Epilogue
WHEN GERMANY DEFEATED ENGLAND IN THE QUARTER-FINAL of the 1970 World Cup soccer tournament, grandpa was furious.
He sat in front of the color television set and muttered through his beard at the screen. “Cunning!” he told the assorted experts who were now dissecting the game. “Cunning and stealth! That’s the way to defeat the damned Germans.”
He would not be mollified until his grandchildren arrived. Jo’s white Jaguar drew up on the drive of the modest three-bedroom house, and then Jo himself, prosperous-looking in a suede jacket, along with his wife Ann and their children went in.
Jo said, “Did you watch the football, pop?”
“Terrible, we were rubbish.” Since he’d retired from the Force and had more leisure time he had taken an interest in sports.
“The Germans were better,” Jo said. “They play good football. We can’t win it every time—”
“Don’t talk to me about bloody Germans. Cunning and stealth, that’s the way to beat them.” He addressed the grandson on his lap. “That’s the way we beat them in the war, Davy—we tricked them proper.”
“How did you trick them?” Davy asked.
“Well, see, we made them think—” his voice became low and conspiratorial, and the little boy giggled in anticipation—“we made them think we were going to attack Calais—”
“That’s in France, not Germany—”
Ann shushed him. “Let your grandpa tell his stories.”
“Anyway,” grandpa continued, “we made them think we were going to attack Calais, so they put all their tanks and soldiers there.” He used a cushion to represent France, an ashtray for the Germans, and a penknife for the Allies. “But we attacked Normandy, and there was nobody much there but old Rommel and a few popguns—”
“Didn’t they find out about the trick?” David asked.
“They nearly did. In fact, there was one spy who did find out.”
“What happened to him?”
“We killed him before he could tell.”
“Did you kill him, grandpa?”
“No, your grandma did.”
Grandma came in then, carrying a teapot. “Fred Bloggs, are you frightening the children?”
“Why shouldn’t they know?” he groused. “She’s got a medal, you know. She won’t tell me where she keeps it because she doesn’t like me showing it to visitors.”
She was pouring tea. “It’s all over now and best forgotten.” She handed a cup and saucer to her husband.
He took her arm and held her there. “It’s far from over,” he said, and his voice was suddenly gentle.
They looked at each other for a moment. Her beautiful hair was greying now and she wore it up in a bun. She was heavier than she used to be. But her eyes were still the same: large and amber and remarkably beautiful. Those eyes looked back at him now, and they both were very still, remembering.
Until David jumped off his grandpa’s lap and knocked the cup of tea to the floor and the spell was broken.