Gifts of War by Mackenzie Ford Page A

University, spoke three languages other than English, and looked upon anyone who hadn’t been born in the rough end of town and gone to his beloved “school of hard knocks” as a weakling in need of building up through a regime of being pulled down. The translations, pronunciation, and sentence construction of someone like me were never good enough for George Romford, even though we both knew that I spoke German with a better accent and a greater natural fluency than he did, which was a cause of bitterness on his part. (He had learned his German in school and had never been abroad, so it wasn’t surprising that I had the better accent and usage, but that of course never came into his calculations.) He particularly hated me, not only because of my superior accent and because I hadn’t grown up in a tenement or the workhouse but also because I had my own transport and so could get away from the college (and him) with unparalleled speed and efficiency. I spent my time at the Ag dodging Romford and avoiding his eye whenever he gave a class. He was particularly smarmy in his dealings with women, and that didn’t endear him to me either.
    Despite this drawback, I did learn some technical German on thecourse, enjoyed it, and even found some books on German science and history in the Stratford library that helped fill me in on the general background to the technical terms I was learning.
    On Saturday morning Sam and I met as arranged on the platform of Middle Hill station. (There was only one platform for both the “up” and “down” trains.) She was on time as she had promised; I bought the tickets and we stood awkwardly together, waiting for the train. The sun was out, the birds were near deafening, and though I felt awkward I was in a good mood. I’d been for a walk that morning (my limp was improving all the time) and had picked a buttercup for my buttonhole.
    Sam looked a picture. She wore a pale blue woollen coat, with a matching Alice band. If anything, she was more beautiful than on any of the previous occasions I had seen her.
    Before I could say anything, two young children—who had spotted her before I had—rushed up to her.
    “Miss!
Miss!
We’re going to Bristol, like you said,” shouted one breathlessly.
    “Our Colin’s a sailor on a boat,” chorused the other.
    “He’s going off somewhere secret and we’re saying good-bye.”
    Sam was sitting on her haunches, down at their level. “Now calm down, Maureen. Don’t shout, Brian.”
    She was back in her playground role, as I had seen her the very first time. Friendly, but firm.
    She looked up at me and smiled, as she listened to what they had to say. They had obeyed her instantly, crowding closer to her and talking away nonstop, but much more quietly now. As the signal clanked down and the hiss of the train could be heard, they broke off and ran back to their parents, along the platform.
    Sam stood up.
    “What was that all about?”
    She took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her lips. “I have a thing about travel. I’ve always wanted to visit every place on earth and now, with this war on, it’s not going to happen anytime soon. I was reading to the class the other day, from a travel book, and we were talking about far-off places. I said everyone should travel, as soon as they could, as far as they could. They have the chance to go to Bristol—that’s a long way for them—and they wanted me to know.”
    “They’re going to Bristol and back by train?”
    “Yes.” She nodded. “Poor mites—they’ll probably fall fast asleep in class on Monday, but they’ll have seen Bristol. All the other children will want to know what it’s like. Maureen and Brian will be … what’s the word, what do they call Mary Pickford? A star, that’s it. They’ll be stars for a day.” She smiled again.
    The 11:38 moved off at 11:48 and, soon after we left the station, the train passed the lockkeeper’s cottage where Sam lived. I was surprised to see,