Previous Section, Section XIV, Next Section
Part 47 Posted on Tuesday, 15 February 2005
October 1942 - Coltishall, England
When not in the habit of muffing it, you always do when it matters.
"____ ______ ______!" Squadron-Leader Laurence Bledisloe wrenched his Spit around on its wing and practically wiped his own wingman as he came round. "Jeroen!" Laurence had his eyes on the crumpled Spit which had buried its nose in a drystone wall. Everyone who had seen that Spit head down the runway had known there would be trouble, there was no way that Spit was going to get sufficient air speed to rise before the runway ran out. But knowing the theoretical figures and seeing one of your own people bury themselves into a stone wall are totally different things.
"Oh shut the racket, Polly." Flight-Lieutenant Jeroen Fouchiard's response was relieving even if it did breach most airwave etiquette. "I'm fine." The hatch slid back but Jeroen seemed uninterested in leaving, he had punched his dash before leaning back to scowl at the blue sky overhead.
"What happened." Laurence had briefly paused to order the rest of the Squadron to safe co-ordinates as a rendezvous before he had resumed trying to find out what had happened to Jeroen.
"Nothing."
"Fouchiard you just buried the nose of your spit into a drystone wall. That is not nothing. What happened?"
"I left the _____ ____ _____ thing in coarse pitch ... happy?" Jeroen tore off his flight helmet and finally left the cockpit.
"Woody, keep an ear to Coltishall will you." Laurence peeled away from the aerodrome at last and headed for the squadron rendezvous. "I want a report as soon as ... "
"Skip the report, Woody." Jeroen abruptly came live on air once more. "Polly, I'm chasing in the spare, what's the meeting place?"
"Ten miles north east of the aerodrome." Laurence executed a small loop and was relieved to find the spare Spit climbing quickly. Shaken and annoyed though he might be, Jeroen was clearly a going concern.
"Beetle calling Gerkin." The arrival of the Tangmere Ops. on air startled Laurence into swearing.
"Why are you calling Gerkin?"
"Ah, that's our secret, Polly." The voice drew a frown to Laurence's forehead, whoever was speaking was not Woodhall, the usual voice of Tangmere Ops. Whoever was speaking certainly thought he knew Laurence and it worried Laurence slightly. "Gerkin, you there. Over."
"Loud and clear Beetle." Jeroen's tone was a trifle preoccupied. "You don't sound like Woodie."
"I'd hope not." There was a brief pause. "Mac here."
"What the..." Jeroen died off in an odd gurgle. "Why Beetle?"
"I'm AWOL so do refrain from mentioning to anyone we had a chat." There was a pause. "How are the legs, Gerkin?"
"Bruised but fine." There was a brief pause before Jeroen responded.
"You're certain?"
"Yes ... why the concern?"
"Pal of mine who did that stove in his shins."
"I was fortunate. Have to go Beetle, glad to hear you on your feet."
"Thanks." It took Laurence managed to get his mind back on squadron concerns, rather then wondering who the visitor at Beetle was. "Jeroen, you wobble like blancmange. What's up?"
"A dodgy control." The Spit gave one final wobble before settling into clearly what was a stable flight plan.
"I'll trust you not to kill yourself." Laurence resettled his mind for the flight to France and the dust-up which was undoubtedly to be found over there. Useful to know that the bugs in the Big Wood were vicious.
"Jeroen, a word with you." Laurence's abrupt interruption of the evening's proceedings was odd enough to silence the entire mess.
"Sir?" Jeroen looked up from his chess and beer in mild curiousity.
"What was the problematical control earlier?"
"Ah, just a bit of a sticky throttle, occasionally starved my engine."
"Oh." Laurence nodded, aware that it was a gross understatement, but equally aware that asking further would lead to a situation uncomfortable to everyone. There's also the slight matter of the chat you had with Beetle earlier today." Laurence paused. "Word of it got not only to Group, but the whole way back to Fighter Command."
"Why?"
"No idea, not privy information for the lowly like us. Who was the man you had the brief exchange with?"
"I do not know, sir."
"You don't know?"
"I know the callsign ... but equally so do others and there are plenty who would think it a good joke to pull a lark."
"Seem's Stuffy's been on Woodie's case. Woodie denies any unauthorised access to Tangmere Ops. and it seems the Beauty Chorus is backing him up. We know the signal came from Tangmere, they got a lock before it ended. Who was it?"
"I don't know who it was." Jeroen paused. "The callsign ... " Jeroen's mouth abruptly twitched. "Check the authorised visitors book. Woodie said the caller was authorised."
"____!" Laurence turned and stalked from the room and Jeroen pulled on a thoughtful ear.
"Wonder who was twisting his tail?"
"Possibly the Bike ... maybe it came from higher up." There was another brief silence.
"Silly asses not to check the visitor book." There was another pause and then slowly the noise and usual proceedings resumed. As had been observed, they should have bothered the visitor's book at Tangmere Ops. before bothering a hardworking squadron.
October 28th 1942 - Imphal, India
Everyone grows up eventually.
Rory Halifax, civillian of no address at all, had probably never worked so hard in his life as he had worked during the past couple of months. He averaged about four hours sleep, in and around writing letters, tracking down medical supplies which never came and escorting convalescent officers and men to Delhi where Officers took the job on and saw the men safely back to England. If Rory had had the time to think on the matter he would have been utterly infuriated to realise that he was stuck in India until he earned sufficient to pay his way back to England. Rory had still been far too sick to travel when the paperwork which restored him to civillian status for medical reasons had arrived. As a civillian Rory could not travel on military transport and as a result would have to pay his way back even if he had never paid his way out.
"Halifax." It was one of the nurses who stopped Rory as he folded up yet another letter he had written.
"Sister?" Rory finished folding the letter and pushed it into an envelope he addressed with a firm hand. That was the eighteenth letter he had written in one day ... and three of them were already dead with another five likely to follow before long.
"The Doctor is looking for you."
"Thanks." Rory watched the woman depart before turning back to finish his conversation with the private who lay in the bed beside him. A nice boy who would undoubtedly live to fight again provided he didn't catch the blue dismals from being in hospital and give up living. "No, I actually saw that last game of his."
"Really?" The boy swallowed awkwardly, still clearly suffering pain. "Was ... did ... he was still great wasn't he?"
"Undoubtedly." Rory mentally grimaced, he did not require constant reminders, and yet that was precisely what he got. "That late cut was as elegant and as beautifully timed as ever."
"One hundred ... did he get a ton?"
"No." Rory gave a faint smile. "I'm afraid they declared when he was on 96 in an attempt to make a game of it."
"Shocking waste killing a man off when he can play cricket like that." The boy gave a sniff. "Least you saw him play."
"I did at that ... but I'll see him playing a harp if I don't get moving. Chin up and remember to kick the nips for me."
"Aye, sir." The boy managed to dig up a smile for Rory as he departed, and it was a wry grimace Rory wore as he made his way towards the little cubby which served as an office for the doctors.
"You do look rather rueful."
"My greatest attribute seems to be that I saw James Darcy play his last ever known game of Cricket. I went to that game thoroughly unwillingly and only because it was the only place I could guarantee to find Annie. Now I find myself digging through ancient memories and quoting a lot of what I thought garbage to these boys. At this rate I'll actually know as much about Cricket as Annie ever did."
"Well, how would you like a trip to Africa?" The doctor waved a sheet of paper in the air.
