Bobby's Girl

by Catrin Collier

Bobby looked beyond the yard. ‘Pretty countryside around here.’

  ‘As long as you don’t look in the direction of the cemetery.’ She left the car and joined him.

  ‘What cemetery?’

  She pointed to the wall that ran alongside the side yard of the house. The head and wing tips of a marble angel were visible above a mountain of rusting ploughs.

  ‘Let’s go and read the epitaphs. There should be some good ones. Place like that should be at least a century old and a hundred years in America is equivalent to a thousand years in Europe.’

  ‘And after you’ve completed your masters in Oxford you’ll return here and start a course in medieval American history,’ she joked.

  ‘Now that’s an idea I can take to my old Harvard professors. I even have an examination question. Compare the colonisation of the American West by white settlers to William the Conqueror’s invasion of England.’

  They walked to a gate set in the wall that separated the cemetery from the road. Bobby opened it and they entered. The marble angel dominated what looked like the oldest part of the cemetery. It was laid out in large plots, each bearing the name of a single family. The most startling thing was how well kept the graves were, even the old ones. The stonework was scrubbed, although the letters carved on some of the monuments were too weather-worn to be decipherable.

  A path separated the cemetery into two halves. At the back on the right, in a large area partitioned from the main part by a low hedge, identically sized tombstones were set out, twelve to a row. The ones at the front were white marble that glittered and gleamed in the sunlight, those behind them, weather-beaten stone. An old man was scrubbing a marble headstone halfway along the front row. He saw them, sat back on his heels and eyed them warily from beneath bushy grey eyebrows.

  ‘You come to gawp?’ he challenged as they drew close.

  ‘No, sir,’ Bobby replied.

  ‘We’ve had nothing but goddamned reporters and news people here. Turning our boys’ deaths and our grief into entertainment—’

  ‘We’re not reporters, sir,’ Bobby broke in.

  ‘Then you’re pacifists, damn you to hell. Taking pictures of the graves. Making propaganda out of our boys’ sacrifice—’

  ‘We’re not pacifists, sir. We’re here to visit a local family. The Buckleys,’ Penny interrupted.

  ‘You are, are you?’ The old man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  ‘We’ve brought a friend of their son Gerry to visit them,’ Bobby explained.

  ‘Gerry Buckley Junior is dead.’ The old man moved slightly so she and Bobby could read the name on the headstone. It was Gerry Buckley.

  ‘We know, sir. Eric …’ she faltered when she realised she didn’t know Eric’s surname. ‘Eric served with Gerry in Vietnam.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so earlier?’ the old man snapped.

  She was tempted to say because they hadn’t been able to get a word in edgeways.

  ‘These graves are beautifully kept, sir,’ Bobby observed.

  ‘Least a town can do is look after those who died for their country.’ The old man indicated the back row of stones. ‘Those are from the War of Independence, although the lettering on most is so worn you can’t read the names. But they’re all recorded in a book in the town library. In front of them are the graves of the boys who fell in the Mexican War. Then there are fifty boys from hereabouts who died in the Civil War. Most from the town that got killed in any war, until now, although some believe that number will be overtaken by those killed in ’Nam. After them come the boys who were killed in the Spanish American War, then there’s those who made the ultimate sacrifice in the First and Second World Wars. Between those and the Vietnam dead are those who died in Korea. I’ve heard people say that wasn’t a real war, although it felt like it to those who fought there. I can say that because I was one of them.’ He struggled to rise but fell back on his knees.

  Bobby extended his hand to help the old man up. The man checked his fingers were clean before taking Bobby’s.

