Between The Crosses Row On Row

By R. D. Blake

It is often said the past is an unstoppable current, flowing relentlessly into the present and forever shifting the contours of the shores that might have once constituted the future. This is no less true in small villages where memories are long and the effects of both good and evil dwell in the minds and hearts of its residents for generation after generation.

David Hutchings and Clare Edwards arrive at the Tudor Arms in the village of St. Milborn-Under-the-Hill for ostensibly different purposes: he for an historical investigation, she for a first holiday following many years of putting it off and being forced to take one. They soon discover they have a connection to each other, but it is not that which brings them into closer proximity, more than either of them wishes. No, it is the death of one of the villagers. Even before that event, even before they arrive in St. Milborns, they discover there are secrets within the precincts of the village, secrets despite its bucolic and peaceful setting that speak of long-held animosities, secrets that have obscured the truth behind other deaths.

Yet it is David’s and Clare’s own pasts, the actions they undertook years earlier, the sins they committed which they believe impossible of forgiveness or redemption, that goad them along the path that will ultimately solve not only the most recent murder but the uncovering of the evil which links them all together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. D. Blake
• Release date: Apr 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9780987982681

R. D. Blake

R.D. Blake recently retired from a successful accounting and business career. Even as a child, he had an interest in science in general and space in particular and loved reading science fiction. As a parent, he enjoyed entertaining his young children with inane and wild stories he would make up on the spot. And now he is turning that interest and talent toward a larger audience. He currently resides in Kitchener, Ontario Canada.

Book preview

December 3, 1917

The rituals had been observed. The appropriate scriptures quoted. A consoling and uplifting message had been provided acknowledging the sacrifice made. The shortened lives had been dutifully mourned. Both during the service and afterwards, tears in their abundance had been freely shed with needed embraces given. Hands offering reassurance had been extended and then taken. Grim faces had been forcibly shaken off. In their stead, expressions of reluctant acceptance donned. At its conclusion, the promise of rebirth to those who had offered their utmost to God, King and country had been reaffirmed.

This was the second funeral in the village during the past week, the first being of a much higher order with the majority of the ceremony and observances performed in a much larger church and before a greater and more distinguished audience. Yet tradition held sway, as it did throughout England, and the deceased had been returned to the village to be interred with his forebears, just as with the other two who had been buried here today, joining with their ancestors in what would be their final earthly abode.

All that could be expressed had been given voice to. All that could be done had been accomplished. The mourning parents, the brothers and sisters, the wee ones, the extended family, the friends and acquaintances, the neighbours—all had departed. Yet one remained by the graves of the two brothers set side by side in the greying of the late afternoon and the chill air. Their deaths had been tragic, unneeded—as was true of all of the fallen in the Great War—and there would be more, many more before it finally came to its conclusion—if ever it should. But the greater travesty was the fact that all the brave and eloquent words centred on the theme of their martyrdom were a lie.

No. The truth had been hidden, obscured and denied any form of possibility. Just as it had been for the one who had died the same day as these two but whose rites of passage into God’s kingdom had preceded theirs. No. The one standing alone in the village cemetery knew the truth. Their deaths had not come by war and through the arms of combat. No. They had all been murdered!

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Chapter One

June 9, 1953

It was the complaining squeal that jarred him and broke into his melancholy thoughts: thoughts which continued to stalk him despite the years and the mode of life he currently enjoyed—so contrary to a past that held little possibility of being repeated, and by that rigid logic to be irrelevant to the man he was now and, more so, his plans for the next fortnight. David Hutchings straightened from his slouched position against the window and swung his eyes about the second-class carriage in one furtive and quick purview. None of his temporary travelling companions appeared to have noticed his flinch.

The bespectacled and dark-haired gentleman opposite him, his taciturn nature at odds with his stated profession as a sales representative for an American manufacturer of a mechanical pump system designed for some indeterminate purpose, had returned to his reading of the Times, the paper concealing all but the fedora he had chosen not to remove despite the long hours since the two of them had boarded the train at Victoria Station. The elderly woman to his right continued to be immersed in her knitting of a lavender and pink baby blanket, ostensibly for her most recent great granddaughter. The click-click of her needles had blended in with the movement of the train over the rails and, David imagined, had contributed to his slow descent into his morbid musings of the last half-hour. Mrs. Westacotte had joined them at the Lancaster station north of Warrington, her journey to Carlisle, in comparison to his own and that of Mr. Arnprior, a relative short one. The salesman was travelling on to Glasgow as part of a much larger (and longer) sojourn throughout Scotland, concluding with a return to London via the eastern half of northern England.

