B008AZB1XW EBOK (18 page)

She flopped down onto it and nearly bounced back off. The springs were ready for a fight.

“Come here,” she said in her best sultry voice. She dutifully ignored the fact that Simon was fighting not to laugh. He sat down on the bed and she pulled him down beside her. She rolled over so that she was leaning on his chest and started to kiss his neck.

“We should get some sleep,” he said, but she could feel his heartbeat race as she kissed him and heard his breath catch when she found that one particular spot that always drove him to distraction.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, working her way up to his jaw and back down again.

His hands caressed her back for a moment and then held her close. He was warm and solid and snoring. She pushed herself up to look at him through blurry eyes. Yup. Snoring away.

She was too tired and too tipsy to be insulted, and laid her head back down on his chest. His arms tightened around her and the last she heard was another gale of laughter from the pub downstairs.

Chapter Nineteen

Elizabeth felt like someone had stuffed cotton and straw into her head while she slept — scratchy straw that rubbed against her eyes and heavy, water-soaked cotton to slosh around where her brain used to be. Scrumpy cider was evil. Even after two cups of weak black coffee, it was all she could do to get a little bread and jam down. The publican took pity on her. “Her be needing a bit of the hair of the dog.” He pulled out a hip flask and put a splash in her nearly empty coffee cup.

Simon tipped him and Elizabeth wondered if he’d mind if she just curled up on this bench and never moved again. She forced down the whisky or rye or embalming fluid and followed it with a large glass of water chaser. Simon insisted.

They thanked the publican and Simon offered her his hat.

“Is it still raining?” she asked.

“No, it’s a beautiful day.”

Elizabeth waved it off and ran a hand over her head to smooth down the bedhead that wouldn’t go away. She’d run damp fingers through it after she’d taken her head out from under the tap, but she hadn’t had the courage to look in the mirror. If she looked even half as bad as she felt, she was better off not knowing it.

“All right,” Simon said and opened the pub door.

Light brighter than the surface of the sun ambushed her and nearly knocked her backwards. Simon helped her out onto the street and after a few excruciating minutes her eyes began to adjust. Wordlessly, they walked down to the station. The same old soldier was there, leaning against the ticketing office.

The train wasn’t due for over an hour, but the bench wasn’t too hard and Simon’s shoulder was just right. She watched life in the quiet town go by until the engine pulled into the station. They settled into their first class compartment, this time the only occupants.

While her head was much improved, her stomach wasn’t so sure. For his part, Simon looked rested and content. He’d warned her not to drink the Scrumpy and the fact that he wasn’t saying ‘I told you so’ was really just a sneaky way of saying ‘I told you so’. She glared across the small compartment at Simon.

“What?” he said.

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face is saying it. It’s ‘I told you so’ing’ all over the place.”

“On behalf of my face, I apologize.”

Elizabeth smirked and tilted her head back against the leather seat. She squinted at the luggage netting.