  ‘There are twenty-two young men here who died in Vietnam and there’ll be four more headstones by the end of the week. The first four belong to kids from the class of ’64 who volunteered the day after they graduated from high school. There’s not much in the way of work around here and the army promised them college scholarships. They were killed in ’65. Alongside them are boys from the class of 1965. Five were killed in ’66, three in ’67 and two this year. Then there’s the class of ’66, eight killed so far, one of them Gerry. The four new headstones will be for boys from the class of ’67. Gerry’s commanding officer wrote Gerry’s wife and said Gerry was officially posted missing presumed dead and there was no hope. She wouldn’t believe it and didn’t until Eric Moran wrote and said he’d watched Gerry drown in a paddy field along with the rest of Gerry’s platoon. Pam had to give up hope then.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Buckley.’ The words sounded trite but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘I’m Gerry Buckley senior, Gerry junior’s father. I know he’s not in that grave, but the town decided back during the War of Independence that every soldier in this parish who died fighting for his country deserved a grave, even if the body couldn’t be shipped home. Town’s seen no reason to change that decision since. Over half of the military graves here are empty but it gives folks somewhere to come and pay their respects and do their mourning.’ He picked up his tin bucket and threw in the sponge and brush he’d been using to clean the graves.

  ‘See that grave over there,’ he pointed to a freshly dug mound covered with flowers. ‘That’s my Mayleen, Gerry junior’s Mom. She died last week. Doctor said it was pneumonia but Pam and me know different. Gerry was our only boy, and after we had the news from Eric that he’d gone she gave up. Simply didn’t want to live anymore. Not even for Gerry’s babies. We had two girls as well as Gerry but they couldn’t wait to get out of here. They’re somewhere in New York. Hardly bothered to visit after they left; now Mayleen’s gone don’t suppose I’ll see hide or hair of them again. Gerry’s passing’s been hard on all of us. But it’s hardest on Pam. Girl her age shouldn’t be shut up here with an old man and three babies. She should be out enjoying herself.

  ‘How old is Pam?’ she asked.

  ‘Nineteen last birthday.’

  She was shocked. She’d assumed Pam Buckley was at least forty.

  ‘Pam and Gerry were childhood sweethearts. They married after Gerry received his draft papers. Mayleen and me tried to talk them out of it but you know what kids are. What am I saying? You two are kids.’

  ‘We promised Pam we’d be back for coffee in ten minutes,’ Bobby reminded her. ‘It must be more than that now.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’ The old man led the way to the gate. He opened it, watched them walk through, then leant on it for a moment.

  ‘The military graves are beautifully kept.’ Bobby looked back at the section.

  ‘As I said, the least a town can do is look after the last resting place of its heroes,’ the old man said gruffly.

  * * *

  Eric was sitting on a rough wooden bench outside the kitchen door, holding the baby. The other two small children were sitting at his feet, grubby fingers in mouths, staring up at him.

  ‘Any good with kids?’ Eric didn’t wait for Penny to answer. He thrust the baby into her arms as soon as she and Bobby joined him.

  ‘I’ve had some practice with my nieces and nephews.’ She sat down and settled the baby into the crook of her arm. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mayleen. It’s a girl.’ Pam carried four mugs out of the kitchen. ‘Never got round to buying girls’ clothes. Seemed a waste with the boys’ things going begging. Besides, even without a father, with two older brothers she’s bound to grow up a tomboy.’ She handed out the mugs, giving the last one to Gerry. ‘Here you are, Dad, I’ll get another for myself.’

  Despite the warmth and sunshine the day took on a grey tinge. The tragedy of
Gerry’s early death cast a long shadow and Penny was grateful when Eric left the bench and picked up his bag.

  ‘We have to leave if we’re going to get back to the Cape in time for you and Penny to work your shift.’

  Pam took the baby from her. ‘Thank you for coming, Eric. I appreciate it.’

  ‘It was good of you to spend time with us that you could have given to your folks,’ Gerry senior allowed.

  ‘I could spare it. They gave me a month’s leave. Gerry and me were closer than brothers. But that’s what it’s like in ’Nam. Everyone looks out for his buddies. It’s what we fight for.’

  ‘Where are your family?’ Gerry walked with them as they picked their way through the scrap to the road.

  ‘Boston. But I’m heading for Mexico City. My girlfriend’s a nurse there.’ Eric turned left at the road. ‘I’ll pay my respects, Bobby. See you at the car in a couple of minutes.’

  Penny turned to Pam. She wanted to give her something that would give her hope for the future but she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. As for practical help, she had little money and she sensed Gerry and Pamela would regard it as an insult if she gave them any. She opened her purse and took out three of the Kennedy half dollars she’d been collecting to give to her own nieces and nephews as souvenirs of her trip. She handed them to the oldest boy. ‘For your money box.’

