“Well,” she said at last. “A lot of weed will be smoked at Berkeley tonight.”
Win spat out an awkward laugh. He looked to Mrs. Spencer as a gauge, which tells you something about his state of mind. On the other hand, the old gal had lived through two wars and had seen people “blown to atoms.” Gladys Deacon was not unaccustomed to war.
“She’s in shock, Seton,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Leave her be.”
“In shock?” Pru looked up, her face drawn and whitewashed. “Why would I be in shock? The war was going to end, one way or another. Eventually.”
“The North Vietnamese returned to the negotiation table,” said the man on the radio. “Likely at the urging of the Soviet Union and Red China.”
The volume was turned up, but none of them were fully listening.
“I’ll take my leave,” Mrs. Spencer said as she moved toward the door. “Let you two sort this all out.”
With her words, Win was suddenly gripped with panic. He was supposed to help “sort it out”? What did he know about sorting anything of this magnitude? He scarcely had the resourcefulness to pay bills on time and buy toothpaste when he ran out. The bloke had half a mind to follow Mrs. Spencer straight out of the room.
“You’ll know what to do, Seton,” Mrs. Spencer said, reading him flawlessly.
The door clicked behind her.
Several uncomfortable moments passed. And then, several more after that. Win broke into a cold sweat.
“So—er—I hear the Dolphins won the American Super Bowl,” he said, finally, in a magnificent display of verbal acuity. The man had all the empathy of a lab rat. There wasn’t a situation he couldn’t make more awkward. “First team ever to have a perfect season. Nineteen and zed.”
“The Dolphins?” Pru looked at him walleyed. “What are you even talking about?”
“Sorry, sorry. Gads swears that when running out of things to say to Yanks it’s best to bring up American football. Or baseball. Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers? Yes? No? Baseball players have the cheekiest names.”
“You have problems,” Pru said, annoyed but also grateful. His ineptitude was a good diversion. “Your mental issues are severe.”
“Devastatingly accurate. Pru, I haven’t the vaguest notion what to say. Other than, I’m sorry. I’m so bloody sorry for the news.”
“Win, that’s sweet,” she said. “But what, exactly, are you sorry for? A war ending?”
“I flub all kinds of things. Approximately ninety-two percent of what comes out of my mouth is a bungle of some sort. But ‘sorry’ is the proper word here. It hasn’t been a year since Easter. Not one fecking year. Shit timing. Out-and-out shit.”
What he said, this was Pru’s very problem.
Because Win was right, which was tricky on a number of grounds. Not one fecking year. A handful of months were the difference between life and death, for Charlie and for who knew how many other men.
Each month tacked onto the skirmish added nothing to the story. It served only to lengthen the mess, no additional plot but ever more body bags. If it were a film or a book, critics would call the deaths gratuitous, unnecessary. Because of this, anyone would understand if Pru was glad the war was ending but still felt enraged by the timing. Unfortunately this was not the emotion that Pru had.
When she first heard the news, her heart plummeted. And then it whispered something to her brain. It said: thank God the war went on a bit longer. Thank God everything happened as it did.
Fifty-nine
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
JANUARY 1973
Pru had fallen for Win.
Arse over tits, he’d say, if speaking about someone else. Either way, she had fallen, and hard. It seemed impossible but there was no other explanation for Pru’s reaction to the cease-fire.
The whole thing felt like a harmonious convergence of circumstance. She ended up with Win! At a remote estate on another continent! How lucky they were to find each other in this big, mad world.
Of course Pru appreciated the level of selfishness required to believe fate might intervene in such cruel fashion. Her romantic interests were not important to the world order and there’d been far more to Charlie than who he planned to marry. Most would argue it was the very least of him.
As for Win, the lucky bastard didn’t even comprehend her feelings, or see that she was trying to express them in her quiet Pru way. Yes, he had some inkling but the scenario seemed too far-fetched, too “dream on, bugger,” and so the man shucked off the thought whenever it poked its head through the door.