Winter of Discontent

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Yes. Here’s your coffee.”

  All right, so Jane didn’t want to talk about that part. The terrible shock of George’s death might have been the reason Bill refused to talk, ever, about his war experiences. He must have told Jane just enough for her to understand his pain, but she wasn’t willing to share it. Fair enough, unless it was relevant to our problem.

  Probably it wasn’t, though. For now I’d let it go and concentrate on Mrs. Burton.

  “So do you think the roads are too bad to try to see her today?” I pursued, after we’d each had more cookies than were good for us.

  “Warming up,” Jane said, glancing out the window. “Hear the dripping? Streets probably clear by afternoon.”

  “Where does she live, at Heatherwood House?”

  “Not she. Inherited some money, bought herself a nice house. Stone’s throw away, just off the High Street.”

  “Well, I don’t intend to go around throwing any stones today, or walking anywhere, either. Can you drive us, or give me directions?”

  “Give you directions. Easy enough. Get on better by yourself. Leigh doesn’t like me.”

  “Why not, for heaven’s sake?” Jane liked, and was liked by, almost everybody. She was that kind of person.

  “George died. Bill lived.”

  Sometimes Jane’s terse style hides a depth of insight into the human heart that is almost epic.

  So Jane gave me directions and a phone number, and that afternoon, after a hasty lunch (Alan decided not to come home) and a call to make sure Mrs. Burton was home and would see me, I went off in search of information I had little hope of finding.

  Her house, I discovered, deserved a better adjective than “nice.” It had probably been the home of a wealthy wool merchant, built perhaps a hundred years before mine, which would put it early in the 1500s sometime. It was a museum piece, lovingly restored and maintained in its half-timbered glory. I had passed it and admired it a hundred times without ever bothering to find out who lived inside. That inheritance must have been a handsome one, I mused as I rang the bell with something like awe.

  I waited long enough, before the bell was answered, for my imagination to conjure up an anachronistic picture of a maid in cap and apron. Calling on memories of my favorite Agatha Christie books, I decided she would be wearing a neat flowered-print dress for daytime; black was for evening. Her name would be something like Florence—“faithful Florence.” She would drop me a small curtsy when she answered the door and would go off to see if the mistress was “at home.” Or perhaps she would have been told I was coming and would put me in the parlor to wait …

  The door was opened by a tall, slender woman with steel-gray hair, wearing a blue wool dress and pearls. The pearls looked very expensive indeed, and the dress certainly had not come off the peg. It was cut with a high neck, perhaps to hide the wrinkles of age, but the face above the soft blue wool had the taut firmness that comes only from youth or excellent cosmetic surgery. She held a walking stick, with a finely wrought silver handle and ivory inlays in the ebony shaft.

  “Mrs. Martin? I’m Leigh Burton. Do come in.”

  I blinked away images of the maid and tried to adjust my other ideas as well. This woman had never in her life possessed chocolate-box prettiness. She would have been truly beautiful when she was young, perhaps a Diana Rigg type, with high cheekbones and an aristocratic bearing. She was still striking, even at eighty-whatever, and her accent was impeccable.

  What in the world had she been doing in a tobacconist’s shop in the village of Hurstpierpoint sixty years or so ago? I was consumed with curiosity, but there was really no tactful way to ask.

  I collected my scattered thoughts as she showed me into a drawing room—it was the only possible term for the room—that would have made any antique collector go weak at the knees. I’m no expert about fine furniture, never in my life having been able to afford it, but I’ve visited enough museums to know that some of these pieces belonged in one.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  “May I offer you some sherry?” My hostess seated herself, somewhat stiffly, on a fragile chair I wouldn’t have dared touch, let alone sit in. The piecrust table next to it held a silver tray with a crystal decanter that was definitely not of recent manufacture, and two small, exquisite glasses. I was certain that they, unlike my sherry glasses, had not come from Marks and Spencer’s at five pounds the set.

