We went for a ride to the Peak District. A cold front had brought with it beautiful blue skies but with enough clouds to cast shadows on the rolling terrain. We walked out onto a promontory for the most gorgeous view of the entire district. We discussed whether he should come to London before I left on Wednesday but decided it would be too obvious why he was there. Before returning to the house, we kissed and hugged, but mostly we talked.
As expected, Beth took the news of my leaving graciously and said I would be with the Crowell family in spirit at Christmastime. Jack said nothing, creating an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Michael suggested we all go down to the Hare and Hound for drinks, but both parents begged off, citing fatigue from the wedding reception.
“Don’t worry about Dad, Maggie,” Michael said. “He’s not the most articulate man. I know he’s sorry to see you go; he just doesn’t know how to express it.”
When I went to my room, there was a note on my desk from Jack, asking if I would join him for breakfast at 7:30.
I’d like to talk to you, so it will be just the two of us. Jack
The change in the weather had brought a biting wind with it, but even so, Jack and I decided to walk to the village. The inn had a fair amount of people eating breakfast in their dining room, but there had been a definite drop-off since the fall colors had faded. After our tea arrived, Jack said, “You know me well enough to know I’m not an emotional man — not on the surface, anyway — but your news, well, it upset me. It’s one thing to have your sons go off, but you expect boys to leave.”
Jack stopped talking for several minutes and just stared into the fire before saying, “Beth and I had a little girl. We knew from the day she was born that she would — that she would be leaving us. Just one short week. That’s all the time we had.” Looking at his hand, he said, “She was the smallest baby I ever saw. After losing Tom and Beth’s brothers, well, it was too much. I thought God was punishing me, but last year, when I met you… You see, you’re exactly the same age our Jenny would have been.”
Jack took a check out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “I called Pan American Airlines, and they told me that was how much a one-way ticket between New York and London costs.” The check was for several hundred pounds, and I shook my head.
“Maggie, I grew up in a house where everyone knew their place. Because of that, I always felt boxed in. I was lucky in that Sir Edward saw potential in me and paid my expenses at The Tech. But, you see, it was still his decision.” Tapping the check, he continued, “I’m hoping you will use the money to come back to us, but if that’s not your choice, then that money is there for you to start out wherever you want. I would have done the same for our Jenny. Please take it.”
I had to excuse myself and go to the ladies’ room. I was crying for so many reasons. I didn’t want to leave the Crowells because they had provided me with love and affection. Beth had done her best to act the part of my mother without usurping her role. But Jack was another story. My father was a man who had been raised in a house where men didn’t show affection. The emotional pounding he had taken from his father had left a man who always seemed to be watching his family from a distance. It had literally been years since my dad had hugged me, and the comparison between Jack and my father was breaking my heart.
If that wasn’t emotional enough, Jack and I walked down to the World War I memorial on the village green. There were ten names listed on the plaque, including Arnie Ferguson, the older brother of Montclair’s gardener; David Rivers, the brother of the owner of the Inn; Trevor and Matthew Lacey; and Michael Thomas Crowell. I hadn’t known that Michael had been named after Jack’s brother.
“When Tom was still a lad, there was a footman named Mike below stairs, so everyone took to calling my brother by his middle name. Our Michael is named after Tom, and James is named after me, James Abel Crowell or JAC, Jack.”
Puzzled looks greeted us when we got back to the house. Both Michael and Beth could see I had been crying, but neither asked any questions.
The following morning, Michael drove me to the Sheffield Station. Before leaving, I asked that he drop me off at the car park and not go into the station. I had barely recovered from Jack’s story, and Beth had lost a gallant effort not to cry. I was already emotionally spent, and I didn’t want to start bawling in the station. I was turning into a real crybaby.
As soon as Michael cut the engine, he jumped out, opened my door, and took my luggage to the entrance to the station. “A telegram would be nice once you get to your parents’ house.”
I nodded. I wasn’t trusting my voice. With people milling all around us, I kissed him for as long as decency would allow, and then I went into the station to begin my long journey home.
December 15th was a brilliantly clear day at the small airport north of London that was used by the government to ferry its diplomats and officials around the world. On the plane, the seating had all of the bigwigs up front in comfortable chairs with tables. The little people sat in reclining chairs in the rear of the plane which, I was shortly to learn, was where turbulence was felt the most.
The pilot announced over the intercom that our flight plan would take us over Iceland, across the Atlantic to Newfoundland, where we would refuel, and finally down the East Coast of the United States to our final destination at National Airport in Washington. Except for some early queasiness, I did quite well compared to my sea voyage from Philadelphia to Hamburg. I fell asleep over Iceland and didn’t awake until we were told we were landing.
During the flight, Rand checked on me every couple of hours but gave no indication he wanted to chat. Once we landed, he said it would be about two hours before we would go on to Washington, and he invited me to go into the terminal for a cup of coffee. On the walls were photos of battles in which Newfoundlanders had fought in The Great War: Arras, Vimy Ridge, Cambrai, Gallipoli. But it was the Battle of Beaumont- Hamel on the Somme that was forever linked with the 1st Newfoundland Regiment. Pointing to a quote by Major General Sir Beauvoir de Lisle, Rand said, “That explains it all.”
It was a magnificent display of trained and disciplined valour, and its assault only failed of success because dead men can advance no further.
The regiment went over the top on July 1, 1916, the first day of the Battle of the Somme. When they had time to count their losses, they found that of the eight-hundred men who had gone into battle, fewer than seventy men answered at roll call. In thirty minutes, the regiment had lost ninety percent of its strength. I thought about Tom Crowell, who had also gone over the top on that awful day. It not only took his life, but it changed his brother forever.
As soon as we took off, my eyes were glued to the window. I wasn’t sure of the distance between Newfoundland and the United States, but I wasn’t going to miss seeing any part of the country I had left more than two years earlier. When the pilot announced we had entered the air space of the United States, I had goose bumps. As we traveled down the East Coast, he pointed out the Gaspe Peninsula, Boston, and Providence. From my window, I could see the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor and the Empire State Building, and after flying over Philadelphia and Baltimore, I could feel the plane losing altitude in preparation for landing.