Chapter Thirty- five
An Accident?
The tall figure dressed in an ill-fitting demob suit, a bulky kitbag slung over his shoulder, slowly made his way up the dirt road leading to his smallholding. Why had she not been there to meet him? Maybe the mail had been delayed, and she was not aware of his arrival date. He reached the rusted gate leading in to the yard. The flag was up on the mailbox. There had been a delivery. Dan lowered the flap. The box was crammed, containing two days mail, two newspapers, but not his last letter.
As he entered the yard, a dog started to bark. This caused the poultry pecking at the scattered rubbish to squawk and flutter. Collie, the crossbreed he had raised from a pup, was chained to a kennel, depleted food and water bowls just within her reach. She did not appear to recognise him, and reacted to Dan as if he was an unwanted intruder. Dan kept his distance.
He went over to the sty. It was empty. Parked in front of the barn was his once meticulous Chevy truck. Now it was filthy, rust patches showing, and the front right side headlight missing.
Dan mounted the porch, swung open the screen door, and rapped on the front door. No response. He knocked again, louder this time. Again no answer. It seemed there was no one home. The key was in its usual place under the plant pot at the side of the door. It no longer fit.
Dan slumped down in the rocking chair that still stood on the porch. There he waited, fully expecting his wife to show up. Darkness fell. "What the Hell," thought Dan. He went round the back of the farmhouse picked up a rock, smashed the glass pane in the back door, reached inside and turned the latch.
Once inside he flipped a light switch. At least the electricity was still connected. An unfinished bowl of cereal, a half filled bottle of curdled milk, a heavily stained coffee cup, and a couple of unopened letters, both his, lay on the kitchen table. He climbed the stairs to the bedroom. The bed was unkempt, the armoire empty. She was gone.
There had been no hint of this. Her last letter had been full of the usual endearments, but he had received that several weeks ago. Something had happened in the mean time. Maybe she had been called away to some family emergency in the Townships, but surely she would have left a note .He slid open the drawer of the bedside table. His gaze lighted on a signed photograph. "To my darling Jean." There were no more optimistic musings. Jean had found herself a fancy man, maybe someone in the village.
Enraged, Dan stormed down the stairs, grabbed the truck keys from their usual hook, and headed outside. The truck after an initial hiccup roared to life. Dan crashed through the gears as he slewed the wreck out of the yard and on to the dirt road leading towards the village.
He screeched to a halt outside the tavern, impatiently parked the truck in the middle of the street, jumped out, slammed the door behind him, and strode in to the drinking establishment. The place was packed - it was Friday night. A deathly hush fell as Dan stormed up to the bar. Pascal, the barman, who was reputed to know everyone's business, trembled. Dan reached over and roughly grabbed paper and pencil from Pascal's shirt pocket.
"I'm deaf," Dan roared. "You write here." He repeatedly jabbed the paper with his forefinger then handed the pencil to Pascal.
"Who is this?" He slammed the signed photograph on to the counter top.
Pascal shrugged claiming ignorance.
"Where is she?"
Pascal raised his hands as if in mock surrender and shook his head.
"Dammit man. I'm sure you know something." He lunged forward. His monstrous hands encircled Pascal's neck and began to squeeze. Several patrons, emboldened by alcohol, rose to the barman's defence. A ferocious fistfight ensued that destroyed most of the furnishings in the tavern and left a battered and bleeding Dan sprawled outside on the sidewalk.
The police were sympathetic to the returning veteran. They had him stitched up at a Cornwall hospital ,kept him in a holding cell overnight, and released him the following morning on a promise of future good behaviour, and a willingness to pay reparations to the bar owner. The payment was never made.
For the next several days, Dan scoured the countryside in a desperate search for his wife. He even resorted to placing an ad in the local paper. There was no response. Gradually he resigned himself to the fact that Jean had left him, and he diverted his energies from the search to his small farm.
In the middle of October, a terrible storm, the remnants of a hurricane, hit the region. There was a lot of damage, downed power lines, felled trees, and extensive flooding. On the morning after the storm, Dan drove round the farm checking for damage. A rail line ran through Dan's property. A silver birch had fallen across the tracks. Dan looked at his watch. He had plenty of time to remove the tree before the usual midday freight came through.
Neighbours eventually found his crushed body in the smashed remnants of his truck more than fifty yards from the tracks.
"Do you think it was a suicide Belle?" asked Mary, who was sharing a meal with her remaining siblings in the newly renovated tavern. "You knew him best."
"Not Dan. He was so full of life. He had such great plans for after the war."
