Read Online Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart by Stephen Benatar - Free Book Online

three young Crawfords point pathetically to other children carrying flags. So what, says Trixie—other women wear rosettes. I try to cause a diversion by pointing to a Scottie trotting along beside its owner with a rosette at its neck and, strapped around its perky little body, a coat which also exactly matches hers.
    The church is really crowded—how different to nine days ago! Yet Mr Farlingham is just as shuffling and unflustered. Before long he’ll surely have to stand down for one of the younger men returning to civvy street, but today he has a helper, someone not much less decrepit than himself.
    We learn from the printed sheet which we’ve all been given (or been asked to share) that the service is to follow a set line: Thanksgiving for Victory. Maybe most of us could have predicted the choice of psalm, ‘O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious’, but possibly it has seldom been said en masse with so much sincerity. Mr Farlingham chooses a passage from another psalm for his text, ‘When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion’, and after a shaky start his sermon, this time, by the grace of God, manages to rise to the occasion. The whole service is as uplifting as the church bells which are now being heard again throughout the land; I imagine we shall really appreciate the peal of bells from now on, and still feel grateful that never once in all the long years of silence (silence, except for that one November Sunday when we celebrated Monty’s victory at El Alamein) did they need to warn us of invasion!
    On our leaving the church Mr Farlingham doesn’t at first appear to recognize us. “Professor Taylor,” Matt reminds him, with a grin. “New Haven, Connecticut.”
    â€œWhy, yes, of course,” says the old man. “My nice young couple from some weeks ago!” And to me: “I think you said that you were Meg. God bless you, my children. God bless you. And a very happy peace!”
    â€œThe same to you, Mr Farlingham.”
    There are tears in his eyes. He calls after us: “And to your father and the family! Oh, if only your fine president had been alive to see this day!”
    We don’t immediately return to the jeep. Matt wants to find a shop where he can still buy flags. I tell him he doesn’t stand a chance. But marvellously, ten minutes later, he’s earned the right to shake his head at me indulgently: “O ye of little faith!” The children are ecstatic; our stockings run an even greater risk. The jeep itself now sports a flag as well.
    And Trix and I now wear rosettes.
    We drive the young Crawfords back to the farm. One of them (Matt’s, thank heaven!) is complaining, sulking. In a way I feel tempted to plead his cause— their cause—but I can see that it’s impractical and know it’s not for me to be magnanimous. “We’ll bring you back a souvenir! Something nice for each of you.” Yet, even there, the instant I’ve said it, I’m aware that I’ve been rash.
    But then, after we’ve waved goodbye (poor Dick refuses to respond), phase two of this auspicious day begins.
    It’s inaugurated by Walt, who’s still the driver. “Right! London! Here we come!”
    And he makes excellent time, despite a last-minute mistake which puts us on the wrong side of Oxford Circus and loses us some quarter of an hour. By ten-past-two, however, we’re back precisely where we wanted to be and driving around Trafalgar Square (“But are you sure this can be London, folks? There isn’t any fog!”). I haven’t seen so much traffic in years, certainly not since the coronation. Where on earth have people found the petrol? But, anyway, we’re lucky with the parking: Northumberland Avenue, near the river. We walk along the Embankment to Westminster and mingle with the crowds streaming in across the bridge, all making for the Ministry of Works.