An Englishman, training in the US during WW II, fathers a child but only finds out many years later.
I was sitting in the office of Oxford University’s Assistant Dean of Education, Sir Clayton Barnett Baxter, engaged in trivial conversation when the light on his intercom began blinking. “Excuse me a moment Bart, it appears that my secretary is….”
“Quite alright Clay, go right ahead.”
Clayton depressed the lever, “Yes, Miss Eaton, what is it?
“There’s a young woman here and wishes to speak to you, Sir.”
“Does she have an appointment?”
“No, Dean Baxter, she does not.”
He retorted, “Then have her make an appointment,” and released the intercom lever.
The light continued to blink, “Yes Miss Eaton, what is it now?”
“The young lady is quite outspoken and insistent, Sir. She demands that I tell you she has just arrived in Oxford – she has come all the way from the United States to see you.”
Clay looked across the expanse of his mahogany desk at his old friend, “Do you mind?”
The Dean of Historical Studies raised his eyebrows as he said, “Not at all old boy, I’m always interested in meeting your lady friends. Especially the insistent ones.”
Clay huffed through his gray handlebar mustache, “I have no idea who she is.”
“That’s all the more reason to stick around,” he joshed.
Clay pressed the intercom lever again, “Miss Eaton, show the young lady into the East Conference room. We’ll be there shortly.”
When they entered the conference room, Sir Clayton Barnett Baxter’s heart skipped a beat and he became weak in the knees. Briefly, he was twenty-two again and attending seminary school in Austin, Texas. The young woman standing before him in the center of the room appeared to be Grace Whittier, the person he once loved more than life itself.
I was walking beside him and when I saw his amazed expression, I caught him by the arm just before his knees buckled, preventing him from falling. I helped him to a chair while the woman continued to stare at us. Once seated, Clayton looked at the woman, knowing it to be impossible, he had to ask anyway, “Grace, is that you?”
“My name is Marcy. Grace is my mother and I have reason to believe that you, Sir Clayton Barnett Baxter, to be my father.”
“Hold on there, Miss,” I interjected, “do you realize that you are accusing Sir Baxter of paternity.”
She glared at me then looked at Clayton, “I’m not accusing him of anything, I’m simply inquiring – why don’t you ask him.”
I looked at my oldest and dearest friend of forty years, “Clay, is she telling the truth – is this possible?”
Clay looked up at me from his chair, “It’s possible, but I had no idea.” He then looked at Marcy with an affectionate expression I had never seen from him as he asked, “How is Grace, is she well?”
Marcy came and knelt on one knee beside Clayton’s chair, “She is well and heads the humanities department at the University of Texas in Austin.” Marcy paused, and with a quiver of concern in her voice she said, “I’ve been seriously worried that you might refute….”
Clay said, “But why would I?” Now chocked with emotion, “After the war ended, I went to the United States to find Grace.”
“Did you find her?”
“Yes, but by then I couldn’t interfere.”
“Interfere with what?”
“She was engaged and about to be married.”
Marcy sighed, “Oh, that was George Rathkin. I was six when he backed out of it.”
Clay changed the subject by asking, “How did you find me?”
She reached into her purse and removed a small book, “From Mom’s diary. In it, she wrote about you from the very first time you met until your letters stopped. When I read of your appointment as Dean of Education at Oxford and saw your picture, I thought I recognized you. When I compared that picture with the many pictures Mom has – I knew. Except for the bush on your upper lip, you hadn’t changed that much. Now tell me why you stop writing?”
Lord Clayton stood, took his daughter’s hands and as he helped her to stand, he said, “I see we have much to discuss, however, this is not the place for it.” He then looked at me, “Please excuse my manners, Miss Marcy….”
“Whittier,” she said.
He reflected, “That was your mother’s name.”
“Maiden name. She never married.”
In all the years that Clayton and I have known each other, I’ve never seen him at such a loss for words, so I said, “Neither has he, Miss Marcy Whittier. By the way, I’m Bartholomew Fenton, and very please to make your acquaintance.”
Clayton regained his composure, “As I was beginning to say, this is not the time nor place. Please accompany me to my quarters; and after lunch we can sit calmly and discuss everything.”
Clay looked at me, “Since you are now part of our reunion, would you care to join us for lunch?”
I looked at Marcy and said, “If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind, Miss.” and when she smiled, I said, “I would be honored.”
Nothing of the morning’s conversation was mentioned during the meal and I was becoming like an anxious child on Christmas morning. When we finally adjourned to Clayton’s study I could not contain my curiosity any longer and said, “Marcy, please tell us about your mother.”
She looked at Clayton, who nodded approvingly, and she began, “My mother was in the middle of her sophomore year at the University of Texas in Austin when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. On that New Years Eve she met a young British theology student who came to the US to continue his education at the Southwest Episcopal Theological Seminary. They immediately fell in love,” she glanced at Clayton, “– at least she did. They dated for the remainder of that school year and upon his graduation, he returned to England and joined the Royal Artillery as a Chaplin. They corresponded for nearly six months when suddenly his letters stopped. I was born on January 5, 1942.”
