Free Pilgrim Son: A Personal Odyssey by John Masters

possibly could, to tell his mother how her son had died. I did not want to do it. Men are killed in many and unpleasant ways in war, and though the major had died almost instantly, what could I say that would make his mother feel better? Still, that was not for me to decide. She wanted it, and now I could make the opportunity to go to her, for my train passed the foot of the valley where the village stood, and I could afford a night there.
    It was a glorious evening in October. The railway runs by the verge of the sea, and the flat sunlight fell on the estuary, on fleets of seagulls anchored on the calm water, on the fishing boats coming back to port. The low hills the other side of the estuary rose soft as a Chinese print out of the haze. This, with the Wiltshire downs and the Cornish cliffs, was an England that I loved with a physical passion. Yet, as we reached the 'courses open to us' in our Life Appreciation, it was becoming clear that to achieve our object we must emigrate.
    But could I leave this beauty? By here I had passed on my bicycle, a young man, a tent on the back and thoughts of a girl in my head. In Cornwall on a summer night, I had slept under a hedge, wondering what was the rhythmic silent beat that throbbed in the air and shook the earth below me. I found it was the swells of the western ocean breaking on the 400-foot granite cliffs ten miles away, a fetch of 3,000 miles behind them. On the grassy cliff tops by Tintagel and King Arthur's Seat I had watched the choughs wheel against a wind from America. In Wiltshire I had walked at night on the short turf, past the White Horse of the West Saxons, alone in moonlight past Stonehenge, awed, exhilarated.
    In my pocket I had a cutting from The Times. The County Council of Cornwall — that very Cornwall of my cliffs and castles and curved surfing beaches — was advertising for a gentleman to fill the post of Chief Constable. In those days Chief Constables, especially in rural areas, were still usually retired officers, and I thought that a young lieutenant-colonel, staff college instructor, with a D.S.O., and an O.B.E., would receive very favourable consideration. The salary was reasonable, a good house went with the job, I would be my own master, the work was for the public good, and it was in Cornwall. My mind raced, and stopped, reversed, and started again. Should I? Shouldn't I?
    I arrived in darkness at the village. Dartmoor loomed like the silhouette of a giant hound crouched behind the rectory, and above it the sky was bright with autumn stars. The rector and his mother received me with reserved gratitude for making this journey. After dinner the old lady led me to a small sitting-room whose uncurtained windows looked down the valley, where yellow lights shone between the moor and the sea. I told her of those moments in Burma when her son had died. Before I had said a dozen words her small hand crept out and clasped mine. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She was beautiful. I remember her now more vividly than the clearing there on the hillside, the metallic crash of shells all morning, a voice suddenly shouting, 'The major's hit, sir,' choking dust, a rain of bamboo leaves and cut twigs falling on my head, splinters screaming, Pat Boyle limp at my feet, a little blood trickling over my boots.
    When she could speak, she thanked me, again drawing the cloak of courage about her and speaking with control; for I was a stranger, and only during those moments when there could be no strangers, had she bared herself.
    Back in Camberley I discussed the Chief Constableship with Barbara. Yes, I love Cornwall, too, she said... And, yes, you'd be your own boss. And work your own hours... but do you want to behave like a Chief Constable the rest of your life? That brought me up short. I am not a particularly raffish fellow, but there is no denying I have always favoured a certain bohemianism in life style. Would the County Council appreciate their Chief Constable