Patrick says he just got out of prison after a 31-month stint for kidnapping. He orders a fruity cider from Viv, while his girlfriend, Ramona, asks for a “cocktail.”
Viv needs more information, so Ramona asks for a concoction of milky liqueurs that, as I hear, included Baileys, Kahlua, and maybe Coke.
Patrick’s full of nervous energy. He wants to talk, but he also wants to drink. I think, mostly, he wants to be alone with Ramona, which is why he’s at the hotel in the first place. Ramona seems smitten with him. She’s happy he’s out. They can’t keep their hands off of each other. I think Ramona dressed up for the occasion. Did her hair and makeup, like this meant a lot to her. Patrick says he didn’t kidnap anyone.
This is all a mistake. He says he’s a “traveller.” Ramona the same. I’m not quite sure what that is. I’m a traveller, I think. Where are they traveling from? To? “Nah mate, we’re Travellers.” Capital “T.” They’re part of a community of itinerant peoples with a rich culture that seldom inhabit permanent dwellings. You don’t call them “gypsies,” or variations thereof, and you most certainly don’t use the pejorative term popularized in Snatch.
You can tell that Patrick might be as hard “as coffin nails.” I’m a big dude, but Patrick is fearless. I’m a bit anxious around him. As soon as I’ve met him, though, he and Ramona are out, to their room, enjoying the kind of reunion only those were separated from an almost three year prison sentence can enjoy.
I currently have the pleasure of driving a meandering country route to work. The roads are often so narrow that I have to pull over to allow cars (and often tractors) to continue on from the opposite direction. My drive takes me past stone farmhouses, ancient forests, and a vista of gently rolling farmland that’s punctuated with the steeples of village churches.
The looming pale structure was largely hidden from the road, and I only spotted it today after reading an old Sawtry resident’s account of visiting “Whitehall” in 1949 near Archer’s Wood. Just before reaching the Wood, I peered around for a manor house that could be the one in the story. Sure enough, there was an “imposing building,” with “tall brick chimneys” as described by “V. Woodbridge.”
Whitehall was, in fact, Whitehall Convalescent Hospital, which took care of wounded soldiers who had slogged it out in the trenches of France in World War I, or The Great War, as it’s known. Although the hospital could only treat about 25 soldiers at a given time, it was reported to have taken care of upwards of 650 wounded servicemen in the span of three years.
“…Got my wound in a bombing raid at Avion trench, near Lens. One of the German trench bombs fell within a few yards of me and I got several pieces in the legs and thigh. Fritz came over about four o’clock in the morning, just before daylight, after a preliminary bombardment by trench mortars and got quite close to our trench before we spotted him. His first bomb landed right square among the machine gun crew, wounding several of us. But we were able to spot where he was and get the gun in action before he could get into our trench…”
Many of the nurses came from nearby Sawtry village area and volunteered their time because the hospital reportedly did not receive much, if any in government funding. During the years it operated as a hospital, the staff and patients would perform in village halls to raise funds. According to Alan Bottell, a historian who has been researching Whitehall, these performing patients were called “Blue Boys” because of their distinctive uniforms, which apparently prevented the poor wounded blokes from getting into pubs.
“…There were times when soldiers also couldn’t go into pubs. In fact, the landlord at the George in Huntingdon was fined for letting soldiers drink. She was lucky not to lose her licence.”
Interestingly, The George was the same inn I stayed at in my April visit to the area, and while pleasant enough, may have relinquished a bit of its charm since 1918 as it is now part of a U.K.-wide chain of inns.
Whitehall is a good distance from Huntingdon and Peterborough, the two closest towns of note, and Whitehall is on a remote road in a very rural area. Even though the traffic from the bustling A-1 motorway is a short distance away, you can’t help but feel the solitude of the area. I can only imagine what it was like a hundred years ago.
“This is a fine part of England I am in, and I will be rather sorry to leave it,” wrote Pvt. McWilliams. “It is about 9 miles away from any town, so is rather quiet. The nearest town is a place called Huntington. Peterborough is the nearest large town, and is famous for its cathedral, which is one of the oldest in England… Mary, Queen of Scots, and Catherine of Aragon, were buried there. She was beheaded at Forthingay, which is not far from here.”
I see the man everyday. He’s sitting at one of the blue tables in the hotel bar hunched over an iPad. I’ve been here over a week. So has he — an old English gent dressed smartly in brown slacks, a sweater vest, and polished shoes.
He doesn’t make a sound and rarely acknowledges my presence. He’s there and alone and fixated on the screen. I thought he was a friend of the front desk lady, maybe her husband. Only he’s not.
Viv tells me he’s been disowned by his family, and can’t go home. She tells me this while we share Chicken Korma and Chips on the hotel bar. “He’s found himself a Chinese bride,” she says. “He’s staying here until he flies off to collect her.”
