Rob had dated Alice, a waitress who worked in a café near the college, during his last year in school. Before he left for basic training, Alice had started talking about getting married, but Rob had made it clear that marriage was out of the question because just too many things could go wrong, especially when your future included flying bombers over Germany. During his training, he had witnessed a crash where the pilot had just barely gotten off the ground when something went wrong, and the fully-fueled Fortress exploded on impact killing everyone on board. While Rob was in the hospital in England, Alice had written to tell him she was marrying someone else. If their break-up had distressed him in any way, he was hiding it admirably.
While waiting for my train in the Underground station, I asked Rob if he had met anyone while he was in England, and that’s when I found out about Millie. The two met at a dance at the airfield sponsored by the Red Cross, and they hit it off right away. Rob told Millie about Alice, and Millie told Rob about her boyfriend, who was in the Royal Navy. They agreed to enjoy each other’s company until her boyfriend returned to England. Millie might explain why Rob was not more upset when he got his Dear John letter. He had been stepping out on Alice.
I asked, if Millie had not had a boyfriend, would he have married her, and he said, “No way. Millie was a great girl. She lived in Royston, which was only four miles from the base. I’d ride over on my bike to see her, but that was the extent of it.”
What Millie provided more than anything, more than the sex, was female companionship. Rob had tired of listening to men bullshit about their flying experiences. If all the claimed kills of German fighters were true, then there wouldn’t have been any Focke Wulfs or Messerschmitts left in the Luftwaffe, and since there was no shortage of fighters when Rob flew, he didn’t want to hear it anymore. So a pleasant evening spent with a pretty, young English girl was preferable to a night of pub hopping with guys who drank to mask the fear everyone felt who flew bombers over Germany.
After learning about Alice and Millie, I was left with the impression that Rob liked relationships that didn’t require a commitment on his part, which was going to put him at odds with me.
Chapter 10
Rob was amused by my “Pride and Prejudice Project,” as he called it. As a show of support, he read the novel for the first time. He liked Elizabeth Bennet’s character but didn’t understand what she saw in Darcy, other than his money and big house. Rob considered Darcy to be a “stiff.”
“I have to be honest here because ‘disguise of every sort is my abhorrence,’” he said, quoting Mr. Darcy. “Did people actually talk like that?”
Jack and Beth suggested I go to Desmet Park in Kent, the Rosings Park of Pride and Prejudice, or if that was not possible, to Bennets End, the village that was the model for Meryton. Because of its easy distance from London, we could see it in a day trip. The next weekend, following Jack’s directions, Rob and I set out for Meryton in a car borrowed from one of Rob’s co-workers.
When we arrived in Bennets End, my idea was to ask the local postmaster if he knew the Edwards family, but Rob had a better idea and headed straight for the pub. We were directed to the lounge, where they had booths, and ordered two beers. The man taking our order shouted, “That’ll be two beers for the Yanks.” And with that, Rob saw his opening and told him that he had been a member of a B-17 crew flying from an airfield right here in Hertfordshire. Other men drifted over to our table and joined in the conversation. From then on, it was like old-home week. Nearly everyone in the pub had seen groups of bombers forming up before heading out on a mission, and if they hadn’t seen them, they had heard them or felt the vibrations, which shook buildings to their foundations.
After a few war stories, Rob asked if anyone knew the Edwards family. Joe Carlton was the first and loudest to say he remembered the family from when he was a boy and offered to take us out to the farm. During the ride, Joe said, “It’s too bad you didn’t come last year when the house was still standing. It survived the war but not the peace.”
Rob had driven about a mile from the pub when Joe told him to pull over. Making a wide sweep with his hand, he indicated that all the acreage before us had once belonged to the Edwards family. According to Joe, there had been a large house on the property, so it seemed reasonable to assume that, at one time, the farm had been profitable and had provided a nice living for the family.
“During the war,” Joe explained, “this whole area was one big Yank car park: jeeps, armored vehicles, artillery pieces, and trucks as far as the eye could see. Every country road was lined on both sides with steel bays holding artillery shells. Getting ready for the invasion, they were. Even then, the Edwards farmhouse was in terrible shape from years of neglect, but it was good enough for some of the officers, what with our English weather. The rest of the Yanks were living in those freezing Nissen huts, and they were the lucky ones. The ones who come last had to make due living in tents.
“What I remember is that there were two old-maid sisters and their brother living there in the 1930s. The brother had been shot in the head in Flanders. He could do the odd job, but not much more. When he died, they sold out and moved to Bournemouth, I think.”
Lighting up the cigarette Rob had offered him, as well as putting one behind his ear, Joe told us we were not the first ones to think this particular town might be Meryton. Maybe, I thought, because the farm was located in Bennets End. That might have been a clue.
Looking off into the distance, Joe said, “The government has bought up 5,000 acres around here, including the Edwards farm and my dad’s farm. They’re going to build houses for those poor bastards what was bombed out of their homes in London.” Joe started to laugh. “When the bigwigs come ’round to let us know what was going to happen, some of the meetings got pretty rough. The farmers don’t think it’s right for someone from London to tell us they’re going to turn our farmland into a town, and there’s sod all that can be done about it.”
Joe went quiet for a few minutes and then said, “Well, it was bound to happen, us being so close to London. Once people from the city start moving in, it’s all over. They come out to the country because it’s so beautiful. Everything’s terrific until the winds blow the smell of cow shit their way. It’s a big surprise to city folk that farms stink.” Shaking his head, he added, “Then you have all them soldiers and sailors coming home from the war and getting married. Now, their wives are having babies, and they need a place to live. They’ve got to live somewhere.”
Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “So why not here, is what I say. We can use the jobs.”
On the ride back to the village, Joe suggested that we “have a look at the graveyard up to the church. If this is Meryton, then some of them might be buried up there.” After Joe “bummed another fag,” we dropped him off at the pub.
The cemetery, with its heaving graves and tilted headstones, reminded me of the one in Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations where Magwitch was hiding when he met Pip. When we saw the size of the graveyard, we were a little discouraged, and our mood was matched by the rain that was just starting to come down. Walking the uneven ground, we quickly glanced at the names on the headstones, some so faded that they looked more like fingerprints than letters.
“I’m going to break a heel,” I yelled to Rob, who was on the other side of the cemetery. “That’s if I don’t sink into the ground first.” With the rain getting heavier, I was just about to give up when I saw it.
Henry W. Garrison
1775 — 1787
Francine Garrison