Chapter 5
Finding a place to be alone with Cara during the day was not as easy as it would seem. Though the Manse was huge, Da and Margaret often darted in and out of the downstairs rooms for one reason or another, and the butler and maid were always lurking about, polishing this, dusting that. Duff finally pulled her into the conservatory and slid a metal rod through the catch … for all intents and purposes locking the door … and took full advantage of her close proximity.
“We must make an announcement right away, darling. Your family and our friends deserve to hear the happy news from us … not from town gossip.” Cara was pressed against Duff’s broad chest … his arms wrapped tightly around her.
He kissed her again and then murmured into the soft red-brown wave brushed over her ear. “We’ll have a spur-of-the-moment get-together on Saturday night … invite only those with whom we care to share our surprising announcement. No fancy invitations … we’ll make a guest list and I’ll ask Daisy to telephone each one. We’ll not tell anyone the news until the night of the party … how does that sound?”
“A party … how marvelous. But, Duff … that gives us only three days to get ready.”
“This afternoon I’ll put Rosemary and Margaret in charge of catering and hiring a cleaning crew to spruce up the ballroom. Father and Morris will take charge of the drinks table. I’ll ask Richard to come up with a dance band and you and I will go shopping for an outrageous set of rings. I love you, Cara McNally.”
....
“A party … why? What’s going on? Just because you want to have a party is not a good reason, Duff.” Rosemary Gregor Broadmoore was impatient with her rather imperious brother. She wedged the telephone receiver between her second chin and the curve of her shoulder while trying to balance on one leg in order to slip on a too-tight high-heeled shoe.
“On Saturday … this Saturday … you can’t be serious! What caterer worth their price will respond to only three days notice? Adair’s? Well … probably … Patrice Adair would do it. You hire her often enough for your charity events. Cleaners for the ballroom? Really, Duff … you ask too much. Yes, I suppose they could use the extra money … Margaret can do that. Patrice will need to know how many guests are expected … alright. But you tell Margaret to hire the cleaners.”
----
Daisy walked over to what was now Jackson Portchier’s untidy desk. Since he’d arrived, Duff and Alistair had moved out of the library leaving the book writing to the two professionals.
“You and I are listed on a guest roster. We’re invited to a formal affair this Saturday night at Hill Manse along with Richard Hamblin and his mother and some thirty odd others … friends and family, I suspect.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“If it happens to be an occasion,” shrugged Daisy, “I suppose we’ll find out Saturday night with everyone else.”
“Hmmm”, Jackson leaned back in the very comfortable leather chair, moved his long legs from under the desk and rested his heels on the scruffy blotter that protected the mahogany desktop. “It has been generally observed over the centuries that women have a feline sense of curiosity. You are definitely a woman, Daisy, and yet you ask no questions and make no guesses. I conclude, therefore, you already know what ‘occasion’ we will be celebrating.”
Daisy raised arched brows over large innocent green eyes. “Will you be attending or not, Sherlock?”
“Formal as in tux and white tie?” Her nod confirmed it. “Right! … I’ll hire the best bib and tucker available. What time do the festivities begin?”
“Eight o’clock sharp, sir … now, I’ve got to start telephoning.”
Holding the guest list in one hand, she glanced around her desktop, lifting up papers and poking into cubbies with the other hand.
Feeling his presence close to her, she looked up. Jackson carefully placed her reading glasses on her nose and rested the stems over her ears, purposely threading his long fingers into her hair. She held her breath as her innards roiled. He smiled, turned and went back to his desk.
“Thank you.” Daisy said feebly and went to the phone and sat facing the window so he couldn’t see the blush that burned her cheeks.
----
“Daisy telephoned this afternoon, darling, inviting us to a formal gathering at Hill Manse Saturday night.” Charlotte Hamblin placed a tureen of clumpy yellow liquid on the table between their two place settings.
Looking dubiously into the wide deep bowl, Richard sniffed appreciatively. “Smells good, Mum. What is it?”
“Chicken soup with dumplings … I repeat, dear … Daisy called.”
“Yes … formal gear required, I’ve been told. Duff phoned me at the news office. I’m supposed to come up with a dance band by Saturday with just a snap of my fingers. Did she say what the occasion was? Duff wouldn’t tell me.”
