Searching for Pemberley (37 page)

While cutting his ham, Geoff informed me that, in Brussels, the shops were full of every type of commodity and consumer goods. “Shoes, clothing, ham, eggs, bacon—all are plentiful. I don't understand why Britain is still experiencing such privation when Belgium, a country occupied by the Germans, is back to normal. I've seen some very chubby, well-shod Belgians.”

“What did you do during the war?”

“I interrogated German prisoners captured during the Battle of the Bulge. But by time I got there, the poor bastards were
sitting in groups, waiting—hoping—to be captured. They were more frightened of their fellow Germans than they were of us. The SS had been hanging those whom they considered to be deserters from whatever structure was handy, usually a lamppost or tree, although they tended to shoot the officers. So these war-weary soldiers allowed us to stumble upon them. For some, their uniform was their first pair of long pants. Thirteen- and fourteen-year-old boys. Damn depressing.”

All the while Geoff had been talking, he had been making cracker sandwiches of ham and cheese. Pleased with his creation, he asked, “Now, your turn. What did you do during the war? Did Americans have National Service?”

“No. There was nothing like that in the States, but we all tried to do our bit. I moved to Washington in '44 and worked for the Treasury Department, and after the war, I got a job with the Army Exchange Service.”

“Boyfriend?”

“In Atlanta, Georgia.”

“Is there a reason for such a long-distance romance?”

“Rob's currently working for a company headquartered in Atlanta until December 23rd,” I said uncomfortably. “He's not sure what he wants to do after that, so until that time, I've decided to stay here in London.”

Geoff tilted his head and looked at me as if he wasn't buying it. Rather than answer any more questions, I asked him about his love life. “I understand you might be preengaged.” I was repeating a comment his mother had made. Patricia had been considerably annoyed at her son for his failure to take seriously his relationship with the niece of her closest friend.

“That was a joke, but Mother didn't stay around long enough to find that out.” After putting his cracker down, he continued. “For some time now, I have been seeing Alberta Eccles. Unlike me, she's a caring and compassionate person. Her parents are in the midst of a nasty divorce, so Bertie runs from her mother's house in Bucks to her father's rooms in London in the fruitless pursuit of trying to salvage her parents' marriage. It is not salvageable! Her mother ran off with her lover to Brazil. Bad decision all around. The British run away to Argentina not Brazil. Once she got to Rio, Mrs. Eccles realized her mistake and returned to England. Bertie blames her mother's behavior on the 'change of life,' and I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. But she must have known she was stepping over the line when she made her affair so public.

“The irony here is Bertie wants her parents to take her advice and 'forgive and forget.' Yet, with everyone in her family telling her the situation is a hopeless mess, she refuses to let it go, because that's advice she doesn't want to hear. By the way, nice job of leading the conversation away from your love life. I suspect all is not well with your chap in Atlanta.”

I stood up and excused myself. I was tired from working all day and typing for a few hours each night. But I really wanted to get back to my room and reread a letter I had received from Rob. He was glad to hear I would be living with the Alcotts during the winter months because, “I don't like to think of you curled up in front of that space heater and wearing mittens to bed. Remember how we used to fight off the cold?” Here was another example of Rob flirting with me, but with nothing to back it up, what was the point? He then wrote at length about his brother's role as a pilot flying C-54s into Berlin before getting to the real reason for the letter.

Are Beth and Jack getting any news from Michael? I'm curious about his part in this business. I wonder how long it can go on, especially since flying in conditions in northern Europe in winter can be pretty bad. I know something about that. It's too bad Michael was transferred to Germany. But like he said, he's out in November, so what's that, another three or four weeks? I imagine his first stop will be Crofton to see his parents, and his second stop will be Holland Park. You two seemed to have hit it off. Looking forward to your next letter.