Simon frowned. “Not on your life.”

~~~

Somewhere past Swindon, Elizabeth started to feel human and by the time they arrived in Bath, she was whole again. The streets of Bath were busy with mid-morning activity. Cars, coaches, army vehicles and lots of bicycles buzzed along the street. As they stood in front of the station trying to formulate a plan, a shoeshine boy latched onto Simon’s leg like a hungry animal.

“Shine, Sir?” he asked, already having wrangled Simon’s foot onto his box.

Simon looked like he was about to protest but must have noticed what she did, the only sadder looking thing than his shoes was the boy. He was pushing all of ten years old. His pale face was streaked with coal like war paint.

The boy worked at a furious pace as if afraid Simon might change his mind at any minute. “You new in town? I knows everyfink what goes on here. What you need?”

Elizabeth silently ticked off her needs: a bath, a comb, a dress she hadn’t been wearing for three days, a mysterious piece of Nordic legend that might or might not let Hell reign on earth.

“What we really need is a place to stay,” Simon said. “Any recommendations?”

“Oh! Right. Gentleman like you needs a fine place and your lady too. Royal Station. Right across the street. Queen Victoria stayed there, they say.”

“That sounds perfect, thank you.”

“All done,” the boy said as he snapped his towel against the toe of Simon’s shoe.

“Thank you.” Simon dug into his pockets and put a few coins into the boy’s outstretched hand.

His eyes opened wide and Elizabeth could tell he was sure Simon had made a mistake. The boy couldn’t bring himself to say it, but he couldn’t just run off with too much either.

“It’s all right,” Simon said. “Just don’t spend it all in one place.”

The boy tipped his cap twice, grabbed his shoeshine box and took off before Simon could change his mind.

“The Royal?” he said.

“If it’s good enough for the Queen…”

It took a strong heart and good reflexes, but they managed to cross the street to the hotel. The lobby was clean and bright and an enormous blue oriental rug covered most of the floor. She couldn’t wait to take a bath in Bath, and judging from the looks the clerk gave them, he couldn’t wait for her to either.

Their room wasn’t enormous, but there was an en suite bath and that was all that mattered. She started to undress and caught sight of herself in the large mirror over the dresser.

“Simon, you need to see this.”

“What is it?”

She turned him to look in the mirror and two scraggly creatures looked back. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty and Elizabeth’s dress had several small spots on it she couldn’t identify. Her hair was still wild and untamed and looked like someone had taken an iron to half of it.

After a moment of what could only be described as stunned silence, Simon ran his hand over two days of stubble. “Good Lord.”

She sniffed the air. “I don’t know which of us that is, but my eyes are tearing up.”

“You bathe,” Simon said. “I saw a barber’s across the street. I’ll pick up some things and be back within the hour.”

“What about our clothes?”

“The hotel will see to them.” Simon grabbed his hat and headed for the door.

“And what do we wear in the meantime?” she asked.

Simon put on his hat and tugged down the brim. “Just our smiles.”

~~~

Professor Morley scribbled in his notebook as he listened to a wax record of a woman from Manchester mangle the English language. It was a miracle those people managed to tie their shoes, he thought as he made another notation. This monograph on class and Northern dialects would surely be his greatest triumph. Of course, only a handful of people on the entire surface of the globe would be able to understand it, but esoteric knowledge was the only knowledge worth having.

He popped a cube of SPAM into his mouth and strained to make out the Queen’s English in the garbled mess the woman was making of it. He heard the door to his office open.

“Mrs. Quick,” he said as he reached for the phonograph needle in frustration. “I have told you not to disturb me while I’m working.”

“Mrs. Quick is out,” a tall man said. “I let myself in.”

“Did you? Impudent. Then you can let yourself out as well.”

“I just need the answers to a few questions,” the man said.

Professor Morley stared at him in confusion. “Can’t you see I’m working?”

“This won’t take long, Professor.” The man walked over to his desk, as though they were old friends. He perched on the edge of it and picked up a paperweight. “You had visitors yesterday.”

“Yes,” he said, yanking the paperweight from the man’s hand. “What of it? Get off my desk.”

“What did they want?” The man smiled, but there was no warmth in it. He stood and walked around to the side of the desk.

Morley’s orders for the man to leave died on his lips. He squinted at him. “Say that again.”

“What did they want?”

Morley’s throat went suddenly dry. “Voiced labiodental fricative. Very mild.”

“What’s that?”

Carefully, Morley placed his pencil into his notebook and closed it. “Your English is excellent. Where did you learn it? Munich? It is slightly Alemannic. Düsseldorf?”

Morley tried to move his chair back from the desk and stand, but the man shoved him back into his seat.

“What are you doing?” Morely protested.

The man sighed heavily and pulled something from his pocket. The blade made a clicking sound as it slid into place. Everything, even knives have a language.

“What were they looking for?” The pretense was nearly gone. The labiodental fricative “w” becomes “v”, the phoneme “th” becomes “z”, the consonant devoicing “g” becomes “k”. Vat vere zey lookink for? Curious and very, very German.

Professor Morley had never considered himself brave. He was generally regarded as a coward. An assessment he didn’t disagree with. He was too old and too fat to fight. He couldn’t bear the privations of austerity the way everyone else did. He liked the things he liked and he could afford them, no one was really being hurt by it. Despite how others saw it, dabbling in the market now and again wasn’t such a terrible thing. A crate of oranges one way or the other would hardly make a difference to the war. But, coward though he was, he wasn’t a traitor. Even he had his limits.

