had pictured it with her. He passed shops just now opening their doors and thought about what he might bring back to the boys and the twins, wincing because this complication with Beryl robbed a bit of joy from the enterprise. He thought about what lay before him. They were on the cusp of a major air offensive in the war, one that could prove pivotal, the specifics complicated and closely guarded. If he was soon to fly his last mission—if something were to go wrong—he would like to depart with a clear conscience, her forgiving him for crossing a boundary. Jack meandered eastward, winding through Covent Garden, then turning north toward Kings Cross. Along the way, he noted the hundreds of American airmen that outnumbered the natives, each of them soaking in the veneer of normalcy that was London, working hard to not think ahead to what awaited them upon their return to quarters. After an hour of wandering, it was clear his feet were taking him towards her, a magnet pulling him inexorably in her direction. So be it, he thought. Maybe he would just walk past her flat as a way to say goodbye.
Across from her place, he could see a new business going in, reconstruction of some sort of retail business that had stood on the corner at some point before. They were also rebuilding a library, from the looks of it, evidence of the resilience of the British that had surprised the Germans and heartened Churchill.
As Jack stood across the lane facing Beryl’s house, he saw her front door standing wide open, a cat holding sentry on the stoop. He jaywalked madly across the street and ran up her steps, standing in the open door and calling her name. He heard her before he saw her—her wracking sobs, the keening of one who has lost all hope. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the front hallway, he saw her in a heap, as if she had fallen, legs splayed out beneath her, a piece of paper in her lap. She appeared at first not to recognize him until he came to her and repeated her name. She answered by handing him the paper she held. It was from the War Office, informing her of notification received from the International Red Cross, that First Lieutenant Gordon S. Clarke had succumbed to typhus whilst a prisoner of war in the custody of the German government. She would be notified at a later date as to the disposition of his body. His effects had not yet been released, but once the Office had received them, the death would be confirmed. At this, Jack summoned the cat inside, closed the door, then knelt before her, pulling her into his arms in vain attempts to soothe her, believing that in some way, his wish to be with her had caused this.
. . .
He stayed with her, helping her onto her bed, telephoning the hospital with the news of Gordon and to say she would be out for several days, preparing cups of tea and broth that she had no interest in. By late afternoon, grief and shock exhausting and disorienting her, she fell asleep, her lovely face red and anguished, knees drawn into her belly like a small child. Jack telephoned the base and was granted an extra day’s leave—beseeching his commanding officer to please, please keep word of Colin’s dad to himself because of how it would magnify the heartbreak were the boy to learn the news haphazardly. He ambled through their flat, looking at the many framed photographs—of Gordon and Beryl’s wedding, of a younger Beryl at nursing school graduation, of newborn Colin in the arms of his clearly proud father, of a school-age Colin who more obviously resembled the boy Jack knew and loved. He studied the picture of Gordon—Colin was growing tall like his dad—and he wept over the ruination, the waste, the irreplaceable loss. He returned to the bedroom, pulling a worn quilt over Beryl’s restless frame, removing his shoes and his uniform shirt, then dropping into the armchair next to the bed. He shook his head in disbelief and anger. The damn Germans. They’d probably left Gordon alone in his bunk to die a miserable death. What a lucky man, until that moment, Gordon had been. Father to a great kid like Colin. Married to a strong, beautiful, utterly devoted woman who was so unlike the girls Jack knew in college. She was older, of course, a mother who had experienced the breadth of life, vastly different from the sorority girls he’d dated, many who cultivated an interest in him but seemed unconcerned with much beyond the Florida state line. This war had broadened Jack’s understanding of the world and he would not return easily to the provincial life he’d led before. Jack closed his eyes and soon he dozed, awaking at intervals to hear the cat mewling, sadly, insistently.
At midnight, she awoke, her eyes swollen and dull, surprised to see Jack in the chair and willing only to sip a bit of water at his insistence. She asked him to feed the cat, because she’d not done so all day.
“I got sidetracked,” she explained.
When she’d arrived home that morning, the post had awaited her. Once she saw the return address on the envelope, she’d wanted to rip it up or stuff it back in the box, to refuse delivery. Instead, she’d walked into her house, opened the letter, and judging from the blue bruises emerging on her knees, collapsed. She spoke calmly, her voice low and robotic, as if she recounted events that did not directly involve her, that did not utterly devastate her life. Jack listened and nodded, moving onto the bed with her and holding her hand. As the night wore into morning, she stopped talking and inched her body into his, gripping the arm he placed protectively around her as she prepared for another convulsive round of tears. They agreed Colin did not need to know right away—that Beryl would tell him herself on the next visit she made to Elsworth. Or maybe they would do it together.