  “No, thank you. It’s a trifle early for me. But please …” I gestured at the tray.

  Mrs. Burton gave me a wintry smile and folded her hands in her lap. I perceived that the offer had been a pro forma gesture, and also that she was not going to help me get started with my interview. Well, she hadn’t been all that cordial on the phone, either, but Jane had said that talking about George was one of Mrs. Burton’s favorite pastimes. So I’d let her talk about George.

  “I do apologize for intruding on your time,” I began, “but as I said on the phone, I’m trying to write a book about the war, for Americans but from an English point of view. I’ve always felt that people of my generation didn’t really understand what it was like for you folks over here, even though we lived through it back in the States. And of course for the younger people it’s all something they read about in the history books.”

  I stopped to draw breath. I was explaining too much. The more one tries to prop up a story, the more it sounds like the fabrication it is. Well, I was stuck with it now.

  “So I thought I’d begin with some of the people in Sherebury and their stories. And Jane Langland told me of your personal tragedy, and I wondered if you might be willing to tell me about it. If it’s not too painful, of course.”

  Another chilly smile. “It happened many, many years ago, Mrs. Martin. I am not so thin-skinned as all that. What do you want to know?”

  “Well, really, anything you can tell me about Mr. Burton and Luftwich. I’m trying to get a feeling for the period, you see. Did you two meet at the base?”

  Well, she wouldn’t know I knew better, would she? And it probably had nothing to do with my inquiry, but I couldn’t restrain my curiosity about her.

  “Yes. Well. You’ll understand that some of my memories are apt to be rather vague. Don’t rely on me for exact details. But if it’s atmosphere you want …” She paused for a moment and then went on, and her voice took on a different quality, less brisk, warmer.

  TWENTY

  “WE MET WHEN GEORGE—MR. BURTON—WAS AT HURSTPIERPOINT. He was only seventeen, and I a little younger. I lived in the village. We encountered each other now and again when he came in to shop or buy a treat. Boys that age have hollow legs, of course, and he could put away any amount of sweets. We took a fancy to one another from the first. He began buying me candy, taking me out for ices, that sort of thing. It was all very boy-girl and innocent, but my parents didn’t approve.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was a public-school boy. My parents were working-class with very little money. They kept a shop, and thought it better not to mix with the toffs. I was bright enough, but there’d been no money to give me an education. I’d left school when I was fourteen and gone to work in the shop. This was in the late thirties, you understand. Times were hard, and my father used to say it would do no good, me getting used to treats and a soft life, because there was none of that in my future.”

  Her accent had altered subtly with her reminiscence. Just a trace of the old vowels had crept in, a slight change of cadence. I was hearing a bit of Leigh at age sixteen or so.

  “George and I had other ideas, of course. He was going in for engineering. He was going to build bridges and dams, go all over the world, make pots of money, not to mention his family’s money. Oh, he was full of dreams, and I dreamt right along with him.

  “Then the war came. As soon as he left Hurstpierpoint, George enlisted in the RAF. He had learnt to fly while he was still in school, and he thought he’d meet important people, make contacts that could help him when the war
was over. He was commissioned, of course, and entered as a flight lieutenant.”

  “And went to Luftwich,” I put in.

  “Not at first, no. He was sent to a few other places first, but after about a year he was posted to Luftwich. They had suffered some heavy losses of men there and needed experienced flyers badly. And by that time I had turned eighteen, so over my parents’ objections, we were married.”

  “How did his parents feel about it?” That was really pushing it, so I backtracked a bit. “Of course it’s none of my business, really, but wartime marriages are always interesting … the strains on a relationship that parental objections can add, and that sort of thing.” I hope that didn’t sound as lame to her as it did to me.

  She answered readily enough. “They were not best pleased, as you might imagine. They had hoped for a far ‘better’ marriage for their only son. Not that they were extremely wealthy, not then. They had the estate, of course, Deepings, but they’d suffered losses after the First War, like everybody else. Then they had nearly recovered from those when along came another war, even worse. But they knew the right people and had enough capital that they felt they could recoup their losses after the war, when things began to look up again.”

