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

Abbey, where people’s heads are bowed in thanksgiving and where the pilgrimage to the tomb of the Unknown Warrior appears unending. I know that at some point we’re standing beside the lake in St James’s Park. I feel quite sorry when it’s time to hear the King’s speech.
    We infiltrate a small hotel near Piccadilly, with probably a hundred others, to listen on the radio.
    We’ve arranged to meet Walt and Trixie outside Rainbow Corner, in Coventry Street, where, two or three years back, the American Red Cross set up a club for GIs. Pushing our way through, we find all faces turned towards a lamppost outside the London Pavilion as an RAF officer and a red-bereted airborne officer compete to climb to the top with a Union Jack.
    Ten minutes later the Stars and Stripes is fastened next to it—and then the Russian flag as well: the three Great Powers fluttering side by side.
    Even women are trying to climb the lampposts. A bit further on, a girl in a red coat earns the crowd’s approval. I can imagine the swirl of colour from up there: the carnival caps, the uniforms, the women in their prettiest frocks. The sashes of bunting. The flowers and ribbons of red and white and blue, pinned either in the hair or on the clothing. Viewed from the lamppost it must be wonderfully impressive.
    Tonight nothing is unsuitable. Evening garments saved from prewar days, full skirts, hobble skirts, backless dresses, long-sleeved day dresses; strangely you don’t see many pairs of slacks.
    We get to Rainbow Corner.
    â€œIsn’t this great!” Walt greets us. “Who said the British never let their hair down!”
    â€œI don’t know,” I reply, a little drily. “Tell us. Who did?”
    â€œBut listen, kids, we’ve managed to get two hotel rooms in some little place called Bayswater.”
    People are trying to get enough stuff together to start a bonfire in the middle of the street; there’s even a hawker’s barrow to which a strip of card is still attached (‘Flags of all the Allies’). “Some bloody profiteer trying to charge five quid for a single Union Jack!” self-justifies the swaggerer who’s commandeered and overturned it. There’s much aggressive laughter. I say to Matt: “I thought that we were driving back tonight.”
    â€œMe, too. Walt? What is all this?”
    â€œDon’t be a schmuck. Me and Trix managed to pull a few strings.” They look at each other proudly. “In fact, we just about had to move heaven and earth—didn’t we, babe? ’Cause who in their right mind wants to be driving back to camp through half the friggin’ night? Matt, you sap! This is Victory-in-Europe Day! Hasn’t anybody told you?”
    Trixie grips my arm, imploringly. “Come on, Roz. Don’t be a spoilsport. You know how much you like the lad.”
    She adds in a whisper, “And you needn’t worry. We’ve even been and got some of those…well, thingamabobs. So everything’s been taken care of.”
    Oh, Trix. You’ll maybe never guess howmuchI do like the lad. Nor how sorely tempted I could feel.
    But it wouldn’t be right; I know it wouldn’t be right. And I don’t mean just because of Marjorie or because of morals. It’s all much vaguer than that. More the thought of some seedy jumped-up boarding house in Bayswater, its every nook and cranny let out to servicemen and their girls at hugely inflated prices, and of some oily little clerk peering with a knowing smirk at what we’ve written in the register.
    I look at the pavement, see that somebody’s been sick. Transfer my gaze to the upturned barrow in the middle of the road, where things seem to be growing increasingly unpleasant.
    â€œNo,” Matt says quickly. “You two take the jeep. I guess it won’t be any problem getting rid of that second room.” He suggests we all meet up again at noon the