Viv says Old English is about 67, and his bride to be is 23. She says the girl is a model. Or, as she points out, the girl claims to be a model. We talk about that. We talk about the age difference, the family, and Old English. The more I think about it the more sad it makes me. She wants to say more. She wants to talk more about the age difference, but gives it a light touch. She’s more concerned with the fact that they would have nothing in common.
So am I. But how much time does he have left on this island? How much time do any of us? How much in common do they really need to not feel lonely… for maybe a little bit longer. Old English is on a quest. He’s forsaken everything he’s known to accomplish it. For just a little bit longer. To feel a man again. To feel alive and in love.
Sidney says he bought the Elephant and Castle two years ago and he’s hoping to attract new customers with a menu that ranges from lamb shank in mint gravy to cheesy chips.
I came for the Chinese takeaway. Only, the Chinese takeaway has gone away. Sidney says he keeps it on his Website because he hopes to bring it back someday.
Leeanne is in to help tonight. She’s 22 and just came off a twelve-hour shift at a lorry weighbridge. She says the weighbridge computer went down today and she had to record everything by hand. It seems important to her that I understand that there’s nothing that she’s “mucked up.”
Leeanne goes by “Lee.” She doesn’t know how to pour a pint. She’s never been behind a bar before, though she’s been in front of plenty. Tonight I ordered sausage, chips, and beans. After Sidney brings my food, he brings a plate for Lee as well. We dine silently together, with the bar between us.
The guy next to me is from a town up north and his accent is deep and rich and nearly unintelligible. He’s a bricklayer and he’s staying at the Elephant and Castle while he and his workmates finish a job in the area. He asks Sidney for a “chip butty” and has to explain to Sidney what it is and how to make it. It’s not on the menu so the bricklayer names his own price and Sidney agrees.
At the Elephant and Castle you can now get a chip butty for five pounds.
My eyes are heavy on the 11:34 to Peterborough, and I’m crammed between my suitcase and a teen-aged Brit and I feel sorry for him. I need a shower, a nap, some reassurance. I’ve just officially packed up and moved to England and everyone I love and everything I know is an ocean away.
I’ve planned this since last November. I had been working a short-term gig and needed something to come next. I’ve toyed with the idea of moving to the U.K. for a few years, and felt reasonably confident that I could could get this thing going over there — this work thing. I had connections, and thought I was a shoe-in.
I mentioned it in an off-hand way to my ex — we have kids together and I wasn’t going to leave the country without them. She is in a relationship with the VP of her London Office, and I thought that she’d like the idea. I was right. She was over the bloody moon. She texted me the next day to tell me that she had a fat offer waiting for her in that same London Office. Yeah, I know. This went from theory to reality within days. Shit got real. I endeavored to “cool her jets” by reminding her that it was just an idea, but she wasn’t having it. “I need you to commit to the U.K.” she said, and I dutifully, inexplicably agreed. I always cave. I’m not going to fucking talk about it.
I put all of my efforts into finding something. I knew where to look and who to talk to. I made it my job to find a job. In my head I feared a prolonged and nasty custody battle with my ex, who at this point made it clear that she was moving to the U.K. I couldn’t stomach the conflict, and in all honesty I have always wanted to raise my kids overseas anyway, but now the clock was ticking. She had a job, had started shopping for houses with her boyfriend, and I was still scrambling.
I won’t recount the conversations I had with the recruiters I knew, and the utter frustration at the lack of progress. It sucked, and I felt like some shit went awry. When things happened, they happened quick, and unexpectedly. I got a call from a dude in Germany who represented a company in the U.K. and wanted me to talk to his client. I got on the phone, and after about four rudimentary questions I had a job offer. The first thing I did was to call the ex and let her know. It was a go.
I’ve flown into Gatwick on my exploratory trips since January. It’s not the closest airport to where I’ll live and work, but after doing it once, I was comfortable with the plane to train routine. It meant a lengthy train ride from the airport to Kings Cross, where I hop on the Great Northern rail to Peterborough to grab my rental car. It’s a beautiful journey, especially the further north you go. After getting my rental, and bouncing off curbs and medians to get to the shabby brick hotel that will be my home until my house is ready, I was more than ready to sleep. Before I did, I googled the area I was in. I wanted to see where I could hike, explore, and find some peace until my kids would join me.
My search turned up Monk’s Wood, Archer’s Wood, and the Odd Quarter. The first two were easy enough to figure out. They’re medieval and British, and make perfect sense. The last? Well I don’t know. It is in fact a piece of property adjoining the not-quite-Bates-Hotel I am currently staying at, and there is no explanation for the name. Moreover, it’s private property, so there’s no option of finding out for myself.
But how perfect is this. The Odd Quarter. The name invites all kinds of images and definitions and I don’t think I want to settle on one. I feel like I’m well-suited for such a destination, or perhaps, I’ve never really existed outside of it. It fits for now and I love the mystery. I hope this will be one mystery of many that I share with my kids who love odd things. Let’s find all of the odd things.