  He looked up at his mother. ‘Can I, Mom?’

  Pamela nodded. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Thank you, lady,’ he murmured shyly.

  ‘Sorry we had to meet like this.’ She kissed Pam’s cheek.

  ‘Thank you for bringing Eric.’

  ‘If we hadn’t he would have hitch-hiked.’ Bobby opened the car door.

  ‘Way out here, it would have taken him a long time.’ Gerry senior waved his hand and returned up the drive. ‘You take care,’ he shouted before disappearing into the house.

  Penny and Bobby sat in the car. Pam returned to her washing basket and continued to peg clothes on the line.

  ‘Strange when you think of all those empty graves and people shedding tears over them,’ Bobby commented. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone crying over an empty grave for me.’

  ‘I can understand people wanting one if that’s all they have to remember someone by.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be remembered as a headstone on an empty plot.’

  ‘How would you want to be remembered?’ she asked.

  He forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘If my grandmother had her way she’d name a medieval museum after me. But only because my name is the same as my grandfather’s.’

  ‘The Bobby Brosna the Fourth museum of medieval American West history.’

  ‘That joke’s wearing thin but yes. Complete with life-size Bobby Brosna bust in the foyer.’

  ‘Very grand.’

  ‘Grand, maybe, but it doesn’t alter the fact that when you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it, nothing left except rotting meat. And that’s what Gerry Buckley junior is. Meat rotting in a Vietnam paddy field for all that he has a headstone.’

  ‘There is something left of Gerry,’ she contradicted. ‘His children, wife and his father.’

  ‘Living sad lives. Those kids will be blighted by their father’s death.’

  ‘You’d rather Gerry Buckley was forgotten?’

  ‘I didn’t know Gerry Buckley and I have no idea what he’d want. But the last thing I’d want after my death is to make people unhappy. That’s why I don’t want to get too close to anyone. Sentiment interferes with living.’

  His words hurt. She knew he was aware how much. But she also knew him well enough not to try to change his mind by trying to argue with him.

  He loved her now and that had to be enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Eric returned to the car and climbed into the back. ‘Thanks for the ride. Can you drop me off at the interstate?’

  ‘We can take you back to the Cape,’ Bobby offered.

  ‘I’ve decided to fly to Mexico City a day early and surprise my girl.’

  ‘But your ticket—’

  ‘Haven’t bought one yet. Bound to be some freight heading for Boston airport from the freeway. I’ll hitch-hike.’

  She glanced at Eric’s face as he sat in the back. His lips were tight, compressed. His fists clenched. She couldn’t see his eyes. His baseball cap was pulled too low. The atmosphere was tense and she sensed that now Eric had fulfilled his buddy’s request he couldn’t wait to be rid of them.

  ‘It’s your choice.’ Bobby accelerated to overtake a hay waggon.

  ‘You got to get back for your shift anyway.’

  ‘We can spare a couple of hours to take you to the airport.’

  ‘No!’ Eric’s reply was terse. Finite.

  ‘Have it your way.’

  Bobby pulled in on the approach road to the interstate. Eric picked up his bag and climbed out. ‘Thanks for the ride.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Bobby said, automatically resorting to the manners that had been drilled into him during childhood.

  ‘But it wasn’t, was it?’

  Bobby looked at Eric.

  ‘A pleasure. Not for you, Penny, me, Pam, Gerry Buckley or Gerry Junior. Be seeing you.’ He grabbed his bag and ran.

  Pontypridd, May 1987

  Penny moved restlessly from the desk. Clouds had darkened the sky, greying the atmosphere. The day was threatening to end in rain. She checked the time. Three o’clock on a dismal afternoon in May in Pontypridd. But mentally she still remained in that burning hot Cape Cod summer of 1968.

  The visit to the Buckleys had been a watershed for Bobby, although she hadn’t realised it at the time and she doubted he had. It was the closest either of them had come to the tragedy that was Vietnam.