  “But they didn’t like you at first,” I pursued.

  “They had nothing against me personally. It was my background to which they objected. However, they were besotted with George, and when they saw that I was, too, they softened toward me. We’re straying rather far from the story of the war, aren’t we?”

  “Perhaps, but it’s the human interest I’m really trying for.” I had a sudden inspiration. “History books focus on events, on battles and dates and treaties and that sort of thing. This book is to be about people, ordinary people, military and civilian, and what the war did to them. So anything I can garner about the interactions of people is useful.

  “However, I do have some questions about Luftwich, about the life there. I gather they had quarters for married officers.”

  “For some of the very senior officers, yes. Not for us. I took rooms in Alder’s Green, the village near Luftwich, and saw George when I could. He flew a lot of nights, of course, but not every night, so we did have some time together.”

  “Ah, yes, tell me about that. I need to get a feel for the schedule of operations at Luftwich. Most of the flights were at night, then?”

  “Most of the RAF flights, from all of England, not just Luftwich. It was more difficult for the crews, but safer. The Hun couldn’t spot them as easily. Of course, our boys couldn’t see their targets as well, either, so it evened out a bit. Actually, I sometimes wondered if the whole concept might be a mistake. I asked George about it once, I remember.”

  “Asked about the night flights? Surely he couldn’t have done anything about the schedule.”

  “Oh, no, of course not, he was far too junior. But I wondered if he could just mention to his superiors … well, it did seem as though the raids were far less productive than they should have been. It seemed that so few German targets were hit, and so many of our planes destroyed. I think I said that they lost far too many men, and to little purpose.”

  “Hmm. I had the impression that the RAF contributed a great deal to the eventual Allied victory.”

  “That’s the way the history books have it,” she said, and there was an odd note of bitterness in her voice. “Myself, I’ve always thought that either the historians were being patriotic and exaggerating, or else Luftwich was rather the odd man out. Casualty figures were secret, of course, but I knew who was being lost at Luftwich, because they were George’s friends. And one would read in the papers about so and so many German planes shot down, so and so many factories destroyed, and I used to wonder by whom. Certainly not by flights from Luftwich. And given the caliber of men stationed there, that seemed peculiar.”

  “They were good men on the whole, then?”

  “They were excellent men. Excellent flyers, excellent fighters. I got to know a good many of them quite well, of course. George and I had so many friends, and such good times …” Her voice had softened still more, but there was pain in it, too. “Parties, dancing … we were young, and there was a feeling … I can’t describe it, a feeling of belonging, I suppose. We were united against a diabolical enemy, and our differences didn’t matter.”

  “The camaraderie of wartime,” I suggested.

  “Yes, but more than that. It wasn’t just mindless patriotism. The menace was real and terrifyingly close by. France was in German hands, and France is twenty-one miles from England.”

  I gulped. “I suppose I knew that, as an abstract fact, but when I think about it … that’s closer than we are to London.”

  “On a clear day one can see the coast of France from the cliffs of Dover. George and I did that once when he had a few days of leave. Luftwich is in Norfolk, of course, and travel wasn’t easy. We had planned to drive—George had a car—but we couldn’t get the petrol, so we had to take the train. It was crowded and stuffy, I remember, and we had to take the long way ‘round because part of the line had been bombed. But when we got there it was wonderful. The air was clean and fresh and the sun was shining, and we went out on the cliffs. And George pointed and said, ‘He’s over there, Leigh. He’s over there hating us and wanting to destroy us. And I’m not going to let him.’”

  “He sounds like a fine man, your George.”

  “He was. Most of them were.” The bitterness was back in her voice, and I thought that despite her claim to sangfroid, there were still raw nerves not too far from the surface.

  I changed the subject slightly. “Tell me about the men. I suppose George had some particular friends.”

