Rough Cider

THIRTEEN

As a medievalist, I don’t mind telling you that Bath’s much-vaunted Georgian architecture leaves me cold. I find it crushingly dull. In my two years as a Ph.D. student at Bristol I visited Bath (a twenty-minute train ride) not more than three times, and then only for the secondhand bookshops.

Yet this October evening, driving towards the city at dusk with Alice beside me, I saw it from the height of the downs on the south side and was captivated. I stopped the car, and we got out for a better view. A shaft of orange sunlight had penetrated the purple cloud and picked out the intricate levels of buildings with dazzling clarity. From the shadows of the surrounding hills, beady rows of street lamps converged on the floodlit Abbey.

I was standing close to Alice. She hadn’t bothered to fix her plait since we left the pub, and a few stray hairs stirred and brushed my cheek. I slid my hand around hers and locked fingers with her. As she turned to speak, I lowered my face to kiss her.

She backed away as if I had the plague.

This was the girl who the previous night had stripped and waited in my bed for me.

“What’s up?” I asked her.

“I don’t want to.” She took another step back.

I smiled and made light of it. “I don’t mind playing kiss and run, but not to these rules.”

She reddened. “What do you mean?”

“Just take it easy.”

She tugged severely at her hair and explained, “I hate to be a drag, but I can’t relax while there’s so much on my mind.”

So we got back in the car and drove down the hill into Bath. I don’t force myself on women, and I don’t beg, either. Dismiss it, I thought. Yet it bothered me.

There wasn’t time to speculate. We were in the Circus, approaching the Royal Crescent, and we hadn’t yet made any ground rules for the meeting with the Ashenfelters. I didn’t expect them to come at us with a shotgun, but I could foresee mayhem if Alice started laying into Harry for abandoning her mom. I took an extra turn around the Circus before we moved into Brock Street.

“About these people,” I said. “Let’s remember that they haven’t seen either of us since we were kids. Why don’t you keep in the background to start with?”

“You mean, not say who I am?”

“You don’t need to volunteer the information. It might get us off on the wrong tack.”

She said dubiously, “It seems kind of devious. I like to be straight with people.”

“Like you were when you brought your tray to my table in Ernestine’s Restaurant?”

She protested with a harsh intake of breath. “I told you my name.”

“And how much else?”

“I needed to get to know you first.”

“Get my confidence.”

“Well, yes, but…” Her voice trailed away.

I laid it out for her. “What it comes down to, Alice, is what you want to get out of this meeting-assuming they agree to talk to us at all. If you want a family reunion, that’s up to you, but if you’re hoping for some insights into Duke’s behavior in 1943, I suggest you play it my way.”

After a pause for thought she murmured, “Okay.”

I’ve already pulled the plug on Bath, so to speak, so I won’t knock the Crescent. For anyone who hasn’t been there, it’s built on high ground with a view of the city across open parkland. A single block of thirty three-story houses in an elliptical curve, with a facade of 114 Ionic columns and a roof-level balustrade. Enough said?

We bumped over the cobbled roadway and parked under a street lamp on the far side. Alice confirmed that there was a light behind Harry’s blinds.

Harry himself came down to answer the bell.

I apologized for disturbing him, explained that we’d driven over from Christian Gifford and that I was the boy evacuee he and Duke had befriended in 1943.

It wasn’t the admission ticket I’d hoped it might be.

“Is that a fact?” said Harry without a glimmer of interest. The years had creased the Cagney profile into something closer to Edward G. Robinson. Some sagging about the eyes, more weight on the jowls, less hair, and thick-rimmed bifocals. He’d never been much to look at, but the saving sense of fun had vanished. He was in leather carpet slippers, fawn trousers, and a thick brown cardigan.

“A bloody awful time for all of us,” I said, plowing on. “I can tell you, I was more than grateful for the kindness you fellows showed me.”

“So?”

“So when I heard that you lived in Bath, I thought I couldn’t go by without calling on the off-chance that you were in.” I was beginning to feel, and sound, like a door-to-door salesman.

“Who told you I was here?” asked Harry, as if he meant to throttle them.

“The people in the pub. They said you came back to England after the war to marry Sally. How is she, by the way?”

His stubby hand cupped his chin in a defensive gesture.

“You know Sally?”

“We all picked apples together, didn’t we?”

My first question had given him a let-out. “She’s not so good, so you won’t mind if I don’t invite you in.”

I was on the point of cutting my losses and pushing Alice forward with her guess-who-I-am speech when a woman’s voice from inside called, “Who is it, Harry?” and Sally appeared in the hall in a white housecoat and swansdown mules.