Love,
Rob

I was becoming increasingly frustrated with Rob. It seemed as if he wanted to continue our relationship, or why else would he be writing me letters? But with an ocean between us, how was that supposed to happen? He was definitely trying to figure out if there was something going on between Michael and me, but he knew as much as I did. We had had some passionate moments together before he left for Germany, and I really liked him. But since that time, there had been total silence—that is, until today. When I came home from work, on my section of the foyer table, was a letter from Michael.

Dear Maggie,

I'm not sure if you read my letter to Mom and Dad, but I am now flying back and forth between Lubeck and Berlin repairing aircraft left behind because of maintenance problems. The return flights have been very interesting.
Because of the fuel shortages, children and the elderly are at risk for hypothermia, so we have been flying old people and mothers with small children to the West. The kids seem to get a kick out of flying, but the adults are terrified. I can't blame them because we've had some rough weather, and you can really get bounced around back there. I do what I can to divert their attention. I speak to them in German, and they either start laughing, or it becomes a game trying to figure out what I'm saying.

I'm really looking forward to getting home, but before I do, I wanted to apologize for my behaviour the week of the ball. I came on to you so strongly you must have thought me a total brute. The only excuse I have is that you were the prettiest girl I had met since leaving Australia, and I overreacted. It won't happen again. I appreciate the letters. Please write again.

Mike

After finishing the letter, I thought I should mail it to Rob. In that way, he could see for himself that Michael's second stop after getting home from Germany would not be Holland Park. His interest in me was apparently due to a shortage of good-looking women at his station in Malta. It had been such a short time ago that I had been complaining that my life had become too complicated because two men were interested in me at the same time. That was no longer the case. Problem solved!

OCTOBER 31ST WAS A glum day for me. The British do not celebrate Halloween, reserving their autumn celebration for November 5th, Guy Fawkes Night, a commemoration of the discovery of a plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament. The British make merry by building bonfires, which are fun, but I missed having little kids come to the door for their trick or treat. In Minooka, where everyone knew everyone else, neighbors demanded a “trick” before they put any goody in your bag. My sisters and I would sing a song, and when we were finished, after accounting for my brother's whereabouts, we held out an old pillowcase and were rewarded with a piece of candy or an apple.

If my mood wasn't gloomy enough, London was experiencing its first major fog of the season. It wasn't the city's famous “pea soup,” but it was thick enough to look like a set for a Jack the Ripper movie.

I was hoping someone would be at the house because, for the past two days, I had been all alone. Even Geoff would do, and as it turned out, he would have to. I went into the morning room
and plopped down on the chair opposite to him. He offered to give up his chair, which was closer to the fire, but I didn't feel like moving. I hadn't even taken off my coat.

“Have you been in Brussels?” I asked.

“No, worse. I've been closeted in a conference room with Dutch, Belgian, French, British, and American representatives, none of whom speak a common language.”

“Americans speak English, Geoff.”

“Debatable.” I let out a loud sigh. It was going to be one of those nights.

“I went down to see Lily, and as it turns out, my mother
and
father were there. Lily was in false labor, and my mother rang the alarm bell because the baby would be too early. When it comes to Iris or Lily, all that is required is a phone call for my father to rush to their side. There have been royal births with fewer attendants.”

I had figured out that when Geoff was in a really bad mood, it usually had something to do with his father. The few times I had seen Rand and Geoff together, the atmosphere had been tense. Geoff, who could rarely keep his mouth shut for more than a few minutes, said almost nothing. There was also a physical change. Geoff abandoned his stooped posture for one that would have passed muster at Sandhurst.

“I don't think it's unusual for a parent to favor children of the opposite sex,” I said, yawning. “It certainly was true in my house. If my brother hadn't been under my mother's protection, my father would have killed him.”

“It's not a matter of favoritism.”

“Then what is it?” I asked, getting my handkerchief out of my purse. For the next four months, because of inadequate
heat, my nose would run constantly. There was also the possibility I was getting another cold. And I wasn't alone. Because of a poor diet, many Britons were either sick or getting over being sick.

“I didn't play rugby. I didn't go to Sandhurst. I was never in combat. As far as he's concerned, I don't do manly things. He thinks I'm a twerp.”

I didn't know Rand well enough to know what he thought about anything, but Geoff's reasoning seemed all wrong to me. “With all that your father went through after losing his eye, I can't imagine he would have wanted his son to be in combat. I'm sure he thought you were in enough danger where you were.”

“Maggie, remember, I was in intelligence. Little danger there.”

“Really? I know my classmate, Jimmy Barrett, is buried in Belgium because an artillery shell exploded in a mess tent. He was supposedly behind the front lines and not in danger. Your father saw enough of war to know you could have been killed by an artillery shell or a sniper. Look at the Battle of the Bulge. How many men serving behind the lines were killed or taken prisoner when the Germans broke through?

“Since meeting your father, I've read up on the battle at Passendaele. You'll have a hard time convincing me that your father would want you to go through anything remotely like that. And as for you being a twerp, why don't you stop acting like one? You are intelligent, interesting, and talented, but you act as if life is one big bore.” And after blowing my nose, I finished, “And stop slouching.”

“You're slouching,” was all Geoff said.

“But I'm slouching because I'm cold and tired. You slouch because you're playing defense.”

“And your degree is in psychology, I presume?” I could tell he was annoyed.

Standing up, I said, “No, it's simpler than that. Any father who would want to see his son in the thick of battle shouldn't be a father. It's none of my business, but I think you and your father should sit down and talk. You might surprise each other.”

Geoff surprised me when he told me to sit down. Without asking, he poured a brandy for me. When I had arrived in England, I had never had a drink of hard liquor. As I took the glass from his hand, I realized how much I had changed.

“Yes, I agree. My father would not wish his experience in battle on anyone's son. However, you haven't seen him when he's talking to someone who has been in combat. Of particular interest to him is the Italian campaign because he was against it.”

“So, basically, what you're saying is, your father talks to people who can confirm he was right when he said the Italian campaign shouldn't have been fought at all. It may show him as being proud and lording it over those who got it wrong, but it doesn't show a thirst for blood and guts, especially your blood and guts.”

I decided to change the subject in an effort to turn down the temperature. The relationship that was developing between Geoff and me was very much along the lines of the one I had with my brother. We were constantly sparring.

“Why was your father in the European theater anyway considering he was born and raised in India?”

“Dad is deeply attached to India and its people, but he's also a realist. There was no way Britain was going to be able to keep India in the Empire, so he thought we should concentrate on
Germany and let the Indians take care of India, and the same for Burma. It really was the forgotten war, and the CBI was the worst theater in which to fight. If someone received orders for Burma, it was assumed they would be killed, wounded, or sicken or die of disease. Both my father and Jack had severe attacks of malaria while living in India, so they had first-hand experience with the disease part of the equation. When Michael received his orders, well, you can imagine what everyone was thinking. I don't know what happened to Michael in Burma, but it's obvious that something did because he lost more than two stone, and there's something wrong with his left arm.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. I hadn't noticed anything.

“We spent a lot of time together in India. Michael is ambidextrous, but he's always favored his left hand. At dinner, we were always bumping elbows. It was a game we had. Now, he's doing much more with his right hand. It's really obvious in his letters. His handwriting is abominable, and it wasn't when we were in India.”

I agreed with Geoff about the handwriting. Considering his education, his penmanship looked as if it was being written by someone who was just learning how to write cursive.

“Other than being in the hospital because of a parasite he had picked up,” I said, “Michael hasn't said anything to his parents about being injured or wounded.”

“My God, he wouldn't! When Jack learnt that Michael had orders for Burma, he almost fell apart, although I'm not supposed to know about that. He was already worried near to death about James being in the mixer in Italy, but at least Michael was safe at the air base in Lincolnshire. Then the news came about Burma.