That accounted for the occupants in his booth. The other five seats had remained empty despite the distance and the associated long hours, reflective, David believed, of the current economic malaise bedevilling the chief part of England—though to the uninformed that might appear untrue, what with the coronation of the Queen just a week earlier. That event had been much anticipated, the papers brimming with every detail, a national fanfare that had temporarily lifted the British Empire’s spirit, like a breath of fresh air or a change in the sea-wind. Everyone was caught up in the notion that, as with the death of the King and the recent passing of the Queen Mother, the old was being cast off. Even with Churchill returned as prime minister, it was already clear he would not be re-elected when his term ended. The great lion of England had proved himself incapable of lifting the country out of its post-war misery, a once fearsome creature fully exposed: his best years now indisputably behind him, indeed toothless and frail. As with Churchill, most now wanted the war to be left in the past—to the dead and to both the defeated and the victors. A new age was in the offing. Everyone who had not served and had not been burned and savaged by the war, those who had been spared the brunt of the effort toward victory, those and other such similarly worded phrases were exhaled with almost every outward breath.

But much like a hangover, the reality of the gloom holding the country hostage could only be ignored for so long—much like his own life. Really, he had to put an end to this despondence he had fallen into. As with every other occasion, it accomplished nothing. Nothing he could do anything about. David knew all too well that the past was immutable, fixed as the stars, incapable of even the slightest modification. There was only one recourse for people like himself: one had to accept what one had done and move on. That was the only answer. The sole one. Else one remained forever in a cell of one’s own making. The trouble with that solution was one needed a key.

David turned his gaze to the view outside the window, taking in the rolling hills and the lake coming into sight in the light of the soft mid-June afternoon as the train continued to follow the tight curve of the tracks. It was those iron rails which had induced the earlier metallic protest from the undercarriage’s wheels. The scenery had been much like this over the last two hours, bringing a semblance of peace into what David considered his patched-up soul, one of the reasons he had accepted this undertaking from the Dean of History at Harrowfields. David considered the venerable and highly touted academic as a valued mentor. He placed as much faith in the man as Dr. Edgar Asquith did in him. How else did a person such as David Hutchings, possessing no particularly special antecedents or testimonials, merit employment at Harrowfields? Still, something during that nerve-racking interview with Asquith regarding an opening as a junior professor had convinced the dean to offer him the position. After learning the identities of the other candidates, David had resigned himself to seeking out a posting at one of London’s lesser public schools—until receiving the confirming telephone call from the dean himself.

What Asquith’s ethereal and nuanced reasons had been, David had found himself ever reluctant to enquire further upon, sensing that the older man was disinclined to disclose them.

Much as he suspected of the objective of his current journey. That it had to do with Dr. Asquith’s own field of study was a given. Yet David was coming to believe that the location to which he was now travelling had as much to do with their relationship, an affiliation that had grown to span more than simple professional duty and responsibility, as the stated reasons. How had the dean exactly made his case?

David, would you do me a personal favour and take a few days to run up and dig through the old Duke of Edenbrooke’s private papers? It’s the sixth of that singular line of men that holds my interest at the moment. I’m particularly drawn to those dating from the late 18th century through to the mid-19th. It has recently come to my attention that the man had a deep and long relationship with the Duke of Wellington. Whatever letters they exchanged might provide some new insights into the old Field Marshall. Of course, if you accept, the college will continue to pay you your usual stipend and consider this as a…ahem, a temporary sabbatical of a few weeks—whatever amount of time you find necessary to complete the task. Oh, and do treat this as a holiday as much as a minor historical investigation. I want you to split your time equally between the work you do for me and enjoying the Lake District. Your work here over the last two semesters has been outstanding, as much as it has been strenuous. Really, the boys they send us these days seem to have forgotten what so many did for them during the war.

There had been something vague and indefinite in the dean’s tone of voice which had given some credence to David’s suspicions that the old man’s request was as much for his junior professor’s well-being as for the task at hand. And it still did. Not that David minded all that much. He loved the outdoors. In the midst of his lectures and the hectic pace of academia, even a brisk, short walk out in the cold, clear air often reinvigorated him and kept the old memories more or less somnolent.