Mrs. Hamblin chuckled. “She said it was probably because she needed a good reason to wear her new evening gown again.”
“Again … what was the first reason?”
“Duff took her to the Globe Theater a couple of weeks ago to see Richard Burton perform Hamlet. They met up with Mrs. McNally and her escort, Angus something or other. They apparently had a wonderful time.”
“Duff and Daisy?” Richard’s heart made a startled leap.
“Why not? Duff is in the prime of life and Daisy is … well, Daisy. She is lovely and smart and the sweetest … where are you going? … Richard!”
“Daisy? Hello … Richard here. I’ve been in and out of town covering cricket matches this past week and I’ve missed … uh … you know … our conversations at the Palace. Are you free for lunch tomorrow? … the party … yes, I imagine there is lots to do … Mum and I are looking forward to it. The band? … Oh, yes, the band. I have a couple of contacts I’ll speak to tomorrow morning. Daisy … its awfully fine weather tonight; moons nearly full … would you like to go for a drive? I see … how is it going? … Sounds like you found the right fellow … well then … I’ll see you Saturday night … save plenty of dances for me.”
Banging the phone onto the cradle, he walked back into the kitchen. “Sorry, Mum, it was rude of me to run off like that. The soup is quite good … though the clumps of dough seem a bit … well … leaden.”
“You’re right … they’re meant to float lightly on top of the soup but these plunge like ball bearings to the bottom of the bowl. Are you upset with Daisy, dear?”
He stirred his soup thoughtfully ladling the dumplings onto his bread plate. “Not yet … but if she plans to marry Duff just because he needs a bride, I’ll be madder than hell. They barely know each other … they would never get on together.”
“I’ve known her just as long as Duff has known her and I’m certain, if she loved him, she would make him a wonderful wife. She would make any man a wonderful wife just as Fiona would have.” Charlotte Hamblin took up the soup bowls and set them in the sink with a loud clatter. “If he does ask her to marry him, it is because he has more foresight and intelligence than some men I know!”
“Mum … Daisy has more opinions than a dozen women put together. She likes her independence. And, she rushes in where angels fear to tread.”
“So, now Daisy is a fool? Are you are aligning yourself with the angels?” Mrs. Hamblin’s voice was rising considerably.
Richard carried the soup tureen to the counter. “That isn’t what I said.”
“But that is what I heard. If you are saying that you don’t like or respect Daisy for having opinions… then stop behaving like a thwarted lover! You pushed dear Fiona to the sidelines and I still don’t know why!” An upset Mrs. Hamblin slammed through the stairway door leaving her son to sort out the chaos in the kitchen.
Richard had never washed a dish in his life and he didn’t plan to start now. But, he did put the food away and stacked the pots and plates in the sink for Dora to take care of in the morning.
A thwarted lover … that’s exactly what I feel like. Mum’s no fool and neither is Daisy. I make out that Daisy is difficult. She’s not really … she simply opens herself up to people by telling them what she thinks. Then Mum had to bring up Fiona. I don’t want to think about Fi … that’s over and done with.
----
Cara called out when she heard Daisy’s knock. “Come in … I’m nearly ready.”
“Oh, lordy, you look beautiful … that rusty silk is stunning. May I see your ring again?” Cara held her left hand up under the light moving it back and forth so that the sapphires and diamonds glittered. “I’m so excited for you both. Sit down a minute and let me arrange those rhinestone hairpins a little more securely.”
“The butterflies in my stomach are making me nauseous.”
“I figured as much … so I brought us each a snifter of courage. Hold on a sec.” Opening the sitting room door Daisy reached down and picked up two goblets a quarter filled with golden nectar. Tipping her glass against Cara’s she said, “Skol … cheers … bottoms up, and all the best in the world to you and Duff.”
“Don’t you make me cry, Daisy. I’ll look like a raccoon and scare Duff to death.”
Here’s your evening bag … are you ready?”
“I’m ready!”