“What did you tell them?”

“The same thing I’m going to tell you. Nothing. Now, get out.” His voice sounded so much calmer than he felt.

“Just a simple question,” the man said. “A simple answer and I’ll be gone.”

Morley stuck out his chin defiantly. “No.” He could feel his jowls shaking and tried to stop his trembling.

The man’s knife dragged along the top of the desk, gouging a long gash in the surface. “You English will see that pride alone cannot sustain you after we have won the war.”

The man’s knife inched closer to Morley’s throat until the tip dug into his neck. He felt a single drop of blood trickle down his skin. “What did they want?”

Morley’s eyes went to the photograph on his desk of his late mother. He would be the man she’d always hoped he would be. Even if only for a fleeting moment.

“Very well,” the man said. He lowered the knife and cut a large cube of SPAM and stabbed it with the blade. He pushed it into Morley’s lips. “Swallow it.”

Morley tried to turn away, but the man was too strong and forced it into his mouth. He tried to chew it, but the man held his jaw closed. “Swallow it.”

Morley shook his head, but the man moved around behind him, pinched his nose and covered his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved with breath that wouldn’t come. He tried to swallow, but it was too large. Desperate, he forced himself, but the meat stuck in his throat. Choking.

He tried to pry the man’s hands from his head. He clawed at them and hit them. He grasped the man’s fingers and tried to pull them away, tried to get even a tiny bit of air. Panic welled in his stomach and spread through his body like fire. His chest burned as he convulsed, his body trying to save him from his soul’s folly.

He fought as the darkness closed in. He fought as his muscles seized. He fought as the last bit of breath in his body was spent. He fought until he wasn’t a coward anymore.

Chapter Twenty

With nothing to do but wait until the evening’s fundraiser, Simon and Elizabeth spent the afternoon walking around Bath. It was like walking through two thousand years of history — from the Roman baths to the Royal Crescent and the Circus. Nearly all of it, buildings that had survived hundreds, even thousands, of years, bore fresh scars from the war.

The Baedeker Blitz in the Spring of 1942, well after the original Blitz, was a series of retaliatory bombing runs. Filed under War Stinks: The RAF had conducted raids earlier in the year in Lübeck, famous for its wooden medieval architecture, aimed at demoralizing the civilian population. Not to be outdone, the Germans retaliated by, supposedly, using the Baedeker Tourist Guide to Britain to choose sites not of military significance, but historical and emotional. Bath had been hit hard.

Part of the amazing Georgian Royal Crescent was crushed and set on fire by incendiary bombs. Dozens of homes and other buildings were leveled to the ground. Evidence of the raid was everywhere.

Large coils of barbed wire stretched between sawhorses ran down the middle of the street in front of the Circus and along most of the main thoroughfares. Despite the piles of rubble and the fresh wounds, the city was vibrant and the people went about their daily routines undeterred.

Elizabeth hated to admit it, but part of her had always felt like the British were stuck in the past, reliving glory years of days long past. But now, she understood it, and she didn’t blame them one bit. What the people of England endured during the war and the way they’d shouldered their burdens couldn’t be taught in a textbook. Mrs. Miniver was a flickering shadow compared to the real thing. It had been so hard to understand what the people of Britain went through. She didn’t dare even think about the rest of Europe. There was no doubt Americans suffered as well, but they hadn’t had to send their children away to Canada to keep them safe. No foreign armies marched through the streets of New York. The fears and hardships of war weren’t echoed in air raid sirens night after night.

Elizabeth looked around the streets of Bath, at the people whose spirit wouldn’t be broken, and was humbled by it. There was a selflessness that she wasn’t sure even existed anymore. A quiet everyday courage. It was a feeling she would never forget and one she’d call on time and again when the world grew dark.

Simon squeezed her hand and led her past the enormous Abbey and along the Grand Parade. The concourse ran through the center of town, alongside and just above the River Avon. Once they crossed the bridge it was only a few steps down into the park that ran alongside the river. They found an empty bench and sat down as the sun began to set behind Pulteney Bridge.