The lake widened; the light reflecting like glistening raindrops off its polished surface. David observed several boats out on its broad back, noting, by their courses and the trim of their sails, the direction and strength of the wind. The current angle of the sun was such that his image was faintly reflected through the railcar’s window. He considered that portrait for a moment. There was nothing, or so he felt, which revealed his own personal history—those aspects of his former, youthful self which continued to be eaten away at—a corrosion he expected would never fully come to an end. No, his face remained unlined, his blond hair still holding to a full weave that refused any effort to fall other than over his brow, and a firm jaw which belied the weakness underneath. He thought, more so believed himself non-descript, just another man who had survived the war and was now a few years short of thirty-five. Yet David knew that was not how most others saw him. His articulated and angular nose, the chiselled cheekbones and glinting blue eyes often gave another impression: one he felt deceitful—one which, particularly when he smiled, was taken as more than simple warmth and was received as an invitation to join him in the unfettered and carefree life they believed he enjoyed. Nothing could have been more untrue.

Partially, that was the reason behind his melancholy mood on the final leg of this trip: the sense he was not the man everyone thought he was.

The train had begun to slow. The Windermere station was nearing. David began to gather up the few belongings he had not packed with his other luggage.

So this is where we part, eh? Mr. Arnprior had set aside his paper and was extending his hand. A pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Dr. Hutchings. His smile was as false as his words. Their conversation had been brief, Arnprior chiefly choosing to speak only of himself and the products he peddled. His interest in David’s own background extending until it became firmly established his employment and position at Harrowfields held little promise of a prospective sale. Thereafter, their dialogue had dribbled away until the man had returned to the Times and the other newspapers he had copiously purchased prior to boarding the train.

Further, David was no doctor. He hadn’t yet completed his thesis, let alone defended it. Therefore, to his mind, the misuse of the title held all the trappings of a pejorative and, as such, was proof his travelling companion was a poor listener or, worse, seeking to ingratiate himself into David’s good graces. Perhaps the sales representative had reconsidered his chances of a sale at the school. Arnprior’s smile turned a degree more insincere as he added, And if I could be so bold as to give you my card? If you should ever hear of a need at your…ahem, your, yes, your school, please pass this along.

Of course, David replied with just as much mendacity, taking Arnprior’s hand and shaking it firmly. He accepted the proffered business card with put-on alacrity and pocketed it, deter-mined to jettison the advertisement into the nearest refuse container once off the train. David abhorred duplicity, but after so many years of pretending to be someone else, it was far too easy to don that particular false persona, though he had to admit the talent enabled him to readily detect the same speciousness in others.

And good day to you, Mrs. Westacotte. I’m certain your granddaughter and new great grandchild will enjoy your visit, David said, turning to a topic he could address with full honesty.

Goodbye, Mr. Hutchings, the tweed-garbed woman replied, inclining her gray head slightly. I do hope your time in St. Milborn-Under-the-Hill will be a success. And do look after yourself. Sometimes, the best medicine is to put aside the busyness of everyday life and simply let the world catch up to you. That said, she puckered her face into a knowing smile and then occupied herself by pulling a fresh skein of coloured wool out of her shopping bag.

David felt it, felt it deeply: irritation urgently demanded to take command of his facial features. To forestall that from occurring, he rushed out of the compartment and hurried down the narrow corridor, steadying himself against the increasing deceleration of the train. Why had Mrs. Westacotte bid him farewell as she had? Did she know? Had she seen through to what lay beneath? The never-ending troubles? What he thought he hid from everyone? David shook his head. Those old biddies. It was as false a conjecture as any he could imagine making, but he couldn’t easily put aside the notion that these Victorian-age born women, who still existed alongside everyone else, were far more insightful and clear-eyed than most. He could only hope she hadn’t been able to scry out the exact deeds which continued to plague him like a neurosis.

A long minute later, the train rolled into the station and came to a smooth stop. David stepped out onto the platform and looked about, first discovering the porter already handing his luggage out to the local station clerk. Casting his eyes farther afield, he found what else he was searching for. A battered and mud-splattered, forest-green Paramount was waiting at the end of the station with an equally worn and shabby driver leaning back against its boot.

