William Boyd - Stars and bars

A confused shouting came from behind the door. Then Alma-May burst in with a tureen of soup in her hands, followed by an oddly cowed-looking Freeborn.

“You tell him to leave Duane alone, Mr Gage,” she said, crashing the tureen down on the table angrily.

“I just ast him to turn the goddam noise down, is all,” Freeborn grumbled petulantly, sitting down.

“It’s all right, Alma-May,” Gage soothed. “We won’t bother him again.”

Alma-May sullenly served up the soup which was solid with vegetables. Then she effortfully dispensed wine from another five-gallon carafe. Henderson drank his wine, chewed the soup and listened to Shanda who he discerned after a minute or so, was telling him about her day with Bryant in Hamburg. Beyond her he could see Cardew leaning too far across the table talking energetically, and with wide gummy smiles, to Bryant, who looked back at the reverend with overt suspicion.

“How are you liking Luxora Beach?” Monika Cardew asked.

“Urn. Very…Yes, liking it a lot. Yes. What I’ve seen.”

“There’s not much to see,” she said.

“Why is it called Luxora Beach?” Henderson asked in mild desperation. “Is there a lake nearby, or a river?”

“Good question,” Gage said. “We’ve got the Ockmulgokee river flows by the town, but there’s no beach that I know of. Ask T.J.” He distracted the reverend’s attention from Bryant’s breasts.

“T.J., Henderson has a question for you.”

“Yes, Henderson?”

“I was wondering how you explain the beach in Luxora Beach?”

“Well, gosh darn. Do you know, Henderson, I’ve never thought to ask.”

“Just curious.”

“Good golly, it only goes to show what a stranger’s eyes can illuminate for you.” For some reason he whipped out a little notebook from his breast pocket and wrote something down. “How long have we lived here, Monika dear?”

“Eleven years,” Monika said with feeling.

“And I never thought to ask. Thank you, Henderson, thank you sincerely. I shall endeavour to find out the answer.”

“Just idle curiosity.” He emptied his glass.

“Freeborn, will you offer our guests more wine?”

Alma-May cleared the soup plates and returned with more dishes. She set down crammed bowls on the table: great mounds of various beans, corn on the cob, some sort of sopping green vegetable, curious knobbled dumplings.

“Down home cooking for our English guest.” Gage raised his glass.

A heaped plate was set in front of Henderson.

“What are these things?” he said weakly, playing for time. He didn’t feel in the least bit hungry. What was more, Henry’s Goat was having a curious effect on his body. Bits of him seemed to go numb while others prickled with an urgent rash.

Beckman pointed to the green stuff. “That’s turnip greens,” he said. “And that — the rice and beans — is hoppin’ John. That’s black-eyed bean stew. And those are corn dogs.”

“Hoppin’ John?” Henderson said. “Why that name?”

“Because,” Freeborn said at his shoulder, sloshing wine into his glass, “once you’ve ate it, it sends you hoppin’ to the John.”

Henderson laughed nervously; he thought it safer. Though no one else did.

“And that bean stew?” Freeborn continued. “It’s been stew once but I don’t know what it is now. Hyar-har.”

Henderson filled his mouth with hoppin’ John. Inoffensive stuff. He drank some more wine, then wondered if that were wise. Perhaps it was the mix of Californian plonk with Henry’s Goat that was making him feel so odd. Now, light-headedness was alternating with nausea. He looked down the table. Bryant’s eyes and expression seemed to be communicating a message of some sort but he couldn’t decipher it. Cora sat behind a place that contained a solitary pile of beans. There was a babble of conversation as everyone tucked into their main course.

“Why are you a vegetarian, Mr Gage?” Henderson asked. “Religious reasons or just taste?”

“Oh no, I’m not a vegetarian.”

“But why?”

“Not me personally. Alma-May is. She turned vegetarian two years ago. Won’t have meat or fish in the house. Point blank refuses. What else could we do?”

“Oh. I see…”

“Are you familiar, Henderson…? Henderson? I was saying are you familiar with Upper Heyford, England?” It was Cardew, shouting across Shanda’s back.

“It’s near Oxford. An air base, I think. Yes, I know it vaguely.”

“Henderson, please call me T.J.”

“Right.”

“You see I was stationed there for a while. I don’t suppose you know a Mr John Fairchild of Upper Heyford?”

“No. I’m afraid—”

Freeborn interrupted. “That’s where we got our bombs and missiles, yeah? And, yeah, can you tell me,” he went on, warming, “what you Britishers have got against our bombs and missiles?”

Henderson chewed manfully on his beans, wondering how he could get off this topic.

“I think, um, the main objection is that we, that is, Britain, don’t have any control over the—”

“Of course not. They’re our bombs. We made ‘em. You got your own, don’t you?” Freeborn’s expression seemed to say Q.E.D.

“Tell me, Henderson, is there a reason for the name of every English village?” Gage asked, frowning thoughtfully.

“Well, yes, often. ‘Chipping’ as in Chipping Sodbury means there was a quarry there. ‘Hurst’ as in—”

“Henderson?”

“Yes, Shanda.”

“My maiden name was McNab. That’s a Scotch name, right?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I thought so.”

“We are allies,” Cardew said, intensely. “What I personally can’t understand is this hostility between allies. I mean we are there — our weapons, our young men — to defend the West.”

“Luxora Beach…” Gage said, obliviously. “You know, I think I like the fact, you know, that there isn’t a logical reason. There’s too much logic in the world. I like it sorta…arbitrary like that.”

“There is a Luxor on the Nile,” Cora said, dryly. “Perhaps it was an Egyptian who settled here first.”

“But that’s logic again, Cora. You’re looking for logic.”

Freeborn leant across the table and pointed his fork at Henderson. “I mean we had to win World War One and Two for you guys, and we’ll probably have to do it for World War Three and Four.”

“I think the argument,” Henderson said, “is that you’re fighting your wars in Europe, as it were. That if Europe is the battleground, then it suits…I mean, not that I…” He felt his head spinning.

“Actually I believe there were no Egyptian immigrants to this country in the eighteenth century,” Cora said with mock solemnity.

“Come to think of it, when was the town founded?” Gage asked. “T.J.?”

“Excuse me, Loomis, I have to deal here with something Henderson said. Now, Henderson—”

“Could you pass me the turnip greens, Henderson?” It was Beckman. “Just sorta shove them down thisaway.”

“That statement of yours, Henderson.”

“What statement?”

“It whitewashes the American blood spilt in Europe.”

“Actually, I wasn’t quite saying that, um, J.P.,” Henderson felt the controls slip from his hand.

“Look, there’s an easy answer,” Gage said cheerfully. “If you don’t want us there, say the word and we’ll haul ass. Save us a slew of dollars, that’s for sure.”

“I find your remarks, Henderson, deeply disquieting. Do our own allies in Europe really—”

“With respect, T.V., that’s not the point at issue.”

“Henderson, say can you reach over that wine?”

“OK, OK, so the Reds take over England,” Freeborn said. “So who gives a sick dog’s dump?”