----
“Thanks to all of you that could come tonight given such short notice. I know you may have had to cancel theater plans, balls and possibly a dinner with the Royal family in order to oblige me and attend this improvisational evening at Hill Manse. You might be wondering what we are celebrating … what this grand occasion can be about.” Duff reached over, took Cara by the hand and drew her close to his side. “I am happy to announce to my friends and family that Cara Gregor McNally, a distant cousin, whom I’ve loved for quite some time, has consented to be my wife. Please lift a glass in honor of my beautiful bride.”
The stunned silence lasted for only a few seconds. Then, as the news began to sink in, the trickle of applause turned into loud and lively approval. Alistair was thrilled; Rosemary and Margaret were confounded; Richard was relieved; Charlotte Hamblin was filled with feelings of anticipation; Jackson Portchier smiled and winked at Daisy; Daisy reached into her bag for a tissue to carefully dab at the moisture under her eyes.
Slipping his arm around her slim waist, Richard pulled Daisy close and held her tight a second before moving her onto the dance floor. “You are easily the most gorgeous woman in the room. I understand that you wore this fetching black strappy gown to a performance of Hamlet?”
“Yes … but I wore it with a taffeta shrug. It looked very different.”
“Clever girl.” The dance was a slow version of It had to be You and they moved in sync across the floor and out onto the gallery. Leaning back against the railing, Richard offered a cigarette to Daisy, which he knew would be refused, lit one and inhaled deeply before expelling smoky swirls into the mild moonlit night. “When Duff’s beautiful bride-to-be turned out not to be you, Daisy, I nearly shouted with relief.”
“Me! … Why on earth would you think it was me?” She turned toward him frowning even though a few weeks ago that same thought had flitted through her brain.
“Daisy … you’re a very pretty woman … you work with Duff every day … he needed a wife and he took you to see Hamlet. In my mind it all added up.”
“I hope you realize how dysfunctional your mind is.” She said dryly.
“Right! As concerns you, I don’t seem to be able to think straight at all. May I make amends by asking you to have dinner with me one night next week?”
“What night would that be?”
“Well, let me see. ‘Tis the season for cricket, ruger and soccer … you know the Brits”, he grinned, “we love our sports. I left my diary at home … may I call you tomorrow?”
Daisy searched his face then turned toward the ballroom. Looking back over her shoulder at him, she answered slowly and quietly, “That’s a good idea. You let me know which evening you have nothing better to do and I’ll see if I’m free. Excuse me … I promised a dance to Mr. Gregor … the elder.”
Richard stared dumfounded as Daisy swayed her way through the milling guests toward the front table, his mind going over what he’d said. Oh, gawd … I didn’t mean for her to think the games were more important than a date with her … she misunderstood. He ground out his cigarette and went back into the ballroom. Lately, with Daisy, I’ve been dismally clumsy. But she knows what my job involves … she’s being unreasonable.
Daisy was having a clash of emotions. She felt happy for Cara and frustrated with Richard, Still she planned on having fun at the party. Not being adept at hiding her feelings well, she appreciated the simple two-step she and Alistair were executing around the floor and let him do the talking. He was happy for his son and was fond of his future daughter-in-law. His prayers had been answered … and, he was amused by the reverse reaction displayed by his daughters.
Alistair confided, “They were out maneuvered and resent having not been able to choose a bride for Duff or be able to express their copious opinions before the engagement was announced.” Then he whispered conspiratorially, “Be warned, my dear, a young man is approaching who is intent on taking you away from me.” He bowed formally, his mustache brushing the back of her hand before turning Daisy over to Jackson Portchier.
She smiled with genuine pleasure at the tall southerner, resplendent in his rented tux, and strived to tame the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
Oh, lordy, lordy ... just breathe. “I know you are a writer of note, sir, but how are you on the dance floor?”
“Fair to middlin, Miss Daisy … let’s give it a go.”
----
Sunday morning found Mrs. Hamblin adjusting her hat in front of the hallway mirror and pulling on her gloves. “I’ll be walking into services late if we don’t leave soon, Richard.”
“I’m ready … I’ll bring the car around front.”
“You seem rather glum this morning, dear”, said Charlotte Hamblin as she settled herself in the passenger seat. “Aren’t you feeling well? Are there no sporting events to be played today that would lift your spirits?”
