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Land That I Love

By Gail Kittleson

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Nottinghamshire England, 1936
They say tears and laughter remind us that lifeblood flows through our veins. After this night, I tend to agree.
Something pulled me from a restless sleep. Lace curtains shud- dered in a wayward spring breeze as I cleared my head. Over Donnie’s corner crib, moonlight undulated over the coverlet Grand- mother had so carefully stitched to warm me in my youth.
Suddenly, I sat up and sniffed. Could that be smoke? I leaped from bed and peered into the hallway. My heart throbbed at the sight of hazy spirals encroaching over the sedate wooden bannister.
Turning back into the bedroom, I gathered Donnie in his cov- erlet and hurried out. Halfway down the stairs, William, alert as always, approached from below and caught my elbow.
“Sir, Mrs. Herring.” He cleared his throat. “Some time ago, that is, just after a replay of Lawrence Gilliam’s ‘Opping ‘Oliday program, she slipped into the kitchen.”
So like William, precise to the moment. But as he continued, my eyes began to sting from the foul air.
“I kept watch from my quarters as she made busy in there.” He gave a violent cough. “I must have nodded off, and startled awake.” His tone became a harsh whisper. “But it was too late. She had started a fire,and the smoke ....That is,sir,she ...”
From the shadows, William’s eyes glistened as he coughed again. 1
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“We must get Donnie outside. Hurry!” He ushered us down the rest of the stairs, into the hallway and out the front doors.
Dew-drenched grass shimmered around us as I shielded Donnie from the coolness. Against a dark sky, smoke formed grey rivulets.
“Sir.” William hunched closer. “Jeffries and I carried her . . . that is, Mrs. Herring’s—er, your wife’s body—to the carriage house.” In a midnight mist, a shiver passed through William’s tall form.
“Please do stay here. I shall return soon.”
With that, he strode away as ghostly events from the past few
weeks paraded before me. Victoria’s illness, the doctor’s daily visits, caring for Donnie as best I could. Against my shoulder, our inno- cent toddler’s breathing deepened as my own turned to nothing at all.
A few rods away, nightmarish flames leaped into a torrent that engulfed the only home I had ever known. During my childhood, the west section had housed the maid’s entrance, cold cellar, storage room and servants’ quarters. At this point, we required only a cook and a maid, who lived nearby, so William had moved his things there after Victoria and I married.
When he claimed the room next to the kitchen, I assumed his concern was for our privacy. But had he presaged trouble?
Separated from the house by an expanse of paving stones, the carriage house remained untouched by the fire. I pictured Victoria lying there alone, without even the wireless for company. My eyes burned, but held hostage by this inferno, my feet refused to budge.
A brazen belch from the blaze forced me back as a tinny bell clanged in the distance. Ah, the local firemen—William must have hailed them. Oh, the immense heat emanating from the conflagration, yet it failed to alter the icy river coursing my soul.
Never the same since Donnie’s birth, she who bore this little one had risked killing us all. Victoria hated me, that I knew. My utter failure as a husband sat like a tumor at the back of my throat.
This, I had come to accept, but to endanger her only son?
A frisson traced my spine as a heavy lorry rumbled onto the
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drive, and a burly fellow—the village ironmonger, I supposed— descended from the cab. He loosed a thick rubber hose from its hooks aside the lorry as other workers toppled out into the night. Even the chemist from Holton Street lent a hand. Such a melee, this. Shouts and heroics poised against this tenacious monster that sizzled and flashed its eyes.
I could well imagine a medieval character from Bows Against the Barons, recently published by a local author, racing through the trees to save the day with Robin Hood and his band. Not far off, Sherwood Forest might have divulged them to strive against the King. Nothing could shock me now.
But the thought of this tale I recently purchased for little Donnie brought me to a sweat. Grandfather’s books—oh no! His lovely library . . .
Not a great house like Wolford Manor closer to Nottingham, this structure possessed some such elements, including Grandfa- ther’s pride and joy, his mahogany-walled library. At the farthest point from the kitchen, this sanctuary boasted its own double doors leading into a garden.
Even as I panicked, those doors swung wide to reveal William and several workers hefting wooden crates. Relief washed me as he went about saving Grandfather’s treasures.
A great crash shook the earth, and a nimble fellow scaled a corner, having found a foothold in a trellis Grandfather fashioned for his young bride long ago.This piece had served Grandmother well, and might have lasted another lifetime.
Four years ago, I had crooned, “From the past right into the present, my dear,” before I gathered Victoria in my arms for our momentous step over the threshold. “And on into our bright future. All the love my grandparents shared will undergird our years here, too.”