Squaring his shoulders, David Hutchings strode out into the full sun and toward the man. Still, despite the pleasantness of the day and the magnificent oak and hazel-laden hills about him, he felt a creeping sense of apprehension mounting from somewhere deep inside himself. He took up again the silent refrain he had been almost sub-consciously repeating, even before he had begun to pack for this trip to St. Milborn-Under-the-Hill. This was a holiday. He would enjoy the historical research. He would relish the open sky and the rills of water holding the promise of excellent fly-fishing. Yes, he would revel in this break from pure academia and the constant pressure to successfully guide his young students through their curriculum. Wasn’t that exactly what Mrs. Westacotte had recommended? Yet—yet, why then was he suddenly filling with distress? Why did he have this dark foreboding that whatever the next fortnight held for him, he would return to London no longer the same man?

As he neared his conveyance to the small village which would be his base of operations (even eight years after the war, certain military terms refused to fade from his internal lexicon) and the ruddy faced man lifted his grey and rheumy eyes to take him in, David felt the sharp edge of an unexpected future already rushing to engulf him.

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Chapter Two

June 11, 1953

They must have been pleasant dreams, my dear.

What? Oh…oh, excuse me. I—I… I suppose I must have fallen asleep.

Indeed, you had, Clare. You were smiling near the end, Mrs. Clothchilde remarked, her pale blue eyes glinting with amusement. If I was to hazard a guess, you were imagining something, or more likely someone, awaiting you whilst you’re away from London.

Clare Edwards felt herself blushing, despite the fact that her travelling companion’s guess was as far off the mark as it could be. And what she was feeling in the aftermath of her dream was far removed from anything that could be described as pleasant. She dredged up what she could of her fortitude and bade those memories aside and addressed the older woman. "I have no expectations of that. Nor is that behind my reasons for taking my holiday outside London. Clare took what she felt was a deeply needed breath. No, I simply wished for an excursion. To…to visit a part of England I have never had the opportunity to…to see and experience. You can understand that, I am certain, Mrs. Clothchilde. Why, didn’t you tell me earlier that you and your late husband were stationed throughout much of the former Empire? Malaya, Singapore, the Punjab and Egypt? Even a few months in New Zealand before the Japanese put a wretched end to it."

Clare felt her equanimity returning. The sights you’ve taken in. The people. The cultures. Why, where I’m going must appear extremely mundane to you. So ordinary. You would find the Lake District a complete bore, I’m sure.

Now, now, the widow tut-tutted, patting Clare’s hand. Sometimes, the most fascinating places, the most intriguing, are nearer than you can imagine. And the adventures… Don’t try to dissuade yourself from believing you are incapable of having any. You’re still a very young woman, Clare—with so much yet to live for and to enjoy.

If only Mrs. Clothchilde understood how unsettling her words were. What a trial it was proving, to keep her face from revealing the feelings that were at the very cusp of escaping from under her control. Clare was certain her companion of the last eight hours would never have uttered the least of them. And assuredly, the widow, in her own indirect manner, was referring to men, a particular one—one Mrs. Clothchilde was predicting Clare would encounter during her holiday. One she had not met, and she expected never would. Why should she?

There had only been one man in her life. Clare was certain he would be the only one. But Allan was now beyond the pale. Just as with so many others. Still, now, the thought of him forced her to recite what was a constant chorus within her mind. You aren’t the only one. There are so many others just like you. With deeper and longer relationships. With children they must now raise on their own. With only their determination to rely upon. Clare knew…she knew she had it easy compared to those other women. They were the ones who were due respect, due honour, due pity if they wished it. No, not Clare Edwards, who had found love, but not experienced it to the fullest. That had been denied to her by her father. Wretchedly, he had correctly predicted what would happen. But he had not foreseen what the consequences would be for her—and for him. But his failure was no longer relevant. Her father had died too: one short year after the war had been won, hardly six months after her mother had passed away from a lung infection that had begun after being partially buried in the rubble during the Blitz, though that was not the sole reason.

Clare subscribed to the idea that Cromwell Edwards had died of a broken heart. Certainly, his failing health could be attributed to congestion of the chest. In her more morbid moments back in that dark time, she had thought it grossly unfair. Her father had never once acknowledged her own loss, but all the same had bemoaned the death of his wife and poured out his sorrow with the full expectation that she find the means to assuage his own pain. Admittedly, shamefully, she had been inadequate to the task.