"Africa, sir?"
"Get you out of recounting cricket and writing letters to parents and girlfriends."
"Oh, but..." Rory hesitated, it was rather shocking to realise that he rather enjoyed what he'd been doing. "Why?"
"There's a Brigadier who needs a secretary going to Africa and I've a pal over those ways who needs someone to keep him in line. Hell of a lot cheaper to travel from Africa to England than India to England ... besides which there's an off-chance you'll get mixed up in any invasions with my pal and it's cheaper again to travel from France to England than India to England."
"You think that's possible?" Rory's brows rose slightly.
"Of course it is." The Doctor's brows shot up as his head jerked backwards. "I will not swelter out here for many more years without getting annoyed and I am not going home until I can travel overland the whole way to Calais."
"Ah." Rory hesitated, abruptly he was terribly aware that in far too many ways he did not wish to return to England. "What does your pal do?"
"Respectable old bird, he's one of the official war artists and he scurries around sketching, painting and drawing scenes of war to illustrate the official records and be published in the papers when they want to gross everyone out."
"Annie used to know one of those." Rory frowned slightly as he sorted the memory out of the mists of time. "Worked in London and was somehow a friend of Lord James Ashington-Frankston."
"Well, here's an offer to work for one. Be a nice holiday for you from this ... and should you tire of it I'll supply you with a reference so that any hospital will fall over itself to work you off your feet."
"When do I need to make my mind up by?"
"The Brigadier clears out in a month and is flying as far as Baghdad. With a bit of luck you can track my pal down in Baghdad and arrange to reach him. Chap called Thomas Mallern, but I'll give you the details if you want them later."
"Thanks I'll ... I'll think on the matter and get back to you." Rory hesitated, nodded and then abruptly moved back towards the wards. There was bound to be a couple more letters he could write and at the present moment he wasn't certain that he wanted to think about what was facing him. There would be time enough for that later.
November 1942 - London, England
I thought the best way to make money was to lie ... but I found you made even more with the truth.
"Hey!" It was Lane, predictably enough, and his eruption into the room filled Claude with a sinking sensation which seemed to originate in the environs of his digestive equipment. In one hand Lane held a hammer, in the other hand a bag which undoubtedly contained a black something. Lane never yelled except when he had something exciting and new at hand, and that guaranteed that it was some new explosive, usually German in manufacture and unknown in characteristics.
"Oh, dear Lord I did not need this now." Claude buried his face in his hands. The calculations for the Hedgerow were horribly behind schedule courtesy of the complication of the need to re-inforce the LCT decking.
"He's not blown us out of the building yet." Norway paused to lean against the desktop and grimace at the pages on the desk-top. "The update on the re-inforcement reached you?"
"No." Lane had hesitated for an appreciable moment before he lifted his head to make the response. "I have to re-calculate again?"
"It's good for you." Norway gave a grin before wincing, Lane had just walloped his new 'toy' with the hammer. "I assume he hits them too hard and simply smashes the trigger mechanism."
"More likely they're simply too terrified to explode." Claude wished he had the excuses which were rapidly getting most of the people out of the room. It was most regrettable that pure mathematicians had no call to leave the office, for Claude would not have been sorry to excuse himself at this moment. Lane seemed to have developed a whole new mode of attack when it came to these detonators ... though Claude suspected that a doctor would be more interested in the effects it had on the human nervous system than for its actually revealing useful information to Lane.
"You're getting old." Norway had picked up his folder in clear preparation of departure.
"Of course I'm getting old." Claude picked up his slide rule again. "So would you if you didn't have all those lovely excuses for getting out of the office when Lane goes to work ... which reminds me that I still have to correct your mathematics concerning your claim that your entrance into the office had nothing to do with the collapse of my card construction."
"Rubbish." Norway gave a grin. "Trust me, aerodynamics of cards guarantee that they will fall and yours was too large already. I just gave you a handy excuse."
"No arguement about the aerodynamics of cards, but take it from me that construction could have taken a further fifty cards before it fell of its own accord. It was you and your damp and gusty entrance which caused the demise of my cards. I shall prove it for you just as soon as I've finished these accursed calculations for the hedgerow ... and you needn't make a smart remark on the subject or I'll reassign them to you."
"No thanks, I'm due at Birnbeck." Norway moved off and Claude glowered anew as the updated re-inforcement information arrived on his deck with the usual flood of intra-office memos, including one from Norway on the aerodynamic nature of cards. Claude scribbled a brief note on Norway's memo concerning the possible effects of weight on the aerodynamic nature of playing cards before he swept the whole lot into his desk and returned his attention to the LCT decking and the resultant ballistic flight path of the hedgerow projectiles. He was missing something, some term, some factor was still absent from the calculations.
"Seems he's up north. Jackson ran into him when he stopped for lunch at a pub while going after that inventor chappie who apparently knew something about that problem of Norway's." The voice caught Claude's ear and he paused in chewing on his pencil. Who was up north, frequenting pubs and worthy of discussion?
"That wasn't much help was it?"
"Not a bat, the old fogy didn't know minced beef from potatoes, let alone something of catapult brakes."
"Watson probably would like the help even if the boy isn't qualified."
"Help of who?" Claude spun his chair around to frown at Richardson and Morrison who had been talking at Richardson's desk. One could enter a conversation if one's name was mentioned.
"Jim Darcy." Richardson straightened slightly. "Jackson saw him up north whilst chasing down what was thought to be some good stuff about catapults. It occured to me that you might like some help with those calculations. Problem is that I tried to have a chat with him yesterday and he was his usual polite and firm personality and would say nothing but that I was mistaken in his identity. We obviously can't haul him in while he refuses to be a Darcy, possibly he has a reason, but that doesn't mean we can't work around it."
"No point talking to him if he has his mind on other matters." Claude hesitated briefly as his mind considered the odd situation, but he discarded the matter and returned his attention to the maths in front of him. "This will sort very quickly once I have the final decision about the deck re-inforcement."
"Right, we'll ignore him then." Richardson frowned briefly. "Have you heard anything from him?"
"Not a word ... not that that's a surprise if he's otherwise occupied with concealing his presence in England. Why?"
"I just know a degree of suspicion about someone who can apparently die, vanish and die again all in the space of a couple of years."
"If what his godmother says is true he's died on another occasion as well and has at least one döppelgänger in the world. Wouldn't bother thinking of it Commander. Heard Jim snarling back just before the war because the Admiralty were intending to restrict his movements to England. If they really did restrict his movements it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if he didn't take what he considered appropriate action to ensure he didn't moulder away in a dead boring desk-job."
"Well, he's not mouldered away in a desk job, that's for certain." Richardson picked up a nearby form. "They seem to think this latest lot are the final updates on the LCT decking."
"I'll believe it when I see it." Claude turned back to his desk and bit his pencil again. What was the missing factor?
November 24th 1942 - Cairo, Egypt
Que le plus change, que le meme chose.
Annette eyed the man sitting next to door in a rather thoughtful way. Military Police had an air about them which could not be concealed. It would appear that Roger had got himself into trouble with the Military Police again. Hopefully it was only a minor breach of being in the wrong place at the wrong time ... prising him out when he'd been talking to the wrong people was a significantly more difficult task.
"Miss Fouchiard." The man rose to his feet rather awkwardly, his manner as stiff as his limbs apparently were.