“Why do you say that, Mum? Sports writing is my job … how I make a living.”
“That is true … but it is also the chief interest in your life. Games for you are entertainment … a diversion from the humdrum of everyday life as well as your job. If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that reporting on competition events takes up maybe a forth of your time … watching matches for the fun of it takes up another forth … eating, sleeping, being with your mother, playing cards at your club and enjoying the company of young women takes up the final half.”
“Gawd … you must think me a boring bastard!”
“Richard! That was uncalled for. You asked me a question and I answered it.”
Richard sighed, “Sorry, Mum … Daisy walked away from me last night because she thought I would rather watch a sports match than be with her. It was my fault … my invitation was clumsy. Rather than being the charming fellow I set out to be, I came off rather boorish. She has definite expectations of a man.”
“All she expects is to be valued. The respectful attention you require from your friends and colleagues is all that she expects from you. Daisy will never stand for being tucked into a man’s pocket until he is ready to pay her any mind. There are women who would settle … ones that want a husband even at the cost of their self-respect. That was what I did thirty-eight years ago, but Daisy won’t do that.”
Richard stopped the car, went around to the passenger door and helped his mother exit the Topo. “Dear, if Daisy is too difficult for you … please leave her be. In due course, she will be wooed and won by someone else.”
----
“Hello, Morris, is Miss Landis in this afternoon?”
“I believe so, sir. Please come in, Mr. Hamblin. Mr. Travis is in the drawing room. If you’ll be seated, I’ll tell Miss Landis you are here.”
Stepping toward the tall, dark young man in horn-rimmed spectacles, Richard stuck out his hand. “Jordy, you old sod ... I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age. What are you doing here?”
“Came to see Duff. We’re going to chew on a new plan to add a few more beds to the hospice. What about you?”
“Came to see a girl, don’t you know.” Richard winked as Morris led a laughing Jordy Travis toward the library.
After a few minutes, Morris returned. “Miss Landis will join you in a moment.”
It was more like ten minutes before Daisy finally opened the door. She smiled and walked over to him. Dressed in a white sweater, slim-cut black trousers and a black satin hairband, Richard thought she looked fantastic.
“This is a surprise”, she said, “but not unwelcome.”
Richard caught his breath … she’d stopped a few feet in front of him … waiting.
“Thank you. Uh-hum … Daisy … I’d like to apologize for last night. I aimed to be charming and ended with egg on my face. My fault entirely”, he said quickly and reached for her hand; drawing her closer to him. “Sports and my job are important to me but I also want to spend time with you … even though my clumsiness made it seem otherwise.” He took another deep breath. “Would you be available Tuesday afternoon for luncheon and Friday evening for dancing at the Continental Ballroom, and Saturday … all day Saturday … for a drive and a picnic?”
“Richard,” Daisy exclaimed, “that is so sweet.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I know I’m free for lunch on Tuesday. Could we talk again during the week about Friday and Saturday?”
“Of course … of course we can!”
Driving to the cricket match in Chelsea, Richard was elated. She is really special … a woman who knows her own mind. Fiona was special, too, but she made me jealous just once too often. He didn’t want to think about Fiona right now. Mum thinks I should tread carefully so as not to lead Daisy on. Mum doesn’t know how well she can take care of herself, easily making a bloke feel about two feet tall.
-
---
When Jackson arrived at the London Times in ’53, he’d purchased a 1950 silver MG TD roadster from one of the news writers. The fellow had overextended himself when he’d bought it and made the American a very good deal. Watching the six foot two inch Virginian fold his frame into the sporty two-seater was entertainment for the reporters lounging near the upstairs windows when nothing else was going on. Unaware of his amused audience, Jackson plunked a thick file filled with notes and future news assignments on the passenger seat and after shifting the car into gear, he headed up to Hill Manse.
Daisy’s schedule varied according to how often or how long Jackson could work on the manuscript. He, after all, had a full time job at the Times.
“A desk is a desk”, he said, … “It’s easier to write a review of a book or play from here than from the newsroom. Besides being quieter, the company, Miss Daisy, is far superior.” Jackson twisted his chair around to see her better. “Have you ever seen Agatha Christie’s play The Mousetrap?”