"But he must have been really upset, coming back to an empty house." continued Mary.
Pascal, who had been listening to their conversation as he cleaned up behind the bar, interrupted. "He was upset all right."
"How do you know?" queried Belle.
Pascal gave his embellished account of the brawl.
"But that was almost two months ago. Surely he was over that slut by now."
"Now Belle don't be so mean. We have no idea why she left. There may have been some problems between them that we don't know about."
"You're always so ready to forgive Mary. But why, tell me, did she not turn up for the funeral?"
"Maybe she didn't know."
"Sure she knew. There was such a fuss in all the papers."
"I think she would have come if she had known," interrupted Meg, as she experienced a vivid flashback. "They were devoted to each other." Her voice trembled.
"Let me tell you honey. That can die in a hurry," said Belle.
"Did you know he was deaf?" Pascal queried.
"Who, Dan? Never!" exclaimed George.
"Maybe he was dear. Remember he was in the artillery."
"I assure you he was," Pascal insisted. "He never would have heard that train coming."
"But what was he doing on the track at that time? The train was right on schedule."
"I know the answer to that, George. It was the watch," said Meg.
"Which watch?"
"The one the police recovered from the wreckage. I bought it for him one Christmas. It had stopped."
"Obviously."
"But it showed a time of 10.20. The train passed through at 11.50. He must have thought he had plenty of time to clear the tracks. In a way I feel in some way responsible."
Tears trickled down Meg's cheeks. Her shoulders started to shake uncontrollably. George passed a consoling arm around her, perturbed by this display of emotion.
Bill and Mary were the first to leave the family wake. They had driven down to Alexandria together, leaving June and Ernest, to look after their bedridden Mother and increasingly senile Father. June had not come to the funeral because she was very close to her due date.
As she drove them home Mary broached what for her was a sensitive subject.
"What are we going to do about Dad, Bill?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well his condition is worsening."
"I didn't realize he had a condition."
"You would if you visited more often."
"Now don't nag me about that Mary. It's been very difficult for me. June has had a very difficult pregnancy, we have been working on renovations, and I have also been fighting what you call a condition."
"You seem alright today."
"It comes and goes. It's some kind of lung problem. But what about Dad? What's wrong with him?"
"I think he must have suffered a slight stroke when he heard about Jack. He shrunk in to himself, stopped reading the paper, and stopped listening to the radio. His speech deteriorated."
"How could it get any worse?"
"Don't be facetious Bill. I mean he started to slur his words."
"I noticed that he had slowed down a bit when I came back from the war, but I put that down to old age."
"That's part of it, but he's really losing it now. Often I find him sitting in his chair tears streaming down his cheeks. When I try to console him he grabs me by the arm and whispers "I could have got him out you know."
"He's talking about Sid."
"Yes I know. But it's almost like he is constantly reliving his rescue attempt. He often wakes up screaming, "Sid, Sid," in the middle of the night."
"Is that what you call his condition?"
"Oh no. It's much worse than that. His memory is shot. He will turn on the gas and forget to light it. We have to watch him every minute. Some days he will ask who that strange woman is in the bedroom, yet other days he is quite lucid."
"Are you suggesting that we put him in a home?"
"Over my dead body. I just would like some help once in a while. It's getting a bit too much for Ernest."
"Have you talked to George and Belle about this? "
"A while ago. George has offered to help pay for some nursing care."
"Belle?"
Mary shook her head, her grip noticeably tightening on the steering wheel.
"She'll never forgive him for Giovanni will she?" said Bill.
"It appears not."
They drove on in silence, Bill mulling over his options. "You know Mary we don't have much money what with the mortgage and a new baby on the way."
"I know that Bill. I wasn't expecting that type of help from you."
Bill knew what she expected. "Once the baby situation is under control, June and I will be more than willing to come by and give you a break."
"I knew I could depend on you Bill. Thanks." She gave him an affectionate squeeze on the thigh.
Bill fell silent, feeling guilty about his parental neglect. Mary sensed his discomfort.
"You know Bill you can really do something for him."
"What's that?"
"Have a boy."
"You what?"
"You know what these Cumbrians are like. In his better moments, your father often complains about not having a grandson. Someone to carry on the family name."
"Is Benson so special?"
Mary laughed. "It's silly I know, but that's him. You are his only hope. Meg has had two daughters and has been told that she can have no more children."
"You're joking, Mary."
"No I'm not. It would really make Pop happy."
Bill sank back in to silence, feeling just a little bit like Henry VIII.