Death had surrounded her—as it had with far too many other families. Geoffrey was gone too. And that had only added to her father’s grief and had been the chief cause of her mother’s early demise—and not her lungs. Her brother, so full of life, with his unforgettable dark eyes always agleam with impish glee, and never without a friend in tow, how, too, had it come to be that he could never enter in through the front door of their home again? Of any door? Her older brother had enlisted within days of the Germans charging into Poland.

Those years, those golden days of always being within each other’s proximity, of almost knowing each other’s thoughts, of sharing in laughter, in their hopes, in their dreams, and commiserating in their disappointments and frustrations—those were no more. In hindsight, now, those memories and experiences appeared and, more so, felt petty. If they had only known. The day the British Army had taken him from her had been the beginning of the end. The furloughs had been few, far too brief. And the brother she thought she had known so well, so deeply—she had felt him slipping away. His humour had become stilted, darker, that gaiety that was so much a part of Geoffrey had grown muted. His eyes had turned moody, grim, their depths storm-wracked. There were no other words Clare could find to describe what she had glimpsed in them.

And though he had complained of the brevity of his visits home, early on Clare realized he had only wanted to return to the barracks, to the training he would say nothing about. So many in the crowds about her, on the streets, at the factory, had wanted the year between when the war had been declared until the Blitz began to be the sum total of all that they would have to endure. That the government would find a way out. That the Germans and Hitler would be satisfied. That their foe could be convinced that no other country posed a threat to them—that none wished to. That France, Belgium and Denmark and the rest of the Low Countries would be returned to their citizens. Such hopes—such artificial and overarching edifices of self-indulgent optimism. She had known. Just as her father had foreseen. Whether the war had ended before it had really begun, Clare had sensed its permanency. Her brother had trod a path beyond the horizon of her life. If only he could have returned. But she had recognized, if not consciously until years later, that Geoffrey would have never come back as the person she had shared everything with. The war had irrevocably taken that from her, just as it had taken him.

He had been killed during the Axis invasion into Belgium and France in May 1940 as the British forces began their retreat toward the coast, revealing once again the invincibility of the resurrected German war machine. Clare had refused to view Geoffrey’s broken body when it had been returned with so many others. She had wanted the last image of her brother to be the one of him departing for the train station, his duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder, and he looking back at her bearing that great big grin of his and winking at her as only he could do. No, to see him otherwise, as someone’s idea of a cruel joke, lifeless and grey, when he defined all of what life should be, no, she had been unable to face that. So, too, had her mother, leaving that painful duty to the last remaining male in their family. That he had done, and Clare had never seen her father so shaken, so at sea, not even with the death of her mother.

That was when, she was certain, her father had begun his own slow decline. Yes, he had died of a broken heart, but its first fracture had occurred when the casket at the far end of the aerodrome had been opened. Though she had detected none of the emotions her father might have felt at that moment, nor over the minutes until he nodded his agreement that the casket be closed again, his eyes had remained fixed on what remained of her brother all while a military official spoke in hushed tones by his side. She had heard nary a word of what was said, and her father betrayed none of what it might have meant to him.

Still, on the train ride home, all he shared of that conversation was the fact that Geoffrey had been working behind the lines with a select and specialized group of soldiers, acting to sabotage and delay the German advance across France, by their efforts granting the retreating British Army the necessary time to dig in before crossing the Channel, back to safety, back to life—but that had not been the fate reserved for her brother. Most of his company had died in the midst of carrying out their mission.

In due course, the British Army had issued a Military Cross in recognition of Geoffrey’s valour and given the medal to her father. If it was to act as a balm, it had utterly failed in that regard. Her father had tucked the figurative laurel away in its box, storing it at the back of a drawer in his desk. Clare had only discovered it upon going through his personal effects after his own funeral. And much like her father, she hadn’t known what to do with the military decoration. In the end, she had copied his actions and buried it in the deepest part of her clothes dresser. Forgotten, but not really. Not ever.

Just as it was with Allan: Allan Andrews who had awakened her numbed heart to a new form of love, an inhalation of the sweetest air when all else was smoke and ruin about her, a hope among the richness and pervasiveness of despair. It had been such an unlikely beginning. Her front bicycle tire had gone flat on her ride back from the factory (almost all of her graduating class had forgone continuing their studies and were doing their bit for the war and for their boys). As she had been walking along, fuming over this impossible imposition, and despairing of how she was going to fix or find another tube, Allan had stumbled out of a gate tucked into a high stone wall, tool box in hand. He was a mechanic of all things. And upon giving both her and the bike an appraising look, he had insisted he repair it right there and then. So he had and done. His work had appeared satisfactory, but nonetheless he had offered to follow her home to ensure the tire stood up to his mending. It had, of course.