"I'll have the office open in a moment ... if you can wait." Annette had already juggled her keys out from under her box and was beginning operations on the door.
"I'm hear to notify you that your employer Mr. ..."
"Roger Anderson was apprehended last night." Annette got the last lock sorted and pushed the door open. "Yes, I know why you're here. I'll have the tea ready in a moment and you can then deliver the rest of your deposition in some comfort ... and greater privacy than the corridor." Annette dropped her box on the desk and immediately plugged the kettle in. "Have a seat."
"Your employer is remarkably well treated for a civillian detainee."
"My employer is a remarkably regular detainee ... he also happens to be singularly absent-minded and disregarding of convention and restrictions. What was his offence this time?"
"Not really an offence." The man paused. "We hold him in an unscathed condition ... but he had walked out into a mine field."
"Why is there a minefield even near here?"
"There isn't." The man spoke rather dryly. "Mr. Anderson was wandering around the battlefront."
"He must have caught a ride with someone." Annette retrieved the tea leaves and began manufacturing tea. "He didn't walk to the battlefield in just last night."
"We were hoping you might be willing to enlighten our ignorance." The man spoke rather repressively.
"I'm afraid not, he gave me the afternoon off yesterday and I spent it shopping."
"Ah..." The man stopped abruptly and Annette spun to see what had caught his attention. The doorway was filled by a man who held a cat somewhat awkwardly in one hand and a very limp mouse in the other hand.
"Pardon, I was informed that these belonged here." The man extended the two animals rather gingerly.
"Thank you." Annette abruptly stepped forward and took first the mouse and then the cat. "Please tell me Diemos was not trying to eat Lo."
"A singularly well named cat." The man was losing interest in his own words as he stared with ever growing disbelief at something further into the room.
"What..." Annette hadn't even half finished her word when Eoan exploded into noise and action. Diemos and Lo were unceremoniously dropped as Annette lunged for Eoan's collar. The MP only just managed to avoid being collided with by smartly jumping a foot backwards. Annette's fingers found Eoan's heavy leather collar, but he continue to strain until Annette had half strangled him.
"Dammit all!" The exclamation exploded from the man in the doorway as he had smartly leapt backwards to give Annette more space to control Eoan. "I would have thought ... sorry, I ..." The man tapered off and gave a small shrug.
"A moment, please." Annette bundled Eoan into the inner office with a few choice views on his heritage and a strict enjoinder to remain silent and not smash the door. "No one was hurt I trust?"
"No." The MP had moved to the doorway, and now with a curt nod he moved through it. "Mr. Anderson will be released to you should you come to HQ and recognise him."
"Thank you." Annette nodded a polite farewell to the man and had actually resumed her seat at the desk when she realised that the man who had returned Diemos and Lo to her was still standing in the doorway. "Can I help you?"
"I ... " The man hesitated again, his expression a confused mixture of puzzlement, disbelief and bewilderment. "Sorry, your face reminds me of a friend of mind."
"It should." Annette's tone abruptly dried up as she managed to piece together her own memories. "I do wonder at you referring to me as a friend."
"Annie?" His expression became simple disbelief.
"Yes. Why is that so impossible?"
"Lucille ... Brian ... they said you died, sunk at sea."
"Oh." Annette clipped her mouth shut against one of the most insane giggles which had ever irrationally bubbled forth. "No, I missed the boat when offered another job."
"Then why was I told you were dead?"
"Because I neglected to let anyone know that I had missed the boat for something in the order of four months. I was - enjoying anonymity and forgetting a period of my life I was more than happy to forget." Annette hesitated before scowling abruptly. "What the devil did you mean by feeding me to the lions like that?"
"Because I was an idiot." Rory hesitated only briefly before responding. "Because I fell for a face with an almighty crash and lacked the experience to realise I was being played for bait. I thought I was smart and savvy and neglected to realise that I was totally out of my depth in a political arena which plays for stakes I will possibly never fully understand." Rory paused again. "It's nice to feel invincible and king of the world and Lila Thompson is very skilled at making someone feel that. Lila was also very good at taking a fear and subtly blowing it out of proportion. I was afraid of losing you because I knew I'd been insufferable for months. Lila took that fear, a dance, my knowledge of your admiration for James Darcy and mixed a diabolical mess which I was stupid enough to believe."
"I am horribly homesick." Annette abruptly picked up her pen. "Thank you for bringing Diemos and Lo back."
"Why are you homesick?"
"I have no idea." Annette glanced up calmly. "However I must be horribly homesick or I undoubtedly would not be talking to you even remotely civilly. Being an idiot is hardly sufficient excuse for feeding me to the Lions."
"It's not an excuse, it's a statement of fact." Rory hesitated for a moment, then abruptly withdrew and quietly closed the door behind himself. This had to be a dream and he had yet to retrieve the pad Thomas had forgotten to collect the previous day.
"You're being watched." Peter James' words were very soft indeed as he handed Annette a plate of bread rolls.
"That is entirely possible. Where is the watcher?"
"A man, early twenties, dark-haired and civillian suit of brown tweed. He's sitting in the corner table."
"You should recognise him and I do not think he is a risk." Annette took a bread roll and waved Peter away. "Go and feed yourself."
"But..."
"Peter, don't argue." Annette lifted her head sharply to stare at the man. "I can appreciate the necessity of your presence in the opinion of others, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you order me around." Annette paused briefly. "Besides which I refuse to become paranoid to the point that I refuse to associate with my fellow man. Rory Halifax isn't going to hurt me ... least of all since I have Eoan at my feet. Rory probably won't even get half a word in edgewise before we're thrown out of this establishment because of the racket Eoan will undoubtedly be making. Go and have your own meal."
"Yes, miss." Peter reluctantly retreated while Annette tore her breadroll into shreds and discreetly observed Rory in his corner. It was only a matter of time before Rory came across and Annette needed to decide what she was going to do about the situation. Logic said she should have nothing to do with him ... but logic did not seem to be having the last say in the current situation.
Dear Luce,
Annette paused and nibbled her pen, knowing a moment of hesitation and uncertainty. Annette could almost hear Lucille's shriek of disbelief and possible rage. It was totally insane, she had no idea why she was doing this, and yet doing it was precisely what she was doing.
I bother you yet again with yet another letter. All is well here and I hope all is well for you, for I have yet to receive any response. Annoying being so distant, I usually have something new to write long before you get the previous letter, let alone sent a response. You'll get this sometime in January I expect and no doubt I'll have already managed to find out the answer. However I would still like an answer if you know the answer since there's always a possiblity that I haven't found anything out at all.Hear preliminary rumble of drums followed by that ubiquitous cha-cha of the trumpets as their vocalist arrives on stage ... though here it's more likely to be the pianist and he'll be rather well to do. I have now seen a S-L in a cold sweat, his Flight was prodding an AOC in the chest with an lit pipe. Very disconcerting for the poor S-L, but highly amusing for those of us who had the privilege to watch.
Appropo my enquiry. Why is Rory Halifax a civillian in Africa? Has he messed up again and been given the boot, or what? Barely done more than spoken to him, he seemed to think I was dead and Eoan was proving his usual bar to conversation ... just ask Brian about that one. I might have found out my answer at lunch today, but army officer turned up with a backpack and dragged him away just when he was about to brave my table. Hence I am reduced to asking you whether you can spill any news or illuminate the matter in any way.