“A play by Christie? No … I read a short story called Three Blind Mice that she wrote a few years ago.”
“She rewrote that tale for the stage and it’s being performed at the Ambassador Theatre. It features Margaret Lockwood and opening night is this Saturday. I’ve been assigned to review it and have a London Times pass which is good for two people. Would you like to go with me?”
“Oh, I’d love to see it. Is it formal dress?”
Jackson laughed. “Nope, it’s not. One formal outing a month is all I can afford. A nice dress, hat and evening wrap and you’re all set. All I need is a suit, tie and a well-brushed fedora as well as the ever present black umbrella … you never knows when it’ll start pouring.”
“What time would we leave for the theater?”
“Curtain is at eight. We should probably leave by seven … traffic, parking and who knows what else might slow us down.”
“I’m looking forward to a ride in your roadster. It’s a real stunner.”
“It looks better than it travels, I’m afraid ... not all that comfortable. But you’ll look fantastic in it.”
Daisy blushed. “Will you take notes during the play?”
“Probably not … only if something out-of-the-ordinary catches my notice, then I’ll jot it down. I have no trouble remembering the over-all performances or the quality of the theatrical production itself. The effect on the audience as well as me is important. There is an ambiance that permeates the theater during a play, a ‘tone’ that I try to interpret it as best I can.”
“Your job is more complicated than I imagined. It will be interesting to hear what you have to say and compare your impressions with mine. What fun … thanks for asking me.” Daisy looked back at the mess on her desk ... then, looking over at Jackson again, she smiled. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Uhh, I have occasion to go to the theater quite often. Your company would be very ... refreshing.”
----
Richard arrived at Hill Manse at twelve sharp on Tuesday. “When do I have to have you back, Daisy?”
“On the doorstep by two o’clock … will that be okay?”
“That’ll be fine … let’s go. You will allow me to drive? You don’t need anymore practice runs?”
“In my opinion, I do quite well and Cara would agree. On the other hand, Duff and Mr. Gregor tend to wring their hands and make rude comments from behind the curtains they peek through as I enter and exit the drive. That’s what my little Scottish spy, Donal, tells me.”
After the starter, conversation between the pair began to lag. The ‘what’s been happening’ patter had pretty much run its course and now they had to search for some common ground. Daisy mentioned that she was a Brooklyn Dodger fan … Richard filled an awkward silence with a commentary on the differences between cricket and American baseball. Daisy’s observations regarding the Veteran’s book project were peppered throughout other long pauses during the meal.
Finally Daisy hit on a subject that garnered real interest from her companion. “Richard, what are some of your favorite meals? I don’t mean what you would order in a restaurant, but home-cooked meals.”
His face lit-up significantly. “I have several. Let me see now. There’s chips and egg, steak, roast beef and roast lamb, bangers and mash …”
“Whoa … what are bangers and mash?”
“Beautiful fat sausages with mashed potatoes and brown sauce … you know … what you call gravy.”
“I see … continue …”
“Cottage pie, Cornish pasty, bubble and squeak …”
“Whoa, again … what is bubble and squeak?”
“It’s a Cockney dish … a kind of patty made from left-over potatoes, cabbage and other stuff from the fridge and fried.” Richard leaned forward and grinned. “Why do you want to know my favorite dishes, Daisy?”
“I’m putting together some recipes for your mother and I thought I’d include some of your favorites.”
Slightly deflated he said, “Mum seems to enjoy being in the kitchen … cooking the evening meal. I try to make it home a couple of times during the week. She’s doing fairly well, but you may want to emphasize seasonings. She made a concoction called ‘hash’ one night. Gawd, it was bloody awful.”
Daisy laughed. “I’ll be sure and make detailed notes about the need for salt, pepper, herbs and spices.”
In the car on the way back to Hill Manse Richard again asked Daisy to go dancing with him on Friday night and picnicking on Saturday.
“I can go with you on Friday night but I’ll have to give Saturday a miss. What time will you pick me up and what is the dress code?”
“Seven-thirty and it is fancy dress. Oh, but please, don’t wear those high heeled shoes you wore at Duff’s engagement party. You’re tall enough as it is … you don’t need extra lift.”
“Right you are … see you Friday at seven-thirty.”
----
Donal burst into the library teeming with the energy and all the enthusiasm a cooped-up eight-year old boy would naturally exhibit. “Nobody’s around, Miss Landis. Mum went off with Mr. Duff somewhere; Victor took Mr. Gregor to a meeting; it’s cook’s day out and Sally’s hopeless about food and I’m hungry!”
Daisy got up from her desk, went over to him and smoothed her hand over his rumbled head. “Well, you have every reason to be concerned. Your mother told me she was leaving for awhile and I’m sorry for neglecting you. What do you say, Jackson … what shall we do about lunch?”
“If Mrs. McGillicuddy is out, we’ll have the kitchen to ourselves. I suggest we go below stairs and, like pirates embolden by evil purpose, you know ... driven mad with hunger ... we’ll plunder whatever vittles take our fancy.”
“A wonderful idea. Lead the way, Blackbeard.”
The kitchen was huge … much bigger than Mrs. Hamblin’s. From top to bottom, everything was white and spotless. The three trespassers stopped in their tracks, intimidated by the harshly hygienic surroundings.
“Buck-up me hearties”, urged Jackson. “We must be fearless. Let’s see what looks good in the fridge.”
Jackson opened the refrigerator and started to pull out chunks of beef, ham, and cheese, bowls of butter, sandwich spread, mashed potatoes and hardboiled eggs and piled them on a prep table. The pantry gave up bread, mustard, olives, pickles, onions, strawberry jam, marmalade, and shortbread biscuits.
Daisy looked about her. “I’m going to pull rank on you two buccaneers. Jackson, would you cut-up sandwich-sized pieces of meat and cheese? Also, the bread needs to be sliced. Donal, would you find plates, silverware and glassware and set the table by the window? Thank you. I’ll make a potato salad.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Jackson grinned and spotted a Bakelite radio sitting on a shelf next to a window. Flipping it on, he dialed a station that played popular tunes rather than the Irish folk music Cook clogged to.
Hey nonny ding dong, alang alang alang
Boom ba-doh, ba-doo ba-doodle-ay
Oh, life could be a dream (sh-boom)
If I could take you up in paradise up above (sh-boom)
If you would tell me I'm the only one that you love
Life could be a dream, sweetheart
(Hello, hello again, sh-boom and hopin' we'll meet again)
Oh, life could be a dream (sh-boom)
If only all my precious plans would come true (sh-boom)
If you would let me spend my whole life lovin' you
Life could be a dream, sweetheart
A trio of wide-ranging vocalizations, word proficiency, volume and dubious talent bounced about the room. Daisy and Jackson rocked and rolled in place behind their work space but Donal’s creative dance steps moved enthusiastically between table, cupboards and drawers. His choreography was inspired and received loud applause and encouragement from his audience … “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
A male voice had taken over the airwaves informing his radio listeners of the wonders of a popular washing detergent and the impending broadcast of the mid-day news.
“I have a stack of 45s at home. That song is in there somewhere”, commented Daisy as she chopped onions and wiped tears away with Cook’s apron.
“Never changed to a 45 turntable … but I do have a lot of 78s … a jazz library and a few classical recordings in my flat. This should be enough sliced bread for the three of us.”
“I think I’ll ask Mother for that Sh-boom record for Christmas. At home, our player sits on a cupboard that holds all of Mother’s records. She listens to songs by a girl called Yana, but I like Sh-boom better.”
After eating the hearty lunch and having impeccably cleaned the kitchen, Jackson and Daisy returned to the library and Donal went upstairs to continue work on his rocket..
Daisy positioned her reading glasses on her narrow nose, picked up a sheet of paper and walked over to where Jackson sat behind his desk. “This write-up I’ve been working on … the interview with Charlie Arbuthnot … the material itself is moving but what I’ve written sounds only sad. The heart-wrenching pathos necessary to describe Charlie’s life is just not fully portrayed. May I?” She said, leaning against his desk. Jackson nodded, made himself comfortable and smiled.