Hardly a day passed before she discovered he had interests beyond motors. Their first outing had been to take in a film at the local cinema. She didn’t tell him she had seen it nearly three years earlier, in that long ago era people were already referring to as before the war. It seemed even then, during that first date, when he had slipped his hand about hers, she had known. Known he was to be the one. Perhaps her nineteen year old heart had been foolish, naïve. Certainly, her parents had silently thought so, considering Allan below her class and their expectations for her. She could tell by the way they regarded him when he arrived at her door, by the few pleasantries they exchanged (if one could describe them as that) as he stood just inside the landing, and with their reminders of the strict curfew she was to observe when out with him (far more strident than the wartime restrictions) that her parents were not entirely fulsome in their endorsement of both Allan and the situation.

Their romance continued for another six months when her life was once again uprooted. Allan enlisted. He’d been given an exemption due to his trade, but duty to sovereign and country had become a siren call he could no longer ignore—a duty stronger than his love for her. Or so she had thought at the time. She had argued to no avail, to ears deafened to her pleadings. But he had turned the tables on her, offering her something he believed would ease her troubled heart: a proposal and a ring and, more importantly, a date—two weeks to make the arrangements, particularly with regard to engaging the services of the local vicar. A few weeks after that, he would be off, joining the other men to make war and by some means find victory over the Germans.

But her father would have none of it. Whether the real reason was his continuing disapproval of Allan, his rationale was twofold: she was too young (nonsense in her mind— many girls of her school grade had already married—even a good number younger!); and Allan might not come back or, worse, return only in part. You don’t know what you’re being asked to promise, her father had stated in his stentorian voice which still rang loud in the hallways of her mind. If… he had added, wagging his finger at her and arching his bushy brows, …if he walks back in through our doors after this is all over, hale and fit as he is now… and having demonstrated how he comported himself in the army…well, then, we will look at the matter once again. Speaking of promises, there had been none in his words. Clare had understood what her father was truly stipulating. Allan would have to come back a war hero to win his approval. And her mother had agreed, silently as was her wont.

Naturally, Clare had balked at what she deemed her parents’ insensitivity to her own emotional needs. How it was that Allan was filling the gaping void Geoffrey’s death had left in its aftermath, and how her newfound love was part of her own efforts to combat the black, crushing miasma of the war. If she could find happiness amongst all the hardship and the worry, could not others? So had her juvenile thoughts been. She had urged Allan to ignore her father’s edict: to marry her without his blessing, instead to find it in each other over the few short days they would have together. And during which to discover another aspect of love, one she and the others of her school year had whispered among themselves in equal amounts of trepidation, curiosity and rapture.

But Allan, being five years older, a mature twenty-four, saw the lay of the land clearly, as he had said to her. God willing, they’ll be part of our lives for a long time, Luv. There’s enough war around us that there’s no need for more. We— He had taken her hands into his own and squeezed them in that special way of his, her small, delicate ones lost within the great folds of his workman’s. There needs to be peace among us all, starting now, and I don’t want you facing their animosity whilst I’m away. He had shrugged those large mounds comprising his shoulders and had smiled down at her. Montgomery has the Krauts on the run in North Africa. And the Yanks have finally joined with us. And the Russians are chewing up the best of the German army at Stalingrad. The writing’s on the wall, Clare. This war will be over sooner than you think. I won’t be gone for long. And besides, in all likelihood I’ll be assigned to one of the motor brigades. I’ll never be near the front. You have far less to worry about than most.

Those had been his words, plus more. But Allan had been wrong. Wrong about almost everything. And her father, curse him, had been right!

The war had lasted for more than another two years. Allan didn’t make it into 1945. As he had assumed, at first he had been streamed into the motorized divisions serving as a mechanic. But what he hadn’t taken into account was what everyone eventually came to describe as Montgomery’s Folly: Operation Market Garden. The military planners for the September 1944 campaign had determined the airborne group parachuting into Arnhem required at least two men capable of jury-rigging any necessary repairs to the jeeps and the other equipment being air-dropped in with the rest of their forces. Allan had been one of the two drafted into the operation. Neither man had survived the fiasco—not that she had been made privy to his involvement until much later.

