Issue 22 - July 2012 (PDF) - Chipping Norton Times

A Place In The Heart : by Richard Vaughan-Davies
There was more than a touch of spring in the air as I walked up
Moreton High Street to the White Hart for my usual evening
pint. Yellow, red and white crocuses were dotted like confetti
under the trees by the cobbles, and the daffodils were proudly
showing off their newly minted gold on the grass verges.
As I took my corner seat in the Snug with my pint of
Hooky, I nodded to an old man sitting up very straight at one of
the tables, apparently waiting for his meal to be served. From
his dress and general appearance I took him for an American,
and when we exchanged pleasantries his speech confirmed it.
“Are you on holiday, then?” I asked. “Long vacation,
sure. Staying right here in the White Hart.“ He took a sip of his
lager, and wrinkled his nose slightly. Not cold enough for him, I
guessed. “Yessir, no time limit these days.” He laughed. “Unless
the Almighty deems differently, of course! Nearly ninety’s a
good age.”
“Any particular reason why you’ve come to Moreton,
then?” He took his time replying. “It’s in the Heart of England,
they say. And it’s sure got a place in my heart too.”
I was intrigued, and looked at him inquiringly. He was
ready to talk, as old men often are. He looked at me directly,
with his blue eyes. “Ever heard of the US Sixth Armored
Division, son? The Super Sixth?”
“Yes – they were stationed here during the war,
weren’t they?”
“Sure were. Came over from Kentucky in January ‘forty
four. Getting us trained for D Day, they said.” He chuckled.
“Though in the end we never went. Probably why ah’m still alive
and talking to yo-all today!”
I tried to draw him out. Nearly all the witnesses to the
county’s wartime past were dead now, and firsthand accounts
were precious. “What about the boys at the RAF airport?” I
asked. “The bomb squadrons. Did you know them? Is it true
Bomber Harris himself came here to plan the destruction of
Dresden?”
He thought back nearly seventy years. “I don’t know
too much about all that. We didn’t really mix with those guys.
But yeah, we used to see a few of them in the Wellington, down
the road here. Closed now, I believe?” He leaned across the
table towards my corner and dropped his voice. “They didn’t
like us much, I guess. We were after their girls, you see!” A sly
smile crept over his face. “And we got ‘em too, specially some
of our coloured guys. The women really went for them.” His first
course had arrived now, but he carried on talking. “I was only
twenny four, and never bin outta Kentucky till then. And boy, did
I have a good time in this town. With one particular ladi-eee, as
it happens. I was a bit too shy to play the field much in those
days.”
“What was her name?”
“Molly,” he said, spooning up his soup. “She was the
prettiest lil’ redhead you ever did see.”
The bar had filled up now, and I had to move closer to
his table to hear him.
“What happened? ”
“Well, she and I got kinda close, if you get my meaning.
But the Division got moved on down south that July, waiting for
the big push. I wrote once and she wrote back a coupla times
but after that things got real busy and that was that. I never saw
her again. Other towns, other girls….” I asked him if I could buy
him a drink, and he refused. I got up and went over to the bar.
“Another pint of the usual, Ginger?” asked the barman. I said yes.
It had got colder. The hotel had obviously decided that
as spring was here, they didn’t need to light the logs in the great
fireplace, but I wished they had.
I bit my lip. Molly was my grandmother’s name. My
father had never known his mother, who had hanged herself a
month after he was born. Her body was found swinging in a
barn at Holly Farm, with a note pinned to her body saying she
couldn’t go on - the shame was too much. She asked her sister
to look after the baby for her. The matter was never discussed in
my family, and all references to Molly had been wiped away. My
mother had whispered to me once that she’d been ‘a bad lot.’
When I returned, the old man had been served with his fish
course. “Let me guess,” I said. “You’ve come back to see if you
can find her, right? But now she’s a just little white haired old
lady in a nursing home, who can’t remember her own name, let
alone yours? Am I right?” I held my breath. But he didn’t smile.
“She was the nicest person I ever met,” he said quietly. “Honest,
decent, funny too – my Gawd, how we used to laugh together.
And she had legs like Betty Grable’s, and …” His hands
wordlessly described a full bosom. “Never met anybody like her,
before or since.”
There was a silence, then after a while he continued
with his meal.
“No, I haven’t found her,” he said. “Been here a week
now. I’ve asked around everywhere, the records office, the
church – the young curate’s been very helpful – the Town Hall.
Nothing. It’s kinda like she’s vanished off the face of the earth.”
He stared at his plaice and chips as if he hadn’t seen them
before.
“She’s still got a place in my heart though.”
He suddenly let out a tremendous cackle that made the
men at the bar pause their conversation and look round.
“And now I’m having a plaice in the Hart! Hah! Kinda
neat, huh?”
His laughter rang hollowly in my ears all the way home,
as darkness fell.
© Richard Vaughan-Davies
The Runners Up both received Gift Cards
sponsored by Stow on the Wold Post Office.
Life in a market town.
Gillian James and her
team operate the post
offices in both Stow on
the Wold and Moreton
in Marsh. Both are busy
business centres, valued
by the communities
they serve – and a part
of the rich pattern that
is life a Cotswold market
town.
Cuts and economies still
threaten post offices in
Stow-On-The-Wold Post Office
Sheep Street
Stow-On-The-Wold
GL54 1HQ
many communities. Gilliam and her
team value the loyalty and ongoing
support they receive from residents
and businesses, and wish to take
this opportunity to say: “Thank you,
your help is greatly appreciated”.
Editor
9