Jack awoke at mid-morning, taking a second to remember where he was, the sad reason he was here. He heard water running in the bath, so he went to the kitchen to splash some water over his face and put the kettle on for tea. He found bread in the cupboard and sausage in the larder, heating the meat on the stove and drawing the interest of the cat who gave Jack a long look, trying to figure out what this stranger was doing here. The cat followed him as he carried the tray of food and drink back to the bedroom.
Beryl lay against her pillows in a bright, floral robe, her wet hair fanned out from her face, eyes aimed at the ceiling but seeing nothing. “I telephoned the Clarkes—Gordon’s parents,” she whispered. “They already knew. Their letter came two days ago, and they didn’t think to talk to me.” She ran her hands through her wet curls. “His father is mad with grief. His mother was so quiet. She could not speak.”
Jack crossed soundlessly before her, placing the tray at her bedside. She moved over, inviting him in beside her. “Are you able to stay here a bit longer?” she asked, “Until I get my footing and figure out what I’m to do next.”
“Yes. Planning on it. I’ve got forty-eight hours before I need to be back. Can you eat something? It might help.”
“I’m not hungry, if that’s what you’re asking. But if you say I need to eat, I’ll do it.” He offered her the cup of tea first, which she held between her palms for warmth, her eyes looking at him but her thoughts elsewhere.
“Do I get his body back?” she asked. “Or does this bloody war take even that from me?”
“I don’t know, Beryl. I’ll find out. Sometimes there are issues when there’s a contagious disease.”
“I want the memorial service in Elsworth. I want that old vicar to do it—the one who gave Colin his bicycle. There are people there who know and love my son and will help him through this.”
“That sounds like the right thing to do.”
“But I need to tell Colin. And Jack, I’m not sure I have the words to do that yet.”
“I know, Beryl. I know. We can wait a bit.” This typified their conversation throughout the day, she looping back to things already decided, he soothing her, affirming all she said.
She decided suddenly that she wanted out of the bedroom, to tackle the idea of sitting upright and facing the world instead of seeing it from a recline, so they moved to the living room, Jack toting the tray, ever-hopeful that she would take some nourishment. She asked him what he was missing and whether he could be in trouble for staying with her this long. He told her he’d spoken to his C.O. and that the schedule had room for him to be here now, because next week, all hands were required on deck. It would be significant.
“Significant?” she questioned. “In what way?”
“We’re gearing up, Beryl. Gotta take the Luftwaffe out of the equation if we’re gonna bring in an invasion force. And that’s happening next week. We’re throwing everything we got at ‘em. You’ll see. But it’s hush hush, of course so…”
She nodded, then sipped her tea finally, heaving a great sigh and attempting several bites of the sausage before setting it aside in favor of some nibbles at the toast Jack had slathered with her plum marmalade. At that moment, there was a light rap on the door and they heard Jesse on the stoop, worry in her voice.
“Beryl? Beryl, are you alright in there? It’s Jesse.”
Beryl tied her robe about her a little tighter and nodded to Jack, who rose and opened the door. Jesse registered surprise at seeing an American serviceman in his T-shirt standing behind the door.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m Jack. A friend of Beryl’s.”
“I’m Jesse, her neighbor, well, her hairdresser really, but I haven’t seen even a sign of her in a few days and I was getting a little worried about her, so I thought perhaps…”
Beryl interrupted the monologue. “I’m here, Jesse. You needn’t worry. We’ve just… had some bad news. Jack has been here helping.”
“News! What is it, Beryl? Colin? Gordon?”
Again, Beryl nodded at Jack, steeling herself to hear him speak the words out loud.
“Gordon, ma’am. Beryl’s been notified that he suffered an infection in the camp. It was fatal.”
“Oh, my word,” she exclaimed, hand over her mouth, easing her way over to Beryl and crouching in front of her chair. “My poor darling. What can I do? How can I help? I’m so terribly sorry.”
Beryl reached out a hand, her smile wan and sad.
“I know. I know you are. Thank you, Jesse. I’m managing. In shock still, I suppose. Jack will be leaving—when Jack? What day do you go?”
“I’ve got until the day after tomorrow,” he responded, “so maybe you’d be able to check on her after that.”