I assumed it was Sally. She wore dark glasses, and her red hair had taken on a synthetic orangey hue. Unlike Harry, she’d shed weight since the apple-orchard days. Too much: I’d say she looked gaunt.

Harry held on to the door and said over his shoulder, “You don’t have to come out. I can deal with it.”

Sally, bless her, ignored him. “Anyone I know?” she asked, shuffling up behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder.

“What did you say your name is?” Harry asked me with each word sticking in his throat.

I told him.

He repeated it to Sally as if she were deaf, adding, “He was the kid evacuated to the Lockwoods in the war.”

“That little boy with the fringe and the front teeth missing?” Sally laughed. “Well, what a funny old world this is. And he’s brought his young lady to meet us. What are you doing, keeping them on the doorstep, Harry? Let them in, for God’s sake, and let’s all have a drink.”

Harry decided not to make an issue of it. He shrugged and stepped back, allowing Sally to shake our hands. I introduced Alice, using just her forename. I’m certain that Harry didn’t recognize her. She was a small girl of eight when he’d last seen her.

I’d expected grandfather clocks and rosewood tables, but the drawing room we were shown into was furnished in steel, glass, and white leather. Only the marble fireplace and molded ceiling were antique. Sally, obviously used to people gaping, explained, “Everyone thinks we’re puggoo-headed, filling a room like this with modern furniture, but Harry likes to get away from his business.” Puggoo-headed. I was glad to hear a bit of Somerset. Once I would have filed it away in my memory for Duke, with “Or I, then?”

“You have a shop in Bath?” I asked.

“Nope,” said Harry, making me wish I hadn’t inquired.

Sally explained. “He has three warehouses. Two in Bristol, one in London.”

“What do you drink?” Harry asked me.

He’d ignored Alice, so I turned to include her in the offer.

She gave me a twitchy smile. She was extremely nervous.

“Fruit juice would be fine, if you have one.”

“Gallons,” said Harry, as if it were someone’s fault. “And yours?”

“A Scotch and soda.”

He started to leave the room. Sally called. “Get me a vodka and…” She didn’t finish because he’d ignored her. She waved us into chairs and offered us cigarettes, taking one herself and standing by the fireplace with a length of unstockinged leg protruding from the housecoat. “Harry’s a big wheel in the antique world,” she told us. “You’re lucky to find him at home. He travels all over. Buys up the contents of houses and exports most of it to the States.” Her eyes traveled to my shoes. “So you’ve had a day in the country.”

I’d noticed the white carpet as we entered but failed to remember the state of our footwear. There were tracks to my chair.

Alice saw that I was literally wrong-footed and responded for me. “Yes, we went to see the farm where Theo stayed.”

“You’re American!” said Sally. “Harry will be delighted.”

I couldn’t imagine it. I pitched in again, taking the lead from Alice. “Yes, the farm hasn’t changed much.”

“Except for the orchards,” commented Sally, drawing on her cigarette. “They grubbed out all the trees.”

“Understandably,” I said. “Frankly, I was surprised to find the Lockwoods still in occupation.”

“Them? They’re hard people,” said Sally, “Did you speak to them?”

“Only Bernard, the son.”

“He farms it all now, the main farm as well as Lower Gifford. The old couple look after the vegetables behind the house, and that’s all.”

“Do you keep up with them?”

She shook her head. “Barbara was a real pal, rest her soul, and her mother has been here for a coffee, but I’ve no time for the men.”

“You visit the village sometimes?”

“Whenever I can. I know so many people there. Harry picks up a certain amount of business through the pub. He’s never off duty.” She fidgeted with the lapel of her housecoat.

“I miss the old days.”

“Like picking the apples?”

“Mm. The fun we had.”

“Telling fortunes with apple pips.”

She smiled at me. “Do you remember that?”

“Vividly. Barbara sliced the apple and got three pips. Tinker, tailor, soldier.”

Sally’s face changed. “And she split the soldier pip with the knife, poor love. She was terribly upset, being pregnant and everything.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

“We had no secrets from each other. They were going to be married.”

I said gently, “I’m afraid he already had a wife and child.”

Sally shook her head. “That can’t be true.”

“Back in America.”

There was an agonizing silence, ended by a creak of floorboards as Harry approached.

Sally snapped out in a small shocked voice, “You’ve got it all wrong.” With an abrupt change of manner she turned, raised her voice, and addressed the open door. “We had a regular downpour here this afternoon, didn’t we, Harry?”

He gave no answer. He seemed to ignore her most of the time.