I hope Brian has managed to wrangle a minute or two of leave over Christmas. Not particularly looking forward to Christmas this year so be given a hug from me by someone. Say hi to Ken from Paige and there should be a brief note from P to K in here.
Weather is hot, haven't seen Alistair in months now and am feeling horribly homesick for a familiar face. Only excuse I have for the fact that I even gave Rory the time of day ... though I will confess to the fact that he seems to have changed since before the debacle.
Sorry, sliding into the blue dismals so I'll shove this away and find something else to do.
Hugs to all,
Annie
Annette shoved first her letter and then Paige's brief little scrawl into the envelope. Not the nicest of letters, but it had to be the most original and informative that Lucille had received in months. Now she might as well post it and spring Roger from prison ... no doubt he'd say at some point how he came to walk through a minefield.
Author's note:
'Bike' was the name given to Wing-Commander Beisiegel of Coltishall.
'Beetle' is the Callsign for the Tangmere Ops. Room.
'Bug' is one of many names given for enemy fighters over the airwaves.
The Golf Course was the code name for Le Touquet.
The Big Wood was code name for St. Omar.
Part 48 Posted on Saturday, 21 January 2006
November 25th 1942 - Cairo, Egypt
Que le plus change, que le meme chose.
Annette eyed the man sitting next to door in a rather thoughtful way. Military Police had an air about them which could not be concealed. It would appear that Roger had got himself into trouble with the Military Police again. Hopefully it was only a minor breach of being in the wrong place at the wrong time ... prising him out when he'd been talking to the wrong people was a significantly more difficult task.
"Miss Fouchiard." The man rose to his feet rather awkwardly, his manner as stiff as his limbs apparently were.
"I'll have the office open in a moment ... if you can wait." Annette had already juggled her keys out from under her box and was beginning operations on the door. She knew she wasn't in trouble because if she'd been noticed yesterday she would undoubtedly have been summarily hauled away and locked up. For an MP to be here guaranteed that the sinner in question was Roger, particularly since Roger had said he'd open the office this morning.
"I'm hear to notify you that your employer Mr. ... "
"Roger Anderson was apprehended last night." Annette got the last lock sorted and pushed the door open. "Yes, I know why you're here. I'll have the tea ready in a moment and you can then deliver the rest of your deposition in some comfort ... and greater privacy than the corridor." Annette dropped her box on the desk and immediately plugged the kettle in. "Have a seat."
"Your employer is remarkably well treated for a civilian detainee." The MP was beginning to look a trifle strained and uncomfortable. This was not going as it was meant to and he was beginning to feel a trifle uncertain of his ground.
"My employer is a remarkably regular detainee ... he also happens to be singularly absent-minded and disregarding of convention and restrictions. What was his offence this time?"
"Not really an offence." The man paused. "We hold him in an unscathed condition... but he had walked out into a mine field."
"Why is there a minefield even near here?"
"There isn't." The man spoke rather dryly. "Mr. Anderson was wandering around the battlefront."
"He must have caught a ride with someone." Annette retrieved the tealeaves and began manufacturing tea. "He didn't walk to the battlefield in just last night."
"We were hoping you might be willing to enlighten our ignorance." The man spoke rather repressively.
"I'm afraid not, he gave me the afternoon off yesterday and I spent it shopping."
"Ah..." The man stopped abruptly and Annette spun to see what had caught his attention. The doorway was filled by a man who held a cat somewhat awkwardly in one hand and a very limp mouse in the other hand.
"Pardon, I was informed that these belonged here." The man extended the two animals rather gingerly.
"Thank you." Annette abruptly stepped forward and took first the mouse and then the cat. "Please tell me Diemos was not trying to eat Lo."
"A singularly well named cat." The man was losing interest in his own words as he stared with ever growing disbelief at something further into the room.
"What..." Annette hadn't even half finished her word when Eoan exploded into noise and action. Diemos and Lo were unceremoniously dropped as Annette lunged for Eoan's collar. The MP only just managed to avoid being collided with by smartly jumping a foot backwards. Annette's fingers found Eoan's heavy leather collar, but he continue to strain until Annette had half strangled him.
"Dammit all!" The exclamation exploded from the man in the doorway as he had smartly leapt backwards to give Annette more space to control Eoan. "I would have thought ... sorry, I..." The man tapered off and gave a small shrug.
"A moment, please." Annette bundled Eoan into the inner office with a few choice views on his heritage and a strict enjoinder to remain silent and not smash the door. "No one was hurt I trust?"
"No." The MP had moved to the doorway, and now with a curt nod he moved through it. "Mr. Anderson will be released to you should you come to HQ and recognise him. He's at Mena."
"Thank you." Annette nodded a polite farewell to the man and had actually resumed her seat at the desk when she realised that the man who had returned Diemos and Lo to her was still standing in the doorway. "Can I help you?"
"I..." The man hesitated again, his expression a confused mixture of puzzlement, disbelief and bewilderment. "Aren't you dead?"
"Am I meant to be?" Annette efficiently tucked Lo into a nearby draw of scrap paper with a biscuit before throwing a second one in the corner to get Diemos out from underfoot.
"Lucille ... Brian ... they said you died, sunk at sea."
"Oh." Annette clipped her mouth shut against one of the most insane giggles which had ever irrationally bubbled forth. "No, I missed the boat when offered another job."
"You missed the boat?"
"Mm-hmm." Annette wrinkled her nose. "The job didn't turn out quite so well as expected though ... probably would have been better if I hadn't missed the boat ... certainly Lucille wouldn't be so cross with me."
"Lucille knows you're alive?"
"Of course she does. I'm not in the habit of letting people believe I'm dead."
"Then why was I told you were dead?"
"Because I didn't know that I was thought to be dead for something in the order of four months ... then I was rather enjoying anonymity and forgetting a period of my life I was more than happy to forget." Annette hesitated before scowling abruptly. "Why the devil should it matter to you anyway?"
"Old friends, don't you know ... little pig-tails and crumpled skirts. Old friends are the best to try and keep up to date with because they're usually more interesting."
"You certainly made me more interesting. What the devil did you mean by feeding me to the lions like that?"
"Because I was an idiot." Rory hesitated only briefly before responding with a small shrug. "Because I fell for a face with an almighty crash and lacked the experience to realise I was being played for bait. I thought I was smart and savvy and neglected to realise that I was totally out of my depth in a political arena which plays for stakes I will possibly never fully understand." Rory paused again. "It's nice to feel invincible and king of the world and Lila Thompson is very skilled at making someone feel that. Lila was also very good at taking a fear and subtly blowing it out of proportion. I was afraid of losing you because I knew I'd been insufferable for months. Lila took that fear, a dance, my knowledge of your admiration for James Darcy and mixed a diabolical mess which I was stupid enough to believe."
"I am horribly homesick." Annette abruptly picked up her pen. "Thank you for bringing Diemos and Lo back."
"Why are you homesick?"
"I have no idea." Annette glanced up calmly. "However, I must be horribly homesick or I undoubtedly would not be talking to you even remotely civilly. Being an idiot is hardly sufficient excuse for feeding me to the lions."
"It's not an excuse, it's a statement of fact." Rory hesitated for a moment, then abruptly withdrew and quietly closed the door behind himself. This had to be a dream and he had yet to retrieve the pad Thomas had forgotten to collect the previous day.
"You're being watched." Peter James' words were very soft indeed as he handed Annette a plate of bread rolls.
"That is entirely possible. Where is the watcher?"
