Too Late Now

Too Late Now

When a man gets to a certain age, just about my age as it happens, he becomes prey to all sorts of physical ailments. Well not ailments as such, more like general deterioration. They’re visited upon us because we’re always putting off getting fit till next week, or perhaps the week after next, or the week after the New Year or after John’s party, or something like that.

However, I never thought that I would begin to suffer from that peculiar disorder that, in my experience, more typically afflicts the female mind. I mean …, what do I mean? …, well psychic phenomena, I suppose.

I’d never been a man given to whimsy or flights of fancy. In fact I was even like that as a boy. I remember that a teacher at my first school gave me permission not to bother with attempting a story for the regular Monday morning essay, “What I did at the Weekend”, because she said I was totally devoid of all imagination. Instead, she allowed me to write a brief commentary about the football match I always attended on the Saturday. That was in 1961. The late, great Danny Blanchflower was guiding Spurs to the elusive double. So, of course, that’s what I did at the weekend! What else?

But as for the mystery she had planted in my brain – well that was a difficult one. We didn’t have many books in my house – just a dog-eared King James Bible, two Readers Digest novels and several half-dismembered Dandy and Beano annuals, so finding out what ‘devoid’ meant was my first ever research project.

Eventually, I happened upon a thing called a dictionary in the school library. This solved the puzzle but it was frustratingly silent on the definition of many other words I’d heard in the playground, the meanings of which I earnestly desired to know. Perhaps it was this disappointment that caused me to channel my energies away from literature and towards what I saw as the more certain world of science. I don’t know if that’s really how it was but it’s how I recall it.

That’s probably all beside the point as I was talking about more spiritual things but first I must deal with the purely corporeal. You see, I’d had an accident and completely ruptured the quadriceps tendon in my left leg. You should have seen it! When I bent my leg, the kneecap rose bizarrely as though it was a corpse readying itself to climb out of a grave. It gave me the creeps, especially as I was connected to the bloody thing – or rather, only partially connected if you see what I mean. To cut a long story short, I was in plaster for seven weeks and when I eventually escaped my cocoon, I’d put on over a stone! I really hated being so porky.

So I started a regime of physiotherapy to which I added by going for a walk every day. Nothing too strenuous at first – a walk to the common, an errand or two in town or a furtive visit to the pub. The latter was not a good idea I now admit, considering I was trying to lose weight!
But after a week, I was venturing further afield and discovering parts of my locality that I’d hitherto only seen in flashes as I sped past on my way to somewhere more interesting. Very soon however, I began to enjoy my excursions and thought nothing of doing seven or eight miles even though it would take me about three hours to do it.

Thus I come to the day in question. A cliché I know but an appropriately ominous phrase nonetheless.

It was a hot day in July, cloudless and sultry without a breath of wind. I was walking what had become a familiar route to me; my favourite, in fact. There are a few houses dotted about, several farms and a couple of villages but what I like best about it is that there’s a kind of plateau on a hill between the two villages. This, slightly eerie, almost forlorn place had been the site of a World War Two aerodrome. The original concrete control tower still exists, set back about a hundred yards from the road that snakes over the summit. Perhaps summit is too grand a title for such a small hill but it’ll have to do as I can’t be bothered to think of an alternative.

Anyway, despite the heat I was enjoying the walk. There were lots of butterflies flitting about and bees buzzing as they investigated white and pinkish flowers in the hedgerows. It’s no use asking me what they were. I was born and brought up in London and can barely tell a rose from a daisy. They could have been sukebind for all I knew.

Just short of the plateau I told you about, I spotted an old footpath bearing off to the left. I’d never registered it before but perhaps I did this time as I’d paused for a moment to catch my breath. My leg was beginning to ache and I knew I’d have to have a short rest soon. The path looked a good bet as there was a bit of a spinney not far along it which should offer some relief from the heat of the day. Therefore, I deviated from my usual course and, rather uncharacteristically, took the way less travelled by.

As I plodded along the rutted path, I saw that there seemed to be an item of furniture or something equally unlikely, shaded by the trees. I squinted against the harsh light of the sun and, as I drew closer, it revealed itself to be a park bench. I suppose I should have been surprised to find such a thing in the middle of nowhere but, never one to question providence, I was just glad that I had found somewhere to park my weary bones for a while.

