asking, “How do you remember him, Theo? What was he really like?”
I said curtly and dismissively, “I was a child then. If you’ve finished your story, All take a shower.”
But she persisted. While I ran the water in the connecting shower room, she argued persuasively (and accurately) that those wartime experiences must have made a lasting impression. How could anyone forget being removed to a strange environment and caught in a tide of events that culminated in murder and a trial at the Old Bailey?
I turned the shower control to lukewarm, which characterized my state of mind. For my own reasons I was extremely reluctant to dredge up the past. Yet I had to admit that Alice Ashenfelter (or Donovan) was entitled to know more about the fatal events of November 1943. Her knowledge of what had happened was fragmentary, gleaned from a few newspaper cuttings. Apparently she wasn’t aware that she could have read detailed accounts of the case in a dozen different sources. The Donovan case was regarded in Britain as a classic of forensic detection. I had two books on the shelf in my living room that I could have given her to read. Murder being more commonplace in America, I suppose she didn’t expect to find her father’s case written up and copiously analyzed by criminologists, pathologists, and policemen.
I stepped out of the shower and reached for a bathrobe. I told her, “I’ll sleep in the spare room. No offense, but there isn’t room for two in that bed”
She said. “But you haven’t told me anything, Theo.”
“Want some coffee? I’ve had enough champagne.”
“Please. I’ll come and help.”
“No need.”
“Could I take a shower, then?”
“Of course.”
I went downstairs and found the two books on the Donovan case and locked them in my desk drawer. Whatever impressions of me you may have formed up to now, I had no wish to cause unnecessary mental suffering to Alice Ashenfelter. I didn’t want her finding a book with a picture of the victim’s shattered skull on the jacket, and a mug shot of her daddy beside it.
I guessed she’d find some excuse to follow me downstairs, and she did. She’d wrapped herself in my dressing gown and tied back her hair with the ribbon she used for her plait. It was slightly damp from the shower.
She said, “I remembered my backpack.”
“It’ll be cold out there.”
She ran out and brought it in. “You know,” she said, “I have a bedroll here. There’s no reason why I should put you out of your bed.”
“Black or white?”
When I’d poured the coffee, I told her I’d found something for her.
She said eagerly, “What is it, a picture of him?”
“No. Just a souvenir. He made it.” I handed her a figure about five inches high, carved from a piece of wood, representing a country policeman with his bicycle. On the base had been whittled out the cryptic words
She stroked the carving with her fingertips, as if it were a living thing. “He really carved this?”
I nodded.
“And gave it to you as a present? He must have liked you a lot.” She frowned at the lettering on the base. “I don’t understand the meaning of these words.”
“ ‘Or I then?’ Written like that, they have no meaning.”
“A secret message?”
I smiled. “Nothing profound about it. As a kid in Somerset, I used to meet the local bobby sometimes, and he always greeted me with what sounded like those words. It was the dialect, you see. Or I then?’”
She shook her head, still at a loss.
I articulated it for her. “All
“I got it.” She nodded, smiling.
As she still seemed somewhat bemused, I explained, “Duke was intrigued by the way Somerset people talked. He used to collect their sayings. Living with a family and going to school with the local children, as I did, I picked up a few examples for him. ‘Or I then?’ was one of them.”
“And this was his way of thanking you? I love it.”
“Keep it, then.”
She reddened and said. “Theo, I couldn’t do that. He made it for you. You kept it all these years.”
“Duke would have liked his baby daughter to have something he made.”
Her response was quick and spontaneous. She came up to me and kissed me on the lips. It pleased me. But if you’re thinking this was the trigger for more steamy sex in Pangbourne, think again. She was still trouble, and I meant to show her the door in the morning. I didn’t want a permanent houseguest. So, after the kiss, I put my hands on her shoulders and moved her gently out of range.
We sipped our coffee silently for a while, seated opposite each other across the kitchen table. She held the figure to her chest, as if it were in need of warmth. After a time, unable to contain herself any longer, she said, “You cared about him, didn’t you, Theo?”
“Yes.”
“He was kind to you?”
“Very.”
“But you testified against him in court?”
I nodded.
After a pause she said in a low voice, “Won’t you tell me what happened?”
I was tired and it was bloody late for a bedtime story, but she was going to draw it out of me before she went, that was certain. In humanity I felt bound to supply her with some sort of account. So it had to be now. I’m not much of a raconteur over breakfast.
FIVE
I’ll tell you everything I told Alice. For brevity’s sake I’ve decided to drop her surname now. I’m not sure when it was that I fell into the habit of using what she called her “given name.” On that Saturday night, when my firm intention was to show her the door in the morning, I didn’t call her anything. With hindsight I’m able to be more civil. You may think it unimportant how I addressed her, but there’s a reason why I’m being scrupulously honest with you and anyone else who reads these words. You’ll understand later.
This won’t be a verbatim account of what was said, with all of Alice’s interruptions and questions, because that would make it more difficult for you to follow the thread, but take it from me, you’ll miss nothing you need to know.
I began by telling her about my evacuation in September 1943, the direct result of a German daylight air raid. A bomb, categorized in those days as high-explosive, hit the boiler house of our suburban school in Middlesex while we were singing, “Ten Green Bottles” in the underground shelter, and Mr. Lillicrap, our harassed headmaster in his tin hat, was waiting white-faced for the all-clear. That same afternoon he was on the phone to his sister in the country. We were all given letters to take home. One notorious rebel, Jimmy Higgins, opened his and dropped it down a drain, but I dutifully handed mine to my mother. It proposed that the entire school be evacuated to Somerset the following Monday.
I think about half the children, eighty or so of us, finally assembled at Paddington Station, labeled and carrying gas masks, favorite toys, packets of sandwiches, and, in a few deluded cases, buckets and spades. In retrospect, I could have used one of those buckets. I remember waiting a desperately long time with straining bladder to file into a train with no corridor, for a journey of uncertain duration, and, somewhere west of Reading, furtively watching my flannel trousers turn a darker shade of gray. A couple of hours later, by which time I was surely not the only child with a secret (possibly even in the majority), we arrived at Bath Spa, only to be ushered