"A man, early twenties, dark-haired and civilian suit of brown tweed. He's sitting in the corner table."
"You should recognise him and I do not think he is a risk." Annette took a bread roll and waved Peter away. "Go and feed yourself."
"But..."
"Peter, don't argue." Annette lifted her head sharply to stare at the man. "I can appreciate the necessity of your presence in the opinion of others, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you order me around." Annette paused briefly. "Besides which I refuse to become paranoid to the point that I refuse to associate with my fellow man. Rory Halifax isn't going to hurt me ... least of all since I have Eoan at my feet. Rory probably won't even get half a word in edgewise before we're thrown out of this establishment because of the racket Eoan will undoubtedly be making. Go and have your own meal."
"Yes, miss." Peter reluctantly retreated while Annette tore her bread roll into shreds and discreetly observed Rory in his corner. It was only a matter of time before Rory came across and Annette needed to decide what she was going to do about the situation. Logic said she should have nothing to do with him... but logic did not seem to be having the last say in the current situation.
Dear Luce,
Annette paused and nibbled her pen, knowing a moment of hesitation and uncertainty. Annette could almost hear Lucille's shriek of disbelief and possible rage. It was totally insane, she had no idea why she was doing this, and yet doing it was precisely what she was doing.
I bother you yet again with yet another letter. All is well here and I hope all is well for you, for I have yet to receive any response. Annoying being so distant, I usually have something new to write long before you get the previous letter, let alone sent a response. You'll get this sometime in January I expect and no doubt I'll have already managed to find out the answer to any questions. However I would still like an answer if you know the answer since there's always a possibility that I haven't found anything out at all.I'm back in my little hotel room and the guns continue to grumble across the desert. The rumour is that this is the big push and will be the turn of the tide here in Africa. One rather hopes so for it is tiresome being squashed up in Cairo and the guns have been firing since close on ten o'clock last night. They started with a heavy bombardment, followed up by a second heavy bombardment and since then there's been spitefully and pretty ceaseless bickering. I found some ground where I could see the battlefield, but it is nothing more than a big choking pan of dust with the odd flash and shadow to be seen within. In the desert, if you choose your ground well, you can actually see quite vast distances ... yet at the same time you'll fail to find a city five miles off. They say this will last for several days yet, longer than Alam Halfa which lasted four and was the first time we did not retreat. Hooray for Monty and Alexander who have stopped the burning paper in Cairo and Alex.
Alistair was around the other day, he's finally been forced to accept a commission and he's less than happy about it. Alistair spent some time explaining about Alam Halfa with the help of a couple cups of tea and the salt canister, but it seems I have a poor head for military tactics. Also my failure to understand may be that I simply haven't read the right books yet. Alistair was headed back out when he saw me and I've no doubt but that another three months will pass before he shows his face again.
I retrieved Roger from Mena this morning, they were holding him after having caught him wandering around southern part near Alam Halfa. I doubt there's any real crime in visiting Alam Halfa now the battlefront has moved, however it is unwise since the men are on the jump and just a touch trigger-happy. I've been given very strict instructions on the importance of keeping my eye on him for it seems he was wandering in one of the many minefields sown there.
Hear preliminary rumble of drums followed by that ubiquitous cha-cha of the trumpets as their vocalist arrives on stage ... though here it's more likely to be the pianist and he'll be rather well to do. I have now seen a S-L in a cold sweat, his Flight was prodding an AOC in the chest with a lit pipe. Very disconcerting for the poor S-L, but highly amusing for those of us who had the privilege to watch.
Apropos my enquiry. Why is Rory Halifax a civilian in Africa? Has he messed up again and been given the boot, or what? Barely done more than spoken to him, he seemed to think I was dead and Eoan was proving his usual bar to conversation ... just ask Brian about that one. I might have found out my answer at lunch today, but army officer turned up with a backpack and dragged him away just when he was about to brave my table. Hence I am reduced to asking you whether you can spill any news or illuminate the matter in any way.
I hope Brian has managed to wrangle a minute or two of leave over Christmas. Not particularly looking forward to Christmas this year so be given a hug from me by someone. Say hi to Ken from Paige and there should be a brief note from P to K in here.
They say the Americans have landed with an English Contingent in Algiers, but are having difficulty with the mountains over there. Good luck to them, we're dealing with Rommel and far too much sand here.
Weather is hot and am feeling horribly homesick for a familiar face. Only excuse I have for the fact that I even gave Rory the time of day.
Sorry, sliding into the blue dismals so I'll shove this away and find something else to do.
Hugs to all,
Annie
Annette shoved first her letter and then Paige's brief little scrawl into the envelope. Not the nicest of letters, but it had to be the most original and informative that Lucille had received in months. Now she might as well post it and go take a walk. The air was still warm and the guns were rumbling too loudly for sleep yet. Here was hoping that this push wouldn't end in another retreat, even though it was said that there were no arrangements for a retreat.
December 1st 1942 - Weybridge, England
His way was right,
His will was strong,
But he was just as dead as if he'd been wrong.
Dr Adams pinched the bridge of his nose hard and then let out a very carefully controlled breath. Wing-Commander Ellis McKenna had been sent to them, a simple smashed shoulder which required a bed while it healed.
Oh, that the reality matched the simplicity of the request.
McKenna was the very worst patient Adams had come across in his life. A fortnight after arrival, for no apparent reason what-so-ever, the man's central nervous system had packed it in and paralysed the man. Now a bed which had been scheduled for a single month of use was now tied down for an unspecified length of time. Three months later the man's nervous system had begun a slow returned to operational status, except he forgot to mention it to anyone until he was caught in the hallway attempting to stand up. The only reason he had been caught then was for the simple reason that he'd upset the wheelchair while discovering that the ability to move the legs did not necessarily mean that you could stand.
McKenna a convalescent was far worse than McKenna a paralysed carcass. At least with the paralysed carcase you knew where to find it. McKenna convalescent might be found anywhere, and quite frequently was found where he either wasn't meant to be, or was least expected to be. On one occasion he'd gifted himself a 'day out' to remember what the real world was like, and he'd only been caught because he'd been unable to get out of the taxi when it tried to deliver him to the hospital. Adams hadn't even bothered asking where the man had gone for he had long since learnt that McKenna spoke only when he wanted to, and then he said only what he wanted to say. There was no point asking that man questions.
The other problem with McKenna was his wife. Never in his life had Adams seen such an ill-matched pair. Most of the time McKenna seemed brain-dead and thick as a clam. McKenna's wife was a totally different proposition, a very lively and intelligent lady with a temper to match. It was the matching temper which was being exercised at the present moment. Her voice was fortunately a nice voice, but that didn't mean that it didn't carry. Adams had finally had enough, this was a hospital, it was meant to be quiet and restful. Adams had finally decided that the argument overhead must cease. Though it wasn't really an argument, it was one long and completely uninterrupted diatribe which would have been educational to the Billingsgate Fishwives. Never had Adams heard so much swearing, and to date the woman didn't seem to have repeated herself.
"Hope." It was a quiet word and Adams almost didn't trust his ears as he tapped on the door and entered the room. Such a quiet word, and yet it might have been the hand which pulls the needle from a record. The room was dead silent when Adams stepped over the threshold. McKenna lay in his bed, his one good arm propping his head up, his countenance calm and undisturbed.