As I dumped my backpack on the ground, I noticed that there were two small, brass plaques fixed on the bench. I bent to read them.
The leftmost dedication was old and stained with verdigris but could still be read. It said:

Two roads diverged, Johnny
But will meet again
Bess 1945

‘How poignant,’ I thought, ‘poignant and charming’.
However, the brass of the second offering was bright and new, which served only to accentuate the contrasting bitterness of the tone:

Yet he wasn’t worth it
Too late now!
Louisa 2005

“So what’s that all about?” I said to the bench but it just stood there woodenly. Not really expecting an answer, I sat on my mute friend, took a long swig of water and, with a sigh of near contentment, lit a cigarette. Not the first of the day but then you can’t deal with all your vices at once – I was having enough trouble just trying to lose a few pounds.

When I’d finished my smoke, I ground out the stub and put it in a pocket of my pack. I might have been dragged up in East London, the biggest refuse tip in the land, but I still took heed of the old TV information adverts. “Don’t litter the countryside; Take your rubbish home with you!”
Pleased with my small show of virtuousness, I put up my feet on the bench and closed my eyes for a moment. As I did so, I remember hearing the sound of an antique aircraft overhead though I couldn’t be bothered to search the skies for it. Probably from North Weald or more likely Duxford, I guessed, practising for a display or something. Then I must have dropped off.

* * * * * * *

As usual, we’d been given a briefing the night before. Another mission over Normandy, shooting up the Nazis around Caen.

We’d been doing this kinda stuff since before the landings in June and it was pretty routine. Me and most of the other guys in the 409th Group had come over from Louisiana in March and been operating out of this little airfield since then. We flew Douglas A-20s; a light bomber, three crew and a bomb-load of two thousand pounds. Havocs they were called. We sure caused havoc amongst those lousy Nazis.

We were pretty self-contained, I guess. The RAF dumped some unwanted desk-jockey on us as the head of station and then left us alone to do our job. I for one had no complaints.

Some of the other guys thought it was a dead-and-alive hole and were always griping about it. I figured they missed the bayous and all that jazz but I liked this part of England real fine. I’d lived in Cambridge, Massachussetts till I was thirteen and it felt kinda homey to me that the original Cambridge was just up the road a piece.
I guess by then I had another reason to like the place, ‘cos I’d met this really swell English gal.

A coupla months back, a few of the fliers had got a yen to try British beer. They’d heard that it was kinda flat and that the Limeys didn’t even chill it. They just couldn’t believe that anyone could drink such a thing. One guy who’d tasted it once said it was so bad it made him think we were fighting the war against the wrong damn country.

Anyhow, a bunch of us had walked down to one of the villages to check it out. We found a place that they call a pub – a style of big house with a bar inside. It was called the Crown, I recollect.
The poor bloody Limeys couldn’t get real booze those days ‘cos they were on rations, but there was plenty of their beer and we all had several glasses of the stuff. It’s kinda yeasty and bitter tasting with almost no fizz. Not warm entirely but not cold neither. Most of the guys hated it but a few of us, me included, got to like it.

We were made right welcome by the folks there. I guess ‘cos we seemed glamorous to them or something. Most of ‘em worked on the farms thereabouts and had never even been to London, which was only fifty miles away for chrissakes!
Lotsa guys in the pub asked me about Hollywood and if I knew any movie stars. Not sure they believed me when I told ‘em I lived nearly two thousand miles away. England’s real small, you know – you could fit the whole country into Texas twice over and still have room left for a ranch the size of Kansas.

But what I couldn’t get at all was why they was so fascinated with them make-believe Hollywood types like Rita Hayworth or Veronica Lake. Sure, Lake was kinda cute but I’d never seen anyone half so pretty as the girl serving behind the bar in this pub. Bess was her name, short for Elizabeth. She had curly, honey-blonde hair and a smile that made you glad just to be alive. She was real gorgeous and she knocked all those phony movie stars into a cocked hat.

Well, between her serving and shrugging off the kidding of our guys, we got to talking. I was real pleased when I cottoned on that she kept returning to where I was standing – ‘cos I really liked her too.

What did we talk about? Well books and poetry mainly. She sure knew her stuff too. But I had an ace to play. My Grandpa had been a gardener at Harvard and used to chat with some of the students; the ones that weren’t too snooty that is. He got real friendly with a guy called Robert Frost who treated him like an equal and seemed interested in his work. Well, when I told her that, she declared that he was her favourite poet and our meeting must be fate. I felt like I’d hit a home run at the World Series. I fell in love with her right there and then.

I just loved the way she spoke. It was sorta slow and rolling, like it fit the place. It put me in mind of the little hills and valleys thereabouts. I figured it was just the local accent but with her it seemed all warm and kinda furry-like.
But it’s different in war, y’know. You see guys you knew shot down and killed and it kinda changes your perspective. Any morning could be your last so you got to fit a helluva lot of living into a short time. I only knew Bess for around eight weeks but we both acted like it had to last us a lifetime. We spent every moment we could together – but it was never going to be enough.

