The house: the house is a lot of work as well as pleasure. I have barely any time at all for my painting. There is little that doesn’t need help, from the garden to the roof slates. Another thing I can do with this time to myself. I’m trying to do as much myself as I can. Mother should be spared a good deal, if possible, and if you and Gordon are able to come up and take advantage of our local Civil Defence muddle (Jean, by the way, informs me that Gordon claims to be absolutely certain about visiting), I won’t want the four of us to spend our time tidying up. Today I painted the iron lattice garden gate and those nails you were gracious enough to admire are now largely a very inelegant black. Which makes me wonder if painted nails belong in the countryside. I fear not. Weren’t you the one who claimed to be incapable of imagining me in a farmhouse?
When you come, your imagination will be given a push. The house dates from 1791. The farm part was years ago split up, though there’s still a good bit of land left. I’m afraid it won’t seem very American to you and Gordon — cold stone walls and big rattling windows that let the wind in (in the mornings outside it’s cold and damp, now, and inside it’s colder and slightly less damp). It’s dull this summer, but very pretty. There are cracks all about the house and the stone is crumbling but it’s far from disaster. The garden is full of old twisted apple and beech trees and one cherry tree which has grown from a pip I planted when I was five. There are forsythia and bluebells and roses and primroses — all untame, all very lovely. In a corner of the garden we found an enormous man-hole (eight feet by six feet and carefully lined with stone) which we romantically claim to have been Cardinal Newman’s hideout when the Protestants were after him.
“Any gum, chum?” the boy said. He was still gazing at Bryant, still standing in the same spot near the hedge.
“Excuse me?” Bryant said.
The boy looked crestfallen. “Then you don’t know it,” he said. “I told him you wouldn’t.”
Bryant waited, and the boy removed his hands from the hedge and withdrew them behind his back. “My friend Keir told me if you asked Americans that way, they gave you chewing gum. He said you found it amusing.”
Bryant fished some gum from his pocket. “He was right,” he said. He leaned forward and handed the gum around the side of the hedge.
“Thank you very much, Sergeant,” the boy said.
“Well, you tell Keir he was right on the beam.”
“I will,” Colin said. “And I hope you remain alive, Sergeant. I have to go now, I’m afraid. Thank you for the chewing gum.”
He waved, and Bryant returned the wave. He watched the boy cross the open grassy area bordering the base and disappear, finally, down the lane.
“I hope you remain alive?” he repeated to himself. He shook his head.
After scrubbing floors and washing windows and repairing mattresses and sewing curtains I was quite fatigued with the indoors and ready for the garden. I asked my neighbour who around here knew about gardens, and the Hampdens arrived.
Lucky me. The Hampdens owned and ran a small plant and feed shop and have retired, it seems, to my back garden. Mr. H. was rather suspicious of my free time, but he’s come around, I think. They’ve provided some expertise, aid, and company, and we spent the last two days gardening in some fairly heavy rain. Again, not very American, I suspect, but something one does, gardening in England. It’s beginning, they tell me, to resemble a real English garden — with the variety and colour. You scoff, I’m sure. I’m not certain I know what makes an English garden (Mr. Hampden likes to say a watering can, some fertilizer, and three hundred years): the rock beds, the beautifully level and rich grass, the sense of age, of hidden surprises.
I’ve been trying to learn the botanical names for the new plants: this morning I pointed out a delicate one at my feet and said “Arabis,” proudly, for I suspected I was right. “Arabis variegata,” said Mrs. Hampden. “Variegata,” I said, as though that were obvious. “Is that Latin?” “No, dear,” she said. “English.” The dictionary says from the Latin variegare.
Mother, and the gardens, and the Hampdens, are almost enough. But almost is not it, is it?
I’m well. I’m fairly happy. I hope you are well. I hope you are safe. I’m very much looking forward to your visit. Mother has said there’s plenty of room for Jean and Gordon, so you shouldn’t worry.
The enclosed, perhaps, I should explain. It comes from my realisation that only watercolours can match some English colours. Though this — my first attempt with flowers since thirteen — conveys only a bit of what I’m trying to send. Please take care of yourself. I hope to see you soon.
Robin.
In the envelope — Bryant had missed it at first — was a piece of cardboard, with a watercolor of a spray of small starburst-like flowers of an intense blue, over green stalks and dark brown earth. It was labeled Endymion nonscriptus (English Bluebell).
That night he lay in the Nissen hut on his bunk, the enlisted men’s quarters cramped enough that an outspread arm would touch Snowberry, sleeping soundly to his left. There was a mission on for the next morning, though the weather was again problematic. Apparently someone was tired of waiting.
He dreamed of Training, of Basic and Gunnery, and he woke and lay still, his friends’ quiet breathing filling the space around him. Snowberry’s breathing had a slight wheeziness to it that always inspired inappropriate tenderness in him, as though he were listening to an infant son with the croup. The metal canopy of the Nissen roof above made random and hushed sounds in the wind. The air was close. The blanket beneath his nose had a flat, airless smell, and beyond it the darkness was chilled. Bean’s socks were somewhere nearby. Outside the rain was returning, the soft rush on the aluminum light and uneven. He imagined the canvas flaps on the fuel bowsers, billowing and wet in the darkness.
He remembered field-stripping the fifty-caliber Brownings day after day at Harlingen in the dreamy Texas sun. In only shorts and boots, on a square piece of olive canvas dusty and patinaed with grit. The gun was heavy and difficult to manipulate, smooth with oil. There were cocking levers and bolt assemblies, firing pins and sears, belonging to a system of order which had to be retrieved once broken down, and Bryant had always been the slowest, the clumsiest. He mashed fingers and skinned palms repeatedly wrestling with oil buffer body spring locks. The procedures were difficult to hurry, though the stripping and reassembly were being timed. In the intense heat there was an unpleasant, dreamlike effect of having to do something rapid and intricate while submerged in warm water. Men he knew slightly and would never know again were spread in distant rows on the canvas squares across the baking and flat earth. The impression was that of a series of desolate, individual picnics. On good days shirts were piled and tied sheik-like on heads, and the rotating, depressing, releasing, and the click and clatter of interlocking metal components coming apart proceeded with a more ordered if still-hesitant smoothness.
There was one instructor, a Sergeant Favale, whom he remembered with fondness. Favale was a heavy-set Italian who’d been through two whole tours and seemed almost thirty, and had always had for Bryant a sly and kindly manner to go with an impossibly coarse sense of humor. Favale had guided him through the field strip drills, always benevolently late to start the stopwatch, with long and pointless dirty stories that he now understood had been intended to help him relax. Bryant remembered the surreal discomfort of having to endure the drills blindfolded and wearing flying gloves, oversized and lined with sheepskin, that soaked up their sweat and swaddled their arms in the heat like great floppy weights, while Favale reported his sense of what ways of dying most flyboys preferred. Bryant had fumbled and lost parts and Favale had ticked off flak, anoxia, shellfire, burning. He remembered clearly the exhilaration of finishing and ending the frustration, tearing off his blindfold and gloves to grin sweatily up at a happy Favale, the two of them looking around at others still working blind with their oversized and swaddled hands, like prisoners of a mysterious sect. A hopelessly frustrated boy, still blindfolded, had called out to him across the spread tarps, “What way do you want to die, Sergeant?”, and Favale had said, “Boys, the only way: I want to melt and drain out my prick.” The tarps had rocked with laughter, and Bryant remembered the moment, blindfolded and laughing boys all around him slapping their thighs with gloves like enormous weighty potholders.