"I do appologise, Doctor, I will not forget again." Mrs. McKenna had taken a very careful breath before she spoke, her tones even though her eyes and expression were still furious. There were some women who could look good when furious.
"Thank you." Dr Adams hesitated then jumped slightly as he accidentally encountered McKenna's eye. Perhaps the man was not quite the idiot most of the staff took him for. Adams had a nasty feeling that his mind had just been read with amusement. Adams did not like to think that McKenna had read his mind, it was discomforting.
"We're sorry if we disturbed any other patients and will try to hold all further arguments outside at the very least."
"E-Llis Ma-cKenna." Hope's eyes flashed anew and Adams took an involuntary step backwards at the sheer wrath in those words. "This arguement is closed and finished. No."
"May I go out to dinner tonight?" McKenna's tone was mild and calm as he turned to Adams, it was as if he had not heard his wife.
"No." Adams hesitated not at all before he spoke. MacKenna had gifted himself leave of absence only the previous day, he was certainly not going out again tonight.
"Now, just tell him can't fly again." Hope paused in pulling on her coat.
"Fly?" Adams was bewildered. What had flying to do with anything?
"He intends to resume flying!" Hope finished pulling her coat on.
"Not today." There was calmness to the words which came from the bed, but Adams had a nasty feeling of inflexible resolution. This man intended to fly.
"I could not advise flying, but neither can I stop you." Adams tried to match the level calmness of the other. The thought of anyone flying with such an unreliable nervous system as McKenna had was simply mind-boggling.
"Very wise." McKenna was completely undisturbed and unworried by his wife stomping from the room, though Adams had jumped out of the woman's way.
"I think your wife might be a little concerned about your projected intentions." Adams tried to be tactful on the subject.
"Hope is terrified and quite frankly I don't blame her... however I will fly again."
"Why?"
"Ever flown?"
"No."
"Then take it as given that I have to fly again." McKenna pulled his hand from under his head and settled down on the cushions. "I'm going away for a couple of days over Christmas and there is a qualified nurse at my destination so I do not require escort."
"You never take escort even when there isn't a nurse at your destination." Adams sighed and refrained from asking what would happen if they did not release him over Christmas. There was a stubbornness too near the surface today and Adams didn't want to know what would happen if they attempted to hold the man over Christmas. This stubborn solidity spoke all too clearly as to why Ellis McKenna had obtained his war record, and it also spoke bucket loads as to why he was as mobile as he currently was, even though he still couldn't walk.
December 16th 1942 - London, England
The show must go on.
"Oh, Juliette." Yet another woman swept past in a dress which cost more than Lucille had ever made in her life. "Angel, it's been ages."
"Devastating." Juliette smiled, responded in kind and somehow disposed of the woman into another group with effortless ease and no insult just in time to be swooped on again by another woman in another dress with much the same words to say.
"Gorgeous." What the remark was about was far above Lucille's comprehension and it was with relief that she saw Annie-Bug pass again and a quick move got her attached to the other de Bourgh Darcy, who was now actually a Fouchiard. It was very disconcerting to try and think of Annie-Bug as anything but a de Bourgh Darcy... particularly at a function like this. Annie-Bug had said that Jeroen had said that Brian would make an appearance for the evening, but to date Lucille had seen neither brother nor husband and she was feeling totally out of place.
"Annie, you Angel, I've heard you joined the ATS. Have you seen the Princess Elizabeth?" Another dress, another voice and it was so tempting to simply assume there was no brain behind.
"Not to date." Annie-Bug gave a faint smile, disposed of the woman into a group and began to move away before glancing back at Lucille. "You'll need to watch yourself tonight, Luce. Miss Darcy is coming."
"Miss Darcy?" Lucille touched Annie-Bug's sleeve with the lightest of fingertips. A gauzy concoction which had cost someone a fortune.
"Miss Georgiana Darcy." Annie-Bug hissed her response while turning to face another arrival.
"Anneliese, mon ange." The man swept down upon them in a flood of French and Lucille precipitately withdrew into the shelter of a largish potplant.
"You seem to increase in wisdom, little sister." Jeroen's voice would have drawn a shriek from Lucille at any other time or place. Lucille turned sharply and looked around quickly, her eyes finally settling on a blue serge uniform which was mostly invisible in the deep shadow of the curtains.
"What are you doing here?" Lucille moved her chair slightly closer to his curtain.
"Here at the function? It's called official leave, given to me since this is likely to give the Air Force a little more good publicity. Nothing like rubbing in the fact that one of your officers has married a de Bourgh Darcy and has the time for social functions. Gives the public confidence that the war will end."
"Hardly good publicity to hide next to a curtain and behind a potplant. I would have thought you swamped?"
"No, it is Anneliese who interests them. I'm merely her husband... and to many I am also merely part of her war effort. Not at all interesting but thoroughly photographed on arrival."
"Brian has more tin than you." Lucille had critically studied her brother's chest with its impressive array of medals and ribbons.
"Brian has had longer to accumulate tin than I have... by some five years, which includes one war year and the Battle of Britain."
"Two years and one of those a war year... he's three years younger than you. Also no excuse for Brian is a Bomber Pilot and they notoriously get less tin."
"Unless they're Brian and make a habit of using their bomber like a fighter." Jeroen abruptly grinned. "I can still remember the mess he'd made of those two Focke-Wulf Condors he picked up near Iceland."
"Ye-es, and I can still remember the words used by my mechanic when he saw that self-same bomber after I'd had my little single with the Focke-Wulf's." Brian's voice arrived abruptly and it was only by conscientious remembrance that Lucille prevented herself from jumping up to hug him. The Netherfield Benefit Ball was not the place to display vulgar emotion.
"Who is Miss Georgiana Darcy?" Lucille settled for a question as she turned to Brian.
"Good heavens, please tell me she is not coming tonight!"
"Bad luck, she's expected." Lucille tilted her head. "I asked a little question."
"She's Jim's Aunt, Sir David's little sister, and actually reasonably decent... except she won't be to me since I never took you up to meet her." Brian eased his shoulders slightly inside his uniform. "I hear you pranged a Spit the other day."
"I didn't need reminding." Jeroen spoke rather shortly.
"Coarse pitch?"
"As you say."
"Tut-tut." Brian gave a slightly twisted smile. "That is one of the main reasons I ended up in Bombers, I don't think I touched a fighter with variable pitch without pranging it."
"Considering even bombers have those toys, that really isn't saying anything."
"No, but I usually made every possible error in the book when I got near fighters and so we had a mutual agreement that I was an ideal Bomber Pilot."
"I hear HQ is muttering about another attempt on the Tirpitz."
"Oh lordy, here comes Juliette." Brian sighed and then groaned. "We do not need to waste more men and materials on that bloody battleship. Leave it to the Navy."
"We've nothing to match it since HMS Hood was sunk off Denmark Strait by that bloody Bismarck."
"Chap named Walter used to have a dog called that, Bavarian Woodsman he was ... and we'd better scatter before we get reprimanded by her Royal Highness." Brian moved away as he spoke, pulling Lucille with him and leaving Jeroen to acquire a glass of something and go in search of a familiar face.
"Anneliese." Juliette's hissed whisper was barely audible and would undoubtedly not have been heard by anyone else had Lucille not been sitting so close. It was nearing two in the morning and the flow of people departing was finally larger than the flow of people arriving. Lucille had been almost asleep, rather entertained to realise it harmed her comprehension of events not at all to be three parts asleep.