Her eyes reflected my passion, or so I believed.
Now Grandfather had passed from this world, and everything crumbled around me. The one place I cherished was fast turning
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to ashes. As if to underscore its demise, a cupola crashed onto the porch roof, broke through, and blazed where it fell. At the same time, a basement window burst out, to lie sizzling on the lawn in shards.
Suddenly, I remembered Victoria’s warning a fortnight ago. During one of her rages, she shrieked, “It has never been as you think, Everett. This dream was all in your head, not mine, and soon you shall see it go up in smoke.”
Gleaning nothing but metaphor, I replied like the schoolmaster I was, “Then why did you marry me?”
“For a roof over my head and a table set by others.” She smoothed graceful fingers along her skirt. “And lovely gowns. Why else?”
Before I could reply, she stared at me with disdain and raced up the stairs. The door of the chamber she had adopted since Donnie’s birth slammed with finality. Such behavior might have informed me of the state of things, but blinded by the physician’s words, I had continued to hope. A few months ago, an alienist in a famed London hospital had concocted a new medication, he said, that would surely assuage her nervous condition.
But during the next weeks, that prediction proved false. No blame cast—our physician only performed his duty. ’Twas my dream alone that rendered me incognizant.
Dreams possess power to intoxicate to the detriment of reality. With our beautiful old home disappearing before my eyes, I finally succumbed to the truth. Victoria had been right—the fanciful
portrait of our growing family existed only under my unruly hair. Rude certainty faced me head-on. But even when the exhausted workers gave up their efforts to save this graceful building, I found the devastation impossible to embrace. Grandfather’s precious
house in ruins—how could this be?
Stone survives fire, but everything built upon it perishes. The
night around me testified to utter demise, and these simmering remains reflected the undeniable state of my dream.
An automobile halted near the carriage house. My side vision revealed William hurrying that way. Grandfather’s butler and
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reliable friend, as always, would oversee whatever procedure must take place.
Innocent Donnie sighed against my shoulder. The carriage house doors opened and the automobile backed down the drive and hastened away. How long I stood there, I cannot say, but at last, a great roar evidenced this debacle’s closing chapter. Gathered in clumps on the lawn, exhausted workers stared. As the slightest wink of light appeared in the east, they wiped their weary brows.
Numb, I only knew the warmth of sweet Donnie against my chest until someone approached and pulled me aside. In the shad- ows, I scarce took in the fullness of his message.
“Your wife, Mr. Herring. We have removed her to the mortuary for an inquiry. ’Twas the smoke, no doubt. So young and lovely— such a shame.” His gulp, as deep as the Channel waters, prickled the hairs on my arms. “Inhalation. Nothing could have saved her. P’raps, in mercy, her heart gave out . . .”
What he saw in my eyes, I shall never know. He pressed me toward the iron bench under Grandfather’s laburnum tree. By day, deep yellow blossoms swayed in the spring sunlight, giving this tree its nickname—the golden chain tree. But in this dawn hush, the blossoms hung muted, a tenuous fog.
“Rest here now with your little one. Not as if you haven’t suffered a terrible shock.”
At last, our son’s soft hair received my tears. Until this moment, I had still envisioned Victoria flitting out in a meadow somewhere, as was her habit. She would return with the dawn, William would ring up the doctor for more medication, and she would sleep away the day.
In the unforgiving chill, acridness laced the air. The men hauled their equipment to the lorry, and curious onlookers faded down the road.
Though I had given my all to bring her happiness, Victoria was no more. With this thought came another—no need to wonder what fresh distress would arise by day’s end.
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The steadiness of Donnie’s breathing sustained me. Now, every- thing centered on this motherless child, this young heart beating next to mine.
Keep him safe. Whatever this required, I pledged myself to the task. •
A few months later, William and I observed Donnie at play out- side our neighbor’s carriage house. The morning after the fire, Mrs.
Tillman had taken us in and offered to store what the workers could salvage.
“Now, you just make yourself at home. With Mr. Tillman gone, this old house needs some lighter footfalls. Stay as long as you like.”
Crammed into the back of this once-empty building, piles of boxes and crates blocked our way. William and I found seats, with an eye toward our young charge who left no leaf unturned on the drying lawn.
“Mrs. Tillman’s rich milk has ruddied Donnie’s cheeks. First thing in America, I shall find us a cow.” William made this announce- ment as he leafed through some papers from his briefcase.
“What a rock she has proven for us. I can scarcely believe we have stayed so long—over a year.”