I was in no shape to pick up the conversation. Sally’s last comment had left me reeling. I wanted to ask more, but judging from her reaction to Harry, this wasn’t the moment.

We were handed our drinks. Sally looked at hers and said, “What’s this?”

“Grapefruit juice,” said Harry without looking at her.

“The ladies are drinking fruit juice.”

“You’re kidding!” said Sally, starting towards the door.

“With vodka, maybe.”

He grabbed her wrist in a surprisingly agile reflex and said, “Without.”

She glared at him and said, “Prick.” Then she tugged herself free and ran from the room.

Harry smugly called after her, “I locked it.” He explained to us superfluously, “She isn’t allowed alcohol.”

An awkward silence ensued. The onus was on him to start a new line of conversation, and I didn’t feel like helping.

It paid off. He said, “So you remember Duke?”

I nodded.

“Regular guy,” said Harry. “Too bad.”

I waited for more, and when it came, it was as sensational as anything Sally had said.

“He should be alive today.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Alice in a whisper. She was wound up to the snapping point.

“Just that, sweetheart. Duke was innocent. I could have saved him.” Harry picked a cigar out of a ceramic pot on the mantelpiece and made us wait while he went through the ritual of lighting it.

Making it obvious that I’d need plenty of convincing, I commented, “You say you could have saved him but you didn’t.”

Harry glared at me through the smoke. “How could I? Where was I in 1945 when they put him on trial? Somewhere this side of Berlin, mopping up. I didn’t see Duke after Normandy. Our units were separated after the landing. The first I heard of it was August ’45, a piece of gossip over a beer. This padre from way back says to me, ‘remember Duke Donovan, the tall New Yorker who wrote songs?’ Did I know they took him back to England and hanged him for murder? Did I, hell!”

Skeptically, I said, “You think you should have been the star witness for the defense?”

“Am I getting through to you now?” said Harry, trading sarcasm.

Alice was hunched forward on the edge of the chair, pressing her whitened knuckles against her jaw. “How do you know that my daddy was innocent?”

So much for our ground rules, but who could have blamed her? The precise words she used weren’t planned. She was so keyed up that the mention of her daddy was automatic.

Harry was on to it like a terrier. “Just who are you?”

Alice stared at him in a petrified silence. I doubt if she was capable of speech.

I answered for her. “She’s the daughter of Duke and Eleanor Donovan.”

He gave a quick, nervous laugh. “You don’t say! Elly’s child? This is Elly’s child? Why didn’t you tell me, for Christ’s sake?”

I said truthfully, “We didn’t know how you’d react.”

He was busy adjusting, torn between anger and, I think, a residue of sentiment. “Can you beat that? I married her mother, did you know that? I’m her stepfather.” He took a couple of steps towards Alice in recognition that some paternal gesture was wanted and actually put out a hand towards her shoulder without quite making contact. He let it down slowly and asked, “Tell me, is Elly still-”

I spoke for Alice again. “She died.”

“No,” said Harry with the awkwardness of an ex-husband with a nonexistent record of concern, “That’s terrible. How?”

“A car crash earlier this year.”

He rolled his eyes upwards. “Nobody told me.”

I said unsparingly, “Is that surprising after you abandoned them?”

He turned away from me. “Alice, honey, if there’s anything you need…”

She said without looking up, “Just tell me about my daddy.”

Harry nodded, picked up his glass, and said, “First I need another drink. Anyone else?”

He left us alone.

I offered my Scotch and soda to Alice. “Want a sip of this?”

She shook her head.

I warned her, “Don’t expect too much from Harry. He could be stringing us along.”

I don’t know if he heard my opinion, but he was back in the room a second after I’d given it, ready to go, like an actor on a second take. This time with more attack. “Okay, if you want to know the truth about your daddy, Alice, you picked the right guy. He and I were buddies from way back. We belonged to a boys’ baseball club in Queens. Does that surprise you?” He mimed the pitcher’s action. “And your mom used to come and watch. She was in high school with Duke. Eleanor Beech. Blonde like you and just as pretty. Well, almost. I could show you pictures.”

I said acidly, “The words will do.”

“Whatever you want. Elly Beech was Duke’s girl, and I used to date her sometimes.” He smiled at the memory. “Date her? I mean buy her an ice-cream soda at the drugstore and walk her home after. Duke was bigger than me, better-looking, a lean, dark Irish look that impressed girls.” Harry paused to let us appreciate how golden-hearted he was, then added, “But I was a couple of years older. A man of the world. I could do voices and make her laugh, I may be shorter than average, but I never had problems relating to women.”

No, I thought, you never had problems, you bastard, but you gave your wives plenty.