"Please, excuse me." Anneliese had slipped away from the group and departed out a side door. Lucille glanced around briefly, then excused herself as well and slipped across to where Brian stood talking with Jeroen. They were undoubtedly talking shop, but hopefully they wouldn't mind if she settled on a chair next to them and slept with a suitably intelligent expression.
"Hullo." Jeroen broke off what he'd been saying as Lucille came into earshot. "Come for cover?"
"If you don't mind." Lucille slid into the seat Brian waved her to.
"Enjoyed it?" Brian glanced briefly around the room.
"Not particularly, the talk's all politics and art." Lucille gave a sigh. "Why did Annie-Bug have to leave the room?"
"Oh, she didn't." Brian took a small mouthful from his drink. "In a display of shocking bad manners she was talking with friends to the exclusion of others and it is easier to escape politely if you depart the room than if you simply move to another group. Watch, she'll be back any second, having touched up her powder and nails, and she'll probably go to that girl over in the corner. Looks like Lady Hester, a brief conversation and then she'll take Lady Hester across to ... oh probably the group Steps is in. Old Matlock would like it fine if Steps married Lady Hester and Steps is certainly interested ... but she's unbelievably shy and awkward socially."
"Very depressing to realise that I'd probably be like that if I had been born in this class." Lucille almost smiled as she observed Annie-Bug doing precisely what Brian had foretold. Stephen Fitzwilliam quickly separated himself and Lady Hester from the group he was in and they moved off to another group which was more mixed.
"No chance." Brian picked a nibble from a nearby plate. "Fish out of water is all that's wrong with you. Ask Juliette or Annie-Bug for pointers and you'll find your feet in no time. Jeroen does it quite nicely when he puts his mind to it."
"Annie didn't have this problem."
"My wife is stubbornly attempting to denigrate her worth." Brian gave a rather theatrical sigh. "You were at Neddie's first ball ... what happened?"
"Never left Annie-Bug's side except to dance ... and then very reluctantly." Jeroen paused to think for a moment. "Not that I really blame her nervousness, Jim spoke to her immediately after his arrival and both Juliette and Lila seemed determined to scare her into an early grave. Annie-Bug gave her a lot of pointers and she had been working for Ashie ... not half so grim as your situation for being dumped into this mess." Jeroen discarded his glass with a sigh and grabbed Annie-Bug's arm as she came past. "We're off, O'Niells, see you if we possibly can and I trust Miss Darcy will deign to speak to you one of these years."
"You never know." Brian flicked a dismissive finger, gave a wry grin and then offered Lucille a hand up. "You ready to go home?"
"I was four hours ago." Lucille spoke very quietly indeed and saw the glimmer of laughter in Brian's eyes which was all the response necessary.
"You up to a drive out to Cambrigeshire?"
"Petrol?"
"I've rather a lot of rations in hand." Brian collected their coats and led the way out of the building. The air outside was crisp and refreshing after the stuffiness of the hall. Lucille paused simply to draw in several great deep breaths of it.
"Don't you have to push some more papers at the office tomorrow?"
"No." Brian accepted his keys from the parking valet and slid into the driver's seat as Lucille was helped into the passenger's seat. "They've finally decided to give me leave until February and then it will probably be flight training school or some such." Brian turned the ignition on, winced slightly as the starter engine ground on itself, then chose a gear and slipped the clutch.
"Oh." Lucille stared into the dual pools of overlapping light made by the headlights. "You're coming back to Deraux for a bit?"
"For a month and a half at the very least." Brian was moving quickly through the darkened streets. "Unless of course I'm not wanted."
"Idiot." Lucille leant back into her seat with a sigh. "I will probably wake up to this properly tomorrow ... it seems rather a dream right now."
"Well, you can dream it for a month and a half." Brian abruptly doused his lights and cut his speed as somewhere nearby the air raid sirens wailed mournfully. "Do you mind taking a couple of days over this?"
"Not at all." Lucille slid over and leant against Brian's shoulder. "I've missed you." It was barely a whisper, a ghost of air in the night.
"Think you could be spared for a week?" Brian hesitated at a darkened intersection and then scurried across it.
"Mm."
"Right." Brian abruptly swung the wheel with purpose and thirty minutes later had them outside the darkened Darcy Townhouse. Lucille followed somewhat numbly as Brian mounted the stairs and hammered on the heavy door.
"Surely you can just unlock it." Lucille had heard not the faintest noise within the house.
"No." Brian hammered again, this time making use of the heavy brass knocker which sounded much like a thunderstorm. "Reason places like this have a caretaker staff even at the worst of times." From inside came the grating and scraping of stiff bolts being drawn. A key scraped in a sticky lock and finally the massive door began to open slightly. "Bolts and locks, all on the inside ... and I'm not using the servants entrance at this hour of night.
"Mr. Brian, I might have known." The door creaked open just far enough to permit passage.
"Sorry to dig you up, Morris." Brian slipped into the inky black hall. "How's the family?"
"Well enough." Morris closed the door.
"Don't bolt it Morris, we're only here to send a night telegram and then will be gone." Brian led Lucille carefully but quickly through the inky blackness, fumbled with a door and then snapped on a couple of lights. "Pemberley can pay for this." Brian scribbled briefly on a page and then pushed it across to Lucille.
Helen O'Niell, Deraux Castle, Deraux, Cambridgeshire. Lucille taking a week getting back unless inconvenient stop Reply O'Niell Four Horse Inn if inconvenient or becomes inconvenient stop Month and half holiday stop Brian ends
"Night letter of less than thirty-six words is not a major expense." Lucille pushed it back and dropped into one of the holland shrouded armchairs. "However it will undoubtedly be more convenient for everyone if you just charge it to account. Where is the Four Horse Inn?"
"Just outside of London, a Darcy holding which has a couple rooms permanently reserved for anyone who knows of them." Brian turned aside briefly while he sent the telegram.
"There are perks to this job to balance out those Benefit Balls and the media ... however I'll thank you not to take the job on."
"Not likely to." Brian flipped the light out and lead the way carefully back to the front door. "I get the perks without the nastiness for the most part ... and thank you very much Morris your effort is fully appreciated."
"He didn't have any choice did he?" Lucille had waited until the immense door had been bolted behind them and she was again sitting in the car before she spoke.
"No, but that doesn't mean we can't appreciate the effort ... in fact it gives all the more reason to appreciate the effort because he is not doing it by choice. Much greater sacrifice."
"But you pay them to do it."
"Totally irrelevant, money isn't everything and Morris is uniquely placed to make our lives exceedingly uncomfortable. It's a simple matter of happy servants, they're much nicer to visitors and infinitely better for the family image than any amount of grand parties and generous donations."
"But you're not of the family."
"No, but we are of the household." Brian paused. "Also, until James returns or is officially proven to be deceased, we are the representative of the family."
"Oh." Lucille fell very silent indeed.
"Lucille, we've arrived." It was over an hour later when Brian brought the car to a halt in the old-fashioned courtyard and touched the nearby shoulder.
"It frightens me." Lucille hadn't moved.
"What?" Brian paused half out of the car.
"It never occured to me that we were ... Family Darcy. I knew you were. Not really a conscious realisation though and certainly not in such a way that I thought it came into application with me. Should I...?" Lucille hesitated.