“…Charlie (last name withheld) is your average Englishman”, she read … “born and bred in London; raised to be honest and God-fearing by loving parents. As a lad, he learned his trade in an uncle’s vegetable stall in Steerborn Lane. Being a smart, ambitious young man, he saved his money and in 1934, leased a storefront on Wimpole Street. There he sold fresh fruits, herbs and vegetables … married the pretty girl who worked in a bakery across the road, rented a two bedroom house and fathered three sons.
In 1940 he was asked by King and country to defend his nation and kill the enemy in a manner in which the military had adeptly trained him. For five years he saw and did the unspeakable as duty demanded. The men in his unit became his friends. He watched as chums … Freddy, Louis, Geoff, and Finney were blasted to bits by an army of other ordinary men who had been trained to kill their enemies which included Brits and Jews of every nationality. His friends perished beside him, beneath him, and on top of him.
Following the thousands of horrifying days and nights, he came back home without a scratch. He came home to his wife and children … his fruits and vegetables. Life was supposed to return to normal. It did not. The tragedies he endured occupied the foremost span of his mind … like a television movie he could never turn off.
At first, all and sundry treated him as the hero he was. He was included in all aspects of his family’s life. But then his vivid war memories, depressive moods and erratic behavior began to distress his wife and kin. Charlie couldn’t work or sleep or talk sense to anyone … so he talked to himself. His family and friends became frightened, embarrassed, and guilt-ridden because they couldn’t help him. The doctors couldn’t help him, either. Eventually, those who loved him most began to feel ashamed of him.
In 1947 he checked himself into a London hospital’s mental division. He
was released and sent home in 1950. In 1951 he was committed by the Royal Court to another London hospital’s mental ward. That is where our hero lives today. Sadly, he shares the ward with many other former British war heroes.”
She laid the piece on Jackson’s ‘to be considered’ pile. “I’m sure you’ll be able
to put some ‘heart’ into it.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, Daisy. It sounds fine.”
“But ‘fine’ isn’t good enough. Charlie’s misery must be palpable to the reader.
Being able to write what another feels is not easy. I can empathize with his pain but can’t translate the empathy onto the written page as well as you can. I make it sound like a ‘bleeding-heart’ wrote it … which is probably true. For a seemingly sensible and pragmatic person, Jackson, you have a gift ... you write from a sensitive and compassionate soul.”
She took off her glasses and set them on her desk, then turned around to face him
again. She noticed he looked rather pink and fuddled.
“How could any man return home as ‘normal’ after having spent years killing other human beings while praying he won’t be killed himself.” Daisy uttered the remark as a statement rather than a question. “May I ask about your family and how the war changed your outlook on life, if, in fact, it did change? And, please tell me to stop meddling if I get too personal.”
“I’d be glad to answer as best I can. Let’s sit over here … mind if I smoke?” He stretched out his long legs and relaxed into the corner of the Chesterfield sofa.
“Puff away, sir”. Kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet beneath her, she settled snugly into the plump leather chair facing him. She was amused by the intricate routine Jackson followed as he prepared his pipe for the two smoke breaks he allowed himself during the day.
He untied a pouch he kept in an inside jacket pocket, filled the pipe’s bowl, carefully tapped down the tobacco with a tool called a tamper and lit a match. It took a minute of fiddling with the flame in order to get the shredded leaves to combust enough to smolder properly. Then he retied the pouch and placed it back into his pocket.
The long draft he inhaled he blissfully exhaled in a pale fog. “I appreciated your candor as regards your friend Pat Chaynes and how he dealt with and was still dealing with his problems. And, due to his war experiences, you suffered, too. In a sense, the war and the death of your parents, transformed you into the curious, resilient and disconcertingly independent young woman you are today.”
Daisy could feel the flush in her cheeks. This man could fluster her so easily, but instead of dropping her eyes, she kept her gaze riveted on the pallid curls of smoke that drifted through his lips.
Jackson was self-consciously aware that Daisy’s total attention was focused on him. In order to concentrate, he dropped his eyes to the embers glowing in the pipe bowl.