On the morning of the raid, I broke off from the squadron momentarily and flew my Havoc low over the farm where she lived, just to say ‘hi’. I’d gotten into the habit of doing that whenever I flew out, and this morning I spotted her in the yard in front of her house. The sun seemed to be shining in her hair and she was waving to me. That was the last time I ever saw her.

The raid should have been a cinch and at first, it was. We dropped our bombs on the designated target, a supply dump south of Caen, and then split up in ones and twos. This was the regular thing. The idea was to shoot up whatever we could find – troops, tanks, vehicles, trains, any damn thing, and make our own way back to base.
I don’t know; mebbe I was flying too low but suddenly the crate juddered and I knew we’d been hit. I still had some control but I was worried we’d stall. All I could do was head west, behind our lines. I made it as far as Bayeux and tried to land her in a field but the landing gear was shot to hell and we crashed.

The last thing I remember is seeing a little grove of trees growing bigger and bigger as we ploughed toward it. Then the lights went out.
They say that I was out of it for five days and they thought I was a gonner. The two guys in my crew, Steve Hellman and Harry Jackson came to see me. They’d got out OK; just a bit beat up but they’d pulled me out of the wreckage and saved my life. I shoulda been grateful I guess, but I was too busy thinking of myself. They had to tell me the truth and I just hated them for it.
So that’s how I ended up like this – body all smashed up, blind in both eyes and missing a leg and an arm. Not a pretty sight then and even worse now I’m in my eighties. Who’da thought I’d live so long? Far too long for one acquainted with the night!

Anyhow, I was repatriated as soon as I was fit to travel but I spent best part of a year in a camp, here in the States, being taught how to manage with what was left of me.
Sure I thought about Bess – I couldn’t think of anything else but what use was I to anyone like I was? So I didn’t write, hoping she’d just forget about me.

But she kept writing. She must’ve written me twenty letters but every one made me feel more sorry for myself till, in the end, I couldn’t stand it. So I got this nurse to write a letter for me. She was a bit like you, I guess. A bothersome sort, but with a good heart. I got her to make out like she was my wife and she’d found the letters. A mean, lousy trick but it worked. Every day that’s passed since then I feel guilty but what could I do? Anyway, it’s too late now.
I do hope Bess had a better life than me. She was due some happiness.

Jesus, but my leg hurts like hell! I used to get these phantom feelings in the beginning but I’ve felt nothing like this for years.

No, take that thing away. I don’t need no more drugs. And don’t give me any of that patronising bullshit – I’ve had a bellyful already!
“Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.” For me, Frost will have to suffice.
You think I’m rambling now, don’tcha? Well you’re wrong. See, I know why you’re still sitting here listening to me rattling and gasping away. You wanna give me the last rites but damn that! I was catholic once but I lost my faith in the crash – lost it along with all the other bits of me. Still, I guess that you never really get out of the habit of confessin’. And it seems like you never get out of the habit of lovin’ neither.
I’ve only told you all this so’s I can let it go at last …

But I have promises to keep …
And miles to go before I sleep …

… Hi, Bess. It’s me, Johnny …

* * * * * * *

A sudden, chill breath of wind woke me. At least, that was my initial impression though the hot and heavy stillness of the air belied the notion. The pain in my leg was agonising, worse even than that moment when I’d felt the tendon snap. As I fought myself to full consciousness though, the pain rapidly dissolved into the vague awareness of discomfort to which I’d become accustomed.

I stood and stretched, thereby disturbing a couple of butterflies, tortoiseshells I thought, which had been settled on some dandelions at my feet. I watched them dance around each other, higher and higher until I lost them in the glare of the sun.

As I trudged along the path, back the way I’d come, I thought about the daydream I’d just had. I know that I have dreams of course; I assume everybody does, but it’s extremely rare for me to recall any details. Usually, I forget them as soon as I wake. It’s an aspect of my practical nature, I suppose. “Totally devoid of imagination,” as Miss Jones used to say.

The other odd thing though was that the dream came with no vision; I’d experienced just a disembodied voice in my head. Aren’t dreams usually mostly pictures rather than dialogue?

I don’t know …, you tell me – I can never remember the bloody things anyway. Far too chaotic and untidy for my tiny, regimented mind. Yeah, OK, you’re right; so I’ll admit unsettling as well.

One idea occurs to me, though.

It’s a bit like that metaphysical question that George Berkeley posed – you know the thing; about a tree falling in a forest. Does it make a noise if there’s no-one there to hear it?

Perhaps someone had to be there in order for the voice to be heard. Perhaps my being in that place, at that time, had made all the difference.