  Even then, she couldn’t imagine anything further from the experience in Grosvenor Square where the anti-war rally had, for so many, like the girl who’d gone out of her way to antagonise the police, been little more than an excuse to flout authority. She’d wanted to join the protest because of her pacifist ideals, but she hadn’t really given any thought to the effect the war was having on the conscripts who had no choice but to obey orders and fight.

  The sombre atmosphere generated by the grief that had so devastated Gerry Buckley’s family hadn’t carried over into the subsequent weeks, or if it had, she’d been too in love with Bobby to be aware of it. But with hindsight, she could see that the knowledge of one conscript’s life and tragic death had lurked in the shadows waiting to resurface as it had done that final fatal night.

  And in between the visit to the Buckleys and that last night? The restaurant had been incredibly busy. She, Kate, Sandy and Bobby barely had time to take a deep breath in between serving and cooking for customers. It was hardly surprising that tempers had frayed.

  Cape Cod, July 1968

  ‘Outside catering job. Hyannisport Yacht Club. Six o’clock. I need seven more waitresses urgently. Anyone know where I can find them?’ Cosmo glanced up from the counter where he was scribbling notes and looked directly at Penny and Kate.

  ‘We’re strangers here, remember,’ Kate said.

  ‘You girls go out, meet people. I saw you with that Southern girl who works in Ho Jo’s in the Melody Tent.’

  ‘Exactly, she works in Ho Jo’s,’ Penny answered.

  ‘There’s Mary,’ Sandy answered from behind the short-order counter. ‘She only works mornings in the motel.’

  ‘Great, that’s one. Call her, Sandy.’

  ‘She’s Native American.’

  ‘Then don’t call her,’ Cosmo continued writing.

  ‘What?’ Penny and Kate stared at Cosmo in disbelief.

  ‘Welcome to America, land of the free except for the natives. They have to stay locked up on reservations as if they’re zoo animals.’ Betty bustled past with a double order of franks and beans.

  ‘You’re not serious?’ she challenged Cosmo.

  ‘It’s the yacht clu
b. You can’t get a more conservative place.’

  ‘All the more reason to employ her. She’s stunning,’ Kate argued.

  ‘No.’

  Betty intervened. ‘I have friends—’

  ‘I know your friends, Betty, and the answer’s no,’ Cosmo said firmly.

  ‘Why don’t you come right out and say it, Cosmo? You only want pretty white girls like Penny and Kate to serve the stuck-up snobs in the yacht club.’

  ‘I want experienced waitresses who know how to serve food with a smile and be a credit to my establishment.’

  ‘You saying I don’t?’ Betty challenged.

  ‘You’ve a big mouth on you, Betty.’

  ‘I’ve put up with as much as I can take from you, Cosmo. You … you bastard …’ Betty tore off her apron, flung it at Cosmo and stormed out. A hush descended over the restaurant.

  Cosmo continued to sit at the counter adding to his notes. After a minute the customers gradually began to speak to one another again. Penny picked up her order and served four police officers spaghetti with meat sauce.

  An hour later Cosmo went into the kitchen and checked the yacht club’s menu with the chefs. Then he left. When he returned, he had Betty in tow.

  ‘You came back?’ Kate said incredulously.

  Betty shrugged. ‘Cosmo and I yell at one another all the time. Phone your friend Mary and offer her the job. Cosmo pays two bucks an hour for outside catering and much as I hate the old farts in the yacht club they tip well.’

  Penny and Kate came to prefer the outside catering jobs to working in the restaurant. The smaller jobs in people’s homes were serviced by just the two of them and a chef. The larger, club catering jobs warranted two chefs and they were usually joined by two Southern waitresses, who resented them because, as one of the girls put it, ‘Your British accents have killed our Southern ones dead.’

  They served ex-servicemen at the motor yacht club, where two men, so old and decrepit they appeared to be in imminent danger of collapse, had insisted on taking her and Kate out in their speedboats and racing against one another. Kate’s old codger won. There’d been catering jobs and drops at the Kennedy compound, where journalists, cameramen and television news companies had erected lights on the lawn while waiting impatiently and hopefully for an announcement from the one remaining Kennedy brother, Edward.