Eventually, Allan’s family had been duly notified of his death, one more unnoted piece of bad news in the aftermath of the failure to take the bridges. Like much else, the defeat was soon out of the news, forgotten, as Montgomery and others in the military wished it to be. Other battles, other victories overshadowed the poorly planned and thought-out set of battles. Not that Clare would ever forget it, or forgive. No further effort was made to capture the bridges. The whole operation had been pointless. It was left to the hard-hitting and tenacious Canadians to finally finish the job, demonstrating to the very last German facing them that the natives of the primarily rural and rustic Commonwealth nation were born tougher and braver than any of their earlier foes.

The senior Andrews’ desolate faces had not required any further explanation. Even now, Clare could not remember any of what Allan’s parents had said, only the feelings: the devastation, the sense of it all being unreal, of it being something one saw at the cinema, of the utter despair knowing that his body would forever be over there, of betrayal, of anger, of bitterness, of rage toward her father who refused to look her in the eye upon her return home, of believing there was nothing more she could possibly endure, that her life was over, that the war and the hope that it would eventually end meant nothing. Nothing without Allan. That it was all one complete and ignoble defeat.

She had limped listlessly through the balance of the war, as wounded as any of those returning veterans torn of limbs and their own hope for normalcy. And within the ebb and flow of her life since that time, Clare felt she continued to hobble along, even now eight years later.

All of those jumbled thoughts and sentiments flashed through her mind, even as Mrs. Clothchilde continued to regard her with kindly eyes, and the train began its steady braking, announcing that this part of her journey was nearing its end. Well, I suppose, one can always hope, Clare replied, not meaning any of it. She began storing away the novella she had brought along to while away the time. She had had little opportunity to read beyond its third chapter once the widow had entered the second-class carriage at the Banbury station. Now, I must thank you for being such a wonderful travelling companion. I do hope you enjoy your visit with your sister and her husband and his relations in Strathblane.

The older woman’s eyes twinkled her acceptance of Clare’s good wishes. Her smile slowly deepened into something almost approaching impishness. Yes, indeed, all those grandchildren of Eugenie’s do tend to wear her out. She asked me to come and bring some moral support and greater order to those young hellions during their summer break. Every last one of them a red-head, imagine that! Mrs. Clothchilde smacked her lips with put-on indignation. Even after all these years, I still don’t understand why my sister agreed to marry a Scotsman out of all the men she could have chosen from. I warned her that she didn’t know what trouble she was promising herself. Now, she has it in full. Not one of her children, her sons-in-law and daughters-in-law included, and, certainly, none of the wee bairns born into that family, none I would call a proper Englishman or woman. The Scots blood has made certain of that!

It was all twaddle. Clare was certain, from the hours-long exposition the widow had subjected her to between Birmingham and Manchester, her travelling companion held an unbounded and equally unreserved love for her sister’s grandchildren, and that the time spent with them would be savoured as much as with any of her overseas experiences.

Well, then, I’m certain you’ll be much appreciated, and… Clare decided to share in the fun of the moment and hopefully bury the last of her unsettled feelings. And just in time. Goodbye, Mrs. Clothchilde.

And farewell to you, Clare. And do enjoy yourself. And don’t hope for anything less than an adventure.

And with those parting words, all of those old emotions rose to seize Clare once again.

__________Ω__________

Chapter Three

A Mr. Woodsbury was waiting for her. One look at his ramshackle green Paramount, which she suspected, under the copious amounts of dust and mire, was more rust-coloured than green, only rutted her thoughts deeper into the track she had hoped to step out of once off the train and away from Mrs. Clothchilde. It appeared she would have no such luck. What Allan would have done with such a motor vehicle! Yet, in another manner, humorously, so much at odds with her aroused emotions, it seemed the car fit its owner. Both were obviously past their best years, worn both by usage and the elements. She hesitated for a moment as the porter unloaded her luggage by the end of the platform and the driver opened the rear door for her to take a seat inside. Clare wondered how soiled her clothes might become.

The old man was seemingly able to read her thoughts. Have no worry, Miss. There be no point to keepin’ Cynthia free of the dirt. Not with the current condition of the roads into St. Milborn-Under-the-Hill. The spring rains have lasted into June this year and everything is awash with water and mud. Only now are the valleys startin’ to dry out as they should. Mr. Woodsbury tapped the side of the door. "Another week and it will