“Aye, I will,” affirmed Jesse, “and how fortunate she’s had you here to assist her.” Jack heard the slightest question in her voice, as if challenging them to explain their evident intimacy.
“Jack has befriended Colin, Jesse, in Elsworth. He is stationed at Kimbolton. He was in London when I received this news and I’m very grateful he was able to do this, to be here. Because next week will be big, right Jack? The Americans are going to throw everything they’ve got at the Germans. I believe that’s how you said it.”
In her fatigue and grief, Beryl was unaware she had made this disclosure. Jack winced, a rebuke of his own irresponsibility, sharing too much and putting her in this position.
Jesse’s attention pivoted away from her friend upon hearing this bit of news. “Oh, yes? And what is your part to play in this?”
“Beryl, I believe you misheard me. It’s been a long couple of days and she’s been sleeping on and off, Jesse. I’m not sure what she thinks she heard me say. But yes, my pass expires in forty-eight hours and I’ll be returning to base. Routine duty.”
At this Beryl froze, recognizing her mistake, turning her attention to the cold cup of tea in her hands. Jesse looked at Jack just a beat too long, trying to determine what exactly was going on, her face revealing the calculations underway in her brain.
“Routine duty. Well, good for you, then,” she said finally, but her abrupt shift, from sympathetic concern for her newly widowed friend to intense and specific interest in Jack’s upcoming duty, had been obvious to them both.
“Alright, Beryl, my dearest. I shall take my leave. Lovely to meet you, Jack, despite these dreadful circumstances. Good luck. Beryl, I shall return in two days’ time to see how you’re faring. But if you need anything—ANYTHING—before then, please ring. I’m right across the street.” With that, Jesse made her way out the door, clearly preoccupied by what she’d learned in her few minutes inside Beryl’s flat.
. . .
Later, after enjoying her lovely, if spare, afternoon tea, Jesse pulled out her writing paper to memorialize the day’s news. She had nothing startling this time—nothing like the early information on the RDF towers she’d sent, along with the rough sketches that approximated their locations. She’d been proud of those. It had been an enormous risk, but it had miraculously gotten through and explained why the British had been so good at intercepting German planes during the Blitz, forcing the Luftwaffe to reconsider its strategy. Her other gem was learning through the parent of soldier in North Africa of the numbers of battalions the Americans planned to send to reinforce the lines. Not that it had mattered in the end, really.
In previous missives, she passed along Beryl’s hunch that incoming prisoners to Gordon’s POW camp were the primary source of information on the situation in London and the thrust of the Allies’ current strategy. She imagined her information reassured camp officers that their prisoners hadn’t somehow gotten access to BBC broadcasts. Jesse shared that Lieutenant Clarke worked in a private home outside the camp, believing the German censors would now know to keep a close eye on the letters the Clarkes exchanged. She hoped her latest letter cum report would forewarn the Luftwaffe that the American fliers were ramping up for something big, but she was probably too late. All of it she wrote using a code that camouflaged locations and reinforced her identity as a none-too-bright hairdresser with a meager clientele in London, a pen-pal commiserating to American friends about nothing much at all. She sealed it up, addressed it to the post office box in Iowa and mailed it off. Returning home, she watched to ensure she wasn’t followed. She expected her latest contribution would earn high praise from her handlers.
Fortunately, for the Allied effort, she was mistaken.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The paradox of courage is that a man must be
a little careless of his life even in order to keep it.
–G. K. Chesterton
France, 1943-44
Four months before he was welcomed in the sanctuary of Holy Trinity Church in Elsworth, Flight Sergeant Oliver Dowd fell out of the sky over France on a moonless night, his fifteen-minute descent profoundly peaceful after the chaotic moments that proceeded it. The flight engineer of the Avro Lancaster, he was seated next to the pilot when flak had risen suddenly in the night sky to tear through the side of the Lanc, a piece of metal cannon fire embedding itself neatly into both the essential controls of the cockpit and the pilot’s neck, fatally opening his carotid artery. As the plane began an uncontrolled descent, the wireless operator, an Australian, calmly ordered the remaining five crew members to bail. With a cheerio and a God’s speed, he leapt into the night followed quickly by the others. Just three of them made it to safety, landing in an open meadow close to the Belgian border: the wireless operator, the bomb aimer, and Oliver. The gunners, the navigator, and, of course, the pilot, were never seen again.