“Quite. But she and your grandfather go far back. She always favored your father, and then you, of course. Nearly every afternoon, she brought her handiwork to pass the time with your grandmother, and during your grandmother’s last weeks, she brought food daily and kept vigil beside her bed to spell your grandfather.”
“Mmm.” My memory of that time served me poorly. Grand- father’s notification reached me at university just in time to say farewell before Grandmother took her final breath. “Always a kind and thoughtful neighbor, as I recall. But do you suppose I ought to offer something for all this time we have spent with her?”
“Indeed?” William’s voice carried a warning. “I should think that might cause her pain, sir, for she sees you as family.” He pulled open his briefcase clasp. “Shall we begin?”
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“Yes. I cannot thank you enough for managing all the details.”
“My pleasure, especially since your grandfather chose a solicitor above reproach. Mr. Firth bids us a hearty Godspeed.”
“You are still certain you want to undertake this journey?”
“Unwavering, sir. To the very end, your Grandfather aspired to visit the United States. ’Tis almost as if we voyage in his stead. Many an early morning when the physician attended Mrs. Her- ring, we took tea together in the garden, and he spoke often of his comrade, who emigrated after the Great War.
“Their correspondence through the years has paved our way, for a letter arrived from New York this very day. Mr. Noelting has invited us to stay with him in the East as long as needful to locate a suitable homestead.” William handed me two full pages in fine longhand.
“How excellent.”
“As to the necessary funding, Mr. Firth assures me that all will be transferred to Mr. Noelting’s reputable bank in New York, upon your signing several papers in this envelope.”
“You have complete confidence concerning this?”
“Absolutely, as did your Grandfather.”
“And you find the rest of our papers all in order?”
“Indeed.” William patted his leather case. “Everything is at the
ready, including our tickets for Tuesday next.” “Well then. What is left to do?”
Just then Donnie scooped up something from the grass. “Dada!” He stumbled crossing the threshold, and I caught him before he fell.
“What have you here?” A smile from William elicited one from Donnie, who held out an unhappy toad captured in his pudgy fingers.
“Oh my! Aren’t you quick, though? Let us take Mrs. Toad out where she can hop about. Her babies might await under a plant somewhere, and she must fetch them food.” I carried Donnie under a tree where he loosed his captive, and William joined us.
“Let me watch him while you read and sign everything, sir. We must return the financial information tomorrow. I shall take the early bus into Nottingham.”
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“Perfect.” The papers seemed straightforward. Aware that, as usual, William had foreseen an approaching need, I applied my signature to a number of blank lines and folded the sheets back into their appropriate envelopes.
When I returned them to the case, something smooth and metallic met my touch. Ah, Grandfather’s letter opener. William must have found this in the debris. The elegant piece had graced Grandfather’s desk all these years, and one brush brought a rush of memories.
“Stay true to what you know to be true, and you shall be fine.” A tear had fled Grandfather’s eye as he bestowed this blessing upon me before he passed. “The Scriptures will guide you, and your schooling. ’Tis your gift to learn and teach. Always remember your calling.”
At this instant, I sensed him here, surrounded by his own books. This vital connection, still intact beyond the grave, bade me linger. All around me lay the wisdom of the ages, and indeed, I would
have continued teaching but for Victoria’s actions.
Often at such momentous times, just the right bit of instruction
arrived.
Grandfather experienced the same, he noted, throughout his
days in the public works factory, centered on workers and pro- duction. When the plant was built, citizens sought him out as its superintendent, for no small amount of wisdom might blend various factions into a working whole to the community’s benefit.
But in the evenings, Grandfather read, and saw to it that my father’s education surpassed his own. No doubt about my future:
“You are made for learning, Everett.”
The first time Grandfather said this, we had recently laid Mother
to rest in the churchyard. He repeated the sentiment through the years, and again on the day he saw me off to university. This vision spread over me like a mantle, yet now, things had changed, for
Victoria had destroyed far more than our family home.
“But you also taught me to tend the orchard, Grandfather. Now
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is my time for this, but with Donnie as my sole student, I shall continue to teach.”
A tremor ran through me and my teeth tingled. Was his blessing descending again?
Down on his knees on the far side of the yard, William gave Donnie a horsey ride. This dignified butler had shepherded my father through his youth, and chiseled his gravestone after the Great War. He had always performed his duty, but beyond that, Grandfather called William friend.
“Whatever happens, you may always count on William.” Even in Grandfather’s last words, he was pointing the way forward.
The sun dissipated a heavy morning haze as I crossed verdant grass to join William and Donnie. Like a beacon for sailors, sun- light penetrated through thick pine branches, and we were off to make a new beginning.

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