"Idiot." Brian leant in and simply dragged Lucille from the car. "Juliette likes you, Annie-Bug likes you, and Nelli likes you. Juliette has a particularly vested interest in Family Darcy, as you call it, for she still carries the name and it will reflect on her. You may be certain that Juliette would not like someone who endangered her family name."
"But..." Lucille hesitated.
"As long as you are polite, encouraging and respectful of the skills of others you cannot go wrong. At the very worst some of the snobbier servants will despise you for being of lower birth and ignore you, but I wouldn't worry about it. Ignore them."
"But..." Lucille hesitated again. "Juliette isn't trying to ... It's not that they ... well ... do you think they really like me?"
"I can't answer that question Luce. I know they honestly like you and appreciate you ... but that is nothing more than vibrations of the air, you have to decide for yourself whether they like you or not."
"I don't want to think about this at all for the next week ... I don't want to think of anything!" Lucille glanced around the courtyard, but did not really see it. "I don't want to think! I hate this war! I... "
"Luce." Brian caught one hand as it waved wildly. "Bedtime for the little girl. We both need sleep and I'm not in the mood for hysterics about things we can do nothing about."
"No." Lucille's breath caught with a sharpish gasp and she abruptly buried her face in Brian's shoulder. "I'm only seventeen! It's not meant to be like this!"
"Definitely bed time." Brian slammed the car door, nodded to the small boy who appeared at the back door and basically dragged Lucille into the Inn, up two flights of stairs and around a corner before entering a small back bedroom with a key he held. The boy dropped the bags just inside the door and then vanished, clearly intent on returning to bed. Brian thought it a wonderful idea and burrowed into the bags after night clothes. Getting changed took scarcely a moment and the bed was blissfully soft and decadent to sink into. Brian pulled his wife close in the dark and closed his eyes, he knew she was still crying, but there was nothing he could do short of allowing her to continue crying into his shoulder, and he didn't mind that as long as he was permitted to sleep.
December 1942 - Al Quatif, Saudi Arabia
Travel is taken for granted ... until it breaks down.
Rory Halifax had been attempting to sleep since the train had left Cairo, but he'd finally given up. Train from Cairo to the Suez, a ferry across the Suez, another train which went to Gaza. Another train took them from Gaza to Al Aqabah which was in completely the wrong direction Rory's opinion. A six wheeler had then taken them to Amman. A brief pause of a mere twenty-four hours and then another six wheeler had taken them on to Tel-Aviv. The train from Tel-Aviv to Haifa turned out to be invisible and eventually they had caught a taxi at the military's expense. From Haifa a six wheeler took them out into the middle of a scorching no where and dumped them. The six wheeler had departed with a satisfied grind and some eight hours later the connecting train had come to a halt and begun to load them. Even this train was not going to Baghdad, its destination was some halt where the line apparently split. One line went to Kirkuk, the other to Al Quatif and Rory wanted neither. They were meant to descend from the Al Quatif train near some imaginary settlement called Sakakah, a mere hundred miles from the track, where he could catch another antiquated six wheeler which would actually deposit him in the vicinity of Baghdad. The halt had never materialised and now they were eight hundred miles from where they wanted to be and they had been five days travelling already. Oh, to be a member of the military again where one simply took the train to Damascus and then a six wheeler across the desert to Baghdad.
"Wake me when we have to descend again." Thomas Mallern had spoken the words at Cairo before comfortably falling asleep on the very uncomfortable chair. Mallern had gone the past several days with no sleep at all. Rory had had sleep only because he could sleep while Mallern worked, and Thomas had appointed him watch duty as a result of this sleep difference.
"Right." Rory had nodded and returned to gazing out the window without any interest for the visible scene without.
Running across Annette in Cairo had been a phenomenal piece of chance, but it had overset Rory's mind completely. In Burma he'd thought his mind overly endowed his memory of Annette. This was of little matter and he was content to let his mind have its way on the subject, it made for some pleasant memories. Was it possible that one woman by simply looking up could overset his mind and set fire to his limbs? Rory had doubted the possibility and he had known it should never come into question since Brian had reported Annette deceased.
Annette was not deceased though, and when she had looked around in the office Rory had realised that his memory had not been overly indulgent in its endowments of her effect on him. If anything his memory had been unnecessarily harsh and restrictive. Rory had little idea of what had past in that small office, though he had a feeling he'd sounded half-witted, and he had no idea how he'd managed to leave. Annette was alive. It had been the melody and harmony of his life for almost a month now. Annette was alive. The very noise of the train seemed to sing the words. Then there had been lunch and it had been with a distinct pang that Rory had recognised the stiff little man who'd been with Annette for the first couple of minutes. Dead or alive it seemed that James Darcy had staked his claim clearly and was ensuring its safety. Did Darcy become overset, distracted and frightened in the vicinity of Annette? A good thing they were going to Baghdad. It had been bad enough when he'd been engaged to her, but to be so totally overset by someone who could never be his was more than could possibly be born.
"You've been rather distracted of late." Thomas abruptly sat up and began scribbling on his block. "Care to talk about it?"
"Not particularly." Rory glanced over at the block and had no difficulty in recognising the interior corner of a train with a slumped and rather moody looking occupant on the seat. "Just. I thought someone dead and they're not. They're now someone else's property and yet they effect me as badly, if not worse, than ever."
"Lesson number one." Thomas finished the rough sketch and handed it across to Rory. "No woman is ever any man's property. She may be dependent on you for support, but she remains an entity with a mind of her own. No human is ever owned unless they choose to allow another power over their mind."
"Is this meant to be me?" Rory didn't particularly like what he saw in the picture, but it seemed to be wearing his clothes and hairstyle.
"Ooh, a sharp observer this one." Thomas gave a yawn.
"Do I really look like that?" Rory eyed the slumped shoulders and tense expression with distaste. Tight and nasty, defeated and on the defensive, a very nasty specimen who looked like he could bite mouthfuls out of tin.
"Some of the time." Thomas gave another yawn and took the block back. "To change the subject. Who can we get apples from in Baghdad?"
"I doubt we can buy them, but there is the possibility of getting them brought in." Rory scratched his neck and frowned slightly as his mind got busy on the question. Who could they get apples from in Baghdad?
"Just to disturb your mental upheavals on the subject of apples, which I do want because I'm tired of soft fruit." Thomas tore two pages from his block and dropped them onto Rory's bag, then he turned over on his seat and closed his eyes again. Thomas was finished with talking and clearly ready for sleep. It never ceased to amaze Rory that Thomas could wake instantly from sleep, draw any number of pictures and then drop straight back to sleep again... waking him in the morning was a totally different affair. Apples in Baghdad. Rory picked up the pages and glanced at them. The first was the old one, as slumped and nasty as ever. Was that really how people saw him? The second one was quite similar, and yet very different. The shoulders were hunched instead of slumped, the face concentrated and intent. No defeat in the second face, though it certainly wasn't a face to write home about. Apples in Baghdad.
It was rather distractedly that Rory bundled himself and Thomas off the train at the appropriate stop. Except it turned out to be the inappropriate stop and called for an extra leg by six wheeler to catch the train again. The six wheeler was actually waiting on this occasion and Rory quickly bundled himself and Thomas into it. More hot sun, they were bogged for two hours on one occasion and dug themselves out on three other occasions. Apples in Baghdad. The seats were like iron. Funny how a nine hundred mile walk made you appreciate even the roughest of mechanical transportation. Apples in Baghdad and how Annie would laugh if she knