Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart by Stephen Benatar Page B

nylons—no more cold legs in jeeps!” (And no more aggravation, either, with the tan cream and the eyebrow pencil!) Matt adds that if he puts them in the mail tomorrow they ought to get to me on Monday. His thoughtfulness has to be exceptional.
    Therefore it’s hardly fair to take advantage. “I know this is going to sound stuffy. But you wouldn’t consider, I suppose…? I mean, before we leave for London…?”
    The wireless had also spoken about arrangements being made by the government for a morning thanksgiving service to be held in towns and villages across the country.
    â€œI guess I know what’s in your mind.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œBut I was thinking of after we’d gotten there, not before we left.”
    And it’s absurd: why should my eyes begin to water?
    â€œYet you’re right,” he continues. “St Paul’s will be too crowded—and maybe even a bit too grand? Besides, God knows what time we’d have to set out. So how about our old friend Mr Farlingham? After all, it’s nearly a week since we said we’d look him up and I reckon by now he must be missing us.”
    â€œOh, bless you, Matt. I imagine you’re aware you must be psychic?” The church at Polstead is nicer than the one nearer home, where the party from the farm is going. Trixie and I find St Leonard’s a little too austere—even at Christmas or on Easter Sunday. “Just so long as you can square it with Walt,” I mention, smiling.
    They get to us at half-past-eight. (And Donald Duck was right: V-E Day!—and the war in Europe most wonderfully and most beautifully brought to a glorious end!) They were supposed to be having a guided tour of the farm by daylight but after the violent storm of a few hours back the ground is far too muddy. Never mind, at least they can see the moat and the farmyard—which are the pretty-pretty bits—and say “Wow!” and “Gosh!” and “Gee!” in most satisfactory style.
    Then we take them into the kitchen. Today there are about a dozen gathered there—still, at this hour!—mostly with braces dangling and collars attached only by a back stud; they’re drinking strong tea, half-listening to the radio, not openly excited but companionable, content, smoking their Woodbines or the cigarettes they roll themselves. Werner sits there with the rest, in no way ostracized but understandably subdued. I make the introductions. Nods, handshakes, pleasantries (for the most part unintelligible—several times I have to translate). Matt goes to chat with Fred, while Walt helps Amy carry off her three hitherto protesting sons to get them smartened up. Then Trixie and I start packing into baskets the picnic things we’d been preparing when Matt and Walt arrived. We haven’t told them yet and no doubt they both confidently expect (being men and being American) to march at any time into any restaurant and have their pick of whatever’s printed on the menu; but with all the millions prophesied to be in London today, the reality will quite assuredly be different. We weren’t Girl Guides for nothing.
    We leave the farm at roughly nine-thirty. The children, with their scrubbed knees, grey flannel suits and shirts, school ties and caps—and patently smitten with hero worship—have begged to be allowed to come to Polstead. They climb onto our laps, mine and Matt’s and Trixie’s (“Though if you kick me and snag my nylons,” she says, “I’ll bloody well use one of ’em to strangle you!”) and spend their journey first enjoying the novelty of the transport and after that the novelty of the decorations in the village. (The novelty of air-sea rescue work has finally—and mercifully—been permitted to subside.) Masses of bunting. Prams, cycles, cars all bear their flags…so why not ours, Matt and Walt get asked reproachfully. The