  “He was friendly with everyone. He was like that. He was one of those people who made life seem brighter every time he walked into a room. He had some special friends at first, but one learned, in wartime, to try not to get too close to anyone, because one never knew …”

  We were at a dangerous point again. “Was George under Air Commodore Merrifield’s command?”

  “Wing commander then. Yes, and George thought highly of him. Some of the airmen didn’t care for him, and I confess I never did, myself. A trifle too smooth for my taste, although”—the wintry smile again—“he was the best dancer I’ve ever met. He made rather a point of dancing with his officers’ wives when there were gala affairs in the mess. I do believe I was his favorite partner.”

  “Even though—forgive me, but even though you came from a somewhat humble background?”

  “As I said, those differences began to be quite unimportant. And less obvious, as well, at least for me. It was there, at Luftwich, mixing with the other officers and their wives or girlfriends, that I began to learn to speak properly, dress properly, talk about the right things. You’d wondered about that, hadn’t you?”

  “Well … yes, to tell the truth. That is, when you told me about your background …” I I gestured vaguely around the room. It was an awkward subject, especially for an American who wasn’t used to talking about class differences, but she had, after all, raised it herself.

  “The class structure in England has never been as rigid as foreigners suppose. It has always been possible to transcend it, and times of war help, oddly enough. The great leveler. Oh, yes, I would have made a proper wife for George after the war. But of course I never got the chance.”

  This time I couldn’t think of anything to say to head her off the painful subject.

  “It was near the end of the war, you know. We all thought it was only a matter of months, and in fact it was all over less than a year later, at least in Europe. But meanwhile … it was over Normandy somewhere. I never knew where exactly. That battle was … well, you’ve read reports. You know what a scene of mass confusion it was.”

  “I do know a little about D-day, yes. Many, many Americans were killed.”

  “Yes, of course. But the RAF provided valuable air support, and lost many men, too. George … well, we all waited
and waited for word about our men. When it came … his body was never recovered. Lost at sea somewhere off the coast, it was assumed. None of them, none of that crew, survived.”

  “What did the wives do? What did you do?” Without meaning to, I glanced at the luxurious appointments surrounding me.

  “And how did I acquire all this?” She laughed, a brittle sort of laugh with no amusement in it. All her defenses were up again. “It’s quite simple to explain, really. After George was killed, his parents invited me to come to stay with them.” She hesitated and then went on. “I was expecting a baby, you see. I couldn’t very well go on living in two rooms in Alder’s Green, and they had a room to spare.”

  “But—I must be confused. I thought they had a big house, a country manor.”

  Impatiently, she said, “Yes, of course. I told you. Deepings, just on the Kent border. It has twenty bedrooms, I believe, but most of them were occupied by the children who were billeted there. You know about the evacuation of children from London?”

  I nodded. Many parents who lived in London had, during the worst of the Blitz, sent their children to the country where they might be safer from enemy action. One of the many tragedies of the war was that so often the parents were killed in bombing raids, and the children orphaned. Even those who weren’t were often treated badly by their foster parents, sometimes beaten and starved. I had often wondered if the evacuation had been entirely a good thing.

  “So the Burtons made room for me, and little by little we grew closer. I had become far more sophisticated by that time, and they weren’t ashamed to let me meet their friends.”

  “Eliza Doolittle,” I suggested.

  “Something like that. And of course they were solicitous of me, because of the baby. George’s baby.”

  She stopped. I waited. Jane had said nothing about a child. I had the feeling I wasn’t going to like this story.

  “There was an air raid, very near the end of the war. The night was foggy, and they said later that the planes had probably lost their way and bombed the wrong target. Looking back, I suspect the German pilots simply didn’t care. They knew their cause was lost, and they only wanted to drop their bombs and get back safely as soon as they could. At the time I couldn’t see that it mattered much, one way or the other. For whatever reason, one wing of the Burtons’ house was destroyed. Three evacuee children were killed, and I lost the baby.”