Marcy steadfastly insisted, “Now it’s your turn Lord Baxter, explain to us why you stopped writing.”
“Actually,” he stated, “I didn’t stop writing. I just couldn’t send them.”
“Why not,” she demanded.
“Let me explain from the beginning. I have no doubt that what Grace recorded in her diary is totally accurate – to a point. It’s true that she was a sophomore at the University of Texas when we met on New Years Eve 1941. She is also correct in stating that we instantly fell in love.”
Clay reached out and took Marcy’s hand, “I want you to understand that I have never loved anyone as much as I loved your mother.”
He sat back and continued, “As you know, England had been at war with Germany even before the Japanese bombed your Pearl Harbor. So when I returned home to England after I graduated in June of ‘42’, I joined the Royal Artillery as a chaplain with a rank of second lieutenant. Within the span of five months I was serving in a remote village in Burma, over run by the Japanese, taken prisoner and herded like cattle on a death march to a POW camp near Kanchanaburi, Thailand. I wrote and attempted to smuggle letters out of the country. Apparently Grace never received a one of them.”
I interrupted, “Clay, you’ve never told me any of this.”
“It was a terrible experience I’ve tried to forget – most unsuccessfully I might add. My Japanese captors did not recognize the Geneva Convention concerning officers performing manual labor. However, since I was an officer of the cloth and wore the cross, I was allowed to minister rather than being forced to labor on the railroad. The construction of the Death Railway, as we called it, began in October of ‘42’. The Japanese forced the POWs and civilian slave labor to work on it for endless months. The railroad ran from Bangkok to Rangoon and when completed at Konkuita, Thailand on the 17th of October 1943, the road provided a supply line for the Japanese troops in Burma.”
Clayton closed his eyes and continued, “The railway was not far from the Three Pagodas Pass and the bridge was not a tall wooden structure as portrayed in the movie, ‘Bridge on the River Kwai.’ It was low to the water, constructed of steel and concrete, and it was never blown up. The original structure remains today as a usable bridge and tourist attraction.”
He reopened his eyes, and as he continued, I could see he was reliving a nightmare, “During those captive years I watched helplessly as hundreds of good men from many countries died horrible deaths from infections, malnutrition, malaria and dysentery.”
Clayton stood and went to a large roll-top desk and got a packet of papers. As he returned he handed Marcy a tattered picture. “If it were not for that old picture of her that I carried next to my heart, I don’t think I would have made it through that ordeal.”
He returned to his chair and continued, “Even though the war ended and Emperor Hiroito signed their unconditional surrender in September 1945, I didn’t make it home until just before Christmas.”
“And a joyous occasion it was,” I said to Marcy, “the entire town of Oxford turned out to welcome Clay home.”
“I remember.” Clayton said, “and after my return, I resigned my Chaplin’s commission and concentrated my efforts on education. It took me until the spring of ‘48’ before I found the strength and courage to go in search of Grace. However, when I finally arrived in Austin, Texas, nothing seemed to be the same as I remembered. I only found one person I knew and she was the one that told me of Grace’s impending marriage.”
Marcy stood and exclaimed, “Oh no! That must have been Ethel Sweeney. You should have never taken her word for it – why, oh why didn’t you go and see her?”
“You can’t speak to Lord Baxter in that tone,” I rebuked.
“That’s all right, my friend,” Clayton said. “She’s right. I should have spoken to her the day I saw her in the market place.”
Marcy sat back down suddenly, “You mean to tell me that you saw her in the market and didn’t say anything. How foolish of you!”
“That’s enough Miss,” I said as I came and stood between them, “You can’t come into a man’s home and insult him thus.”
“Easy old man,” Clayton said, “She’s absolutely right. I was a fool and a coward.”
“How can you say that?” I chided, “After everything you went through?”
“You have no idea how many times I’ve regretted not having the courage to face her that day.”
Marcy stood and brushed past me and knelt on one knee as she had in the office, took hold of both her father’s hands and asked, “Do you now have the courage of your convictions?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would you talk to her now if you had the chance?”
“Of course I would.”
Marcy factually stated, “Before my Mom would allow me to come on this venture, she made me promise that if I found you, I would tell you that she still loves you, she always has and always will.”
Clayton stood and drew Marcy to her feet, wrapped his arms around his newfound daughter, and they held each other close. “Yes,” he said, “I would give anything to see her again.”
She pushed herself to arms length and looked into his eyes, “Do you honestly mean that?”
“Absolutely.”
“May I use your telephone?”
“Why, yes of course.”
Marcy went to the phone and dialed, “Hello – operator – please connect me with the Eastgate Hotel.”
She waited, “Hello – Eastgate Hotel – room 310, please.”
She tapped her foot nervously as she waited for a response, “Hello, mother. Make your dinner reservations for two, Lord Baxter will be there at seven.”