“I’ll start back when I was ten years old. My parents were killed in a freak fire caused by lightning that struck our farmhouse during an electric storm late one night at the end of a dry summer. I got out safely because Brownie had scrabbled up on my bed and barked until I woke up … I slept in a room off the kitchen downstairs. My parents slept upstairs where the fire had started. The farm where I lived with my folks was in Kensington County, Virginia. I had no family locally so was sent off to stay with my father’s older brother and his family. They lived in a large house in Charlottesville.
Aunt Louisa tried her best to make me understand that I was her champion, a means to a better life for her and her two girls, Carla and Doreen. She was married to a man whom she felt wasn’t worthy of her. Uncle Cecil supported his family, not extravagantly, therefore, not up to the standards that his wife felt she and her daughters deserved. Uncle did his best to suppress her influence over me.
There was a small airport outside of town and I would go there after school everyday to watch the planes take off and land. It was Uncle who paid for flying lessons for the both of us when I turned sixteen.
In Aunt’s mind, I was the source of future material goods. You see, I was to receive a large cash sum at age twenty-one. This money was from the sale of my parent’s farmland, which consisted of several hundred acres, the animals and machinery. Uncle Cecil had our family lawyer hold onto the property until land prices went up and then it was sold at a very good profit. He made sure my holdings were kept out of his wife’s grasp which nettled her no end.
Because of my Uncle’s blatant disrespect toward his wife and her obvious hankering after my inheritance, my initial opinion of women was quite jaded.” Jackson smiled wryly through swirls of vanilla smoke.
“Your aunt sounds just awful! I’m surprised you can countenance a female presence at all.”
Jackson’s eyes slid slowly to where Daisy sat curled like a cat in the dark chair … her facial expression appeared innocent enough, but the corners of her mouth quivered ever so slightly. Again he pondered the glow in the bowl of his pipe.
“As I told you when we first met, I joined the RAF when I turned eighteen and was trained as a combat pilot and five years later was discharged with no physical injuries. As a bomber pilot, I seldom saw anyone killed, just the fiery blasts from the bombs Burgess dropped from the hold on my signal. I knew that innocent women and children could have been killed as well as the enemy troops on the ground. I don’t believe that any soldier wouldn’t be affected by what he saw or did in some negative way. For me … I was full of self-disgust. Guys like Charlie, for instance, stood face to face with the enemy … fighting fair … if ‘fair’ was a concept anyone considered doable in wartime. There was a great distance between Burgess and me and the enemy troops we bombed. Often our plane was chased and shot at in air combat … but still, we shot back at aircraft flown by vague demonic shadows. I came home needing to atone … not for battling Monster Hitler and his armies … but for my romantic notions going into battle and my arrogance regarding the role I played. As a pilot, I thought I was a real ‘hot shot’. Even if I didn’t physically swagger, my attitude did. I’ve been trying to absolve my conscience ever since.”
Daisy pushed herself out of the chair and walked to the window that looked out onto the flower garden. “Your personal narrative should be included, Jackson. It would be a gentle segue from the misery of the mentally ill vets to the national pride felt by the veterans that say their stint in the military fighting the enemy was the greatest time of their lives.”
“I’ll run it by the Gregor’s … hear what they have to say about it.” Jackson rapped the burl wood bowl against a heavy glass ashtray, emptying the residue. From a pocket inside his jacket he pulled out a metal reamer to scrape away stuck tobacco fibers and then a chenille cleaner was inserted to wipe moisture from inside the pipe stem.
“I’ve never seen so much time and concerted effort put into an activity that exacts less than fifteen minutes of pleasurable puff time. Of course, a surgeon spends quite a bit of time scrubbing his hands in order to be sterile before surgery, but then he spends hours at the operating table trying to save a life,” reflected Daisy.
“Ah … but you misconstrue the purpose of the activity. Pipe preparation and puttering time is used for meditation … for pondering life’s ins and outs … ups and downs … this’ and that’s. And, I’m quite sure I’m right about this … I’m in no danger of becoming sterile.”
“As a Brit would say, you’ve got a cheeky sense of humor, Jackson.” Laughing, Daisy added, “If you don’t need me for anything, please excuse my leaving a little early … I’ve got to fine-tune a dress and curl my hair. I’m going dancing tonight.”
As she passed by him, he lightly squeezed her arm. “ See you tomorrow night.”
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