Harry was on to his service career. He’d enlisted in December 1941, the day after America entered the war. “I was smart. The first volunteers took quick promotion. Inside eighteen months I was made up to sergeant. I told Duke, and he signed on as soon as he reached the age, in ’42. He needed the pay to marry Elly, which he did, sometime in ’43.”

Alice supplied the date: “April fifth.”

Harry flashed her a broad smile. “Thanks, sweetheart. You must be right, because they weren’t married more than a couple of months before it was June and we were drafted to Shepton Mallet, England. Great name, crummy place. A stone cross, a prison, and five thousand GIs bored out of their skulls. Is it any wonder that I got reduced to the ranks for bringing girls onto the base at night?”

I couldn’t trust myself to answer, so I said, “I’ve never been to Shepton Mallet.”

“Don’t bother,” said Harry, and moved on. “So I was a private soldier, and naturally I linked up with my buddy, Duke. We’d borrow a jeep and go for rides. There was a lot of sympathy for me in the MT section.”

“And Duke?” I put in quickly. “What was his standing?”

“A regular guy. Popular. Good musician. Wrote his own songs. Anyone who could entertain us was made, believe me.

I nodded. “Barbara told me about the Columbus Day concert at the base. She was highly impressed with Duke’s singing.”

“Is that a fact? Yeah, I guess he could have made it as a songwriter. Country and western more than pop. He was working on a way of using the Somerset dialect in his songs. The way they talked down here amused him.”

“I know. I used to collect words and phrases for him. He made lists.”

Harry drew on his cigar and looked at me with a shade more respect. “That’s right. He did. Matter of fact, Duke and his lists of words came in handy when I was dating Sally.”

“You couldn’t understand her?”

He pulled a face. “Christ, no, she wasn’t a total hick. What I mean is, she was strictly brought up. Her parents didn’t like her walking out with a GI, but a foursome was okay, so I persuaded Duke to make up the numbers with Barbara.” He grinned complacently. “I told him it was a great way to get more Somerset words, and he bought it.”

I grinned back. “Never.”

“Straight up. I’m not kidding.”

This simply didn’t square with what I knew about Barbara. She’d walked up the lane almost every evening that autumn, telling her parents she was meeting Sally, when she was actually meeting Duke. She’d looked into my room sometimes at the end of an evening, flushed with love, her lips swollen from kissing. I knew, and I’d been punished for keeping her secret. I wouldn’t have endured a beating from Mrs. Lockwood for nothing.

I told Harry, “Maybe he was kidding you”

Harry conceded a little. “Sure, he was doing me a favor. He was a great buddy.”

I spelled it out for him. “Duke and Barbara were lovers.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath from Alice.

Harry said, “No chance.”

“For Christ’s sake, she was expecting his child!”

Alice made a shrill, protesting cry. I avoided looking at her. I wanted this between Harry and me.

Harry slung his half-smoked cigar into the fireplace and stepped towards my chair, jowls quivery, red-faced with outrage. “Stand up and say that.”

I replied through the fumes, “Read the postmortem report. She was two months’ pregnant.”

He grabbed my sweater and tried to haul me upwards, but I gripped his forearm and resisted. My arms and shoulders are strong. I use them more than most people.

We might have stayed locked for some time if Alice hadn’t snatched up my stick and jabbed it hard into Harry’s ribs. He let go and staggered back, knocking over a glass-topped table and my drink as he went.

Alice was a revelation, eyes flashing behind the gold frames. She told her stepfather, “Quit it, will you?”

Massaging his side, Harry said thickly, “He insulted my buddy.”

Alice glared at him and said, “Loyalty isn’t your strong suit, Harry.” Then, to my surprise and extreme annoyance, she wheeled on me and said, “Quit bugging him with stupid crap like that. We came here to listen, not start a fight. This is my show, and I’m not letting anyone foul it up.”

It was a kick in the teeth. All my animosity came surging back. For this headstrong, father-fixated girl I’d sacrificed my weekend, missing my sleep, seen off the press, driven all the way to Somerset, faced a hostile farmer with a shotgun, and ruined a set of clothes.

I could have pointed out that if I’d left her to do the talking, we’d still be standing on the doorstep.

Instead I controlled my anger. I gave her the look of a man who has run through his fund of sympathy. “Your show? Run it the way you want.”

Let’s give her credit: She didn’t falter. The flurry of action had taken the edge off her nerves. She tossed her hair back from her forehead, tucked the walking stick under her arm like a drill sergeant, and told Harry, “Pick up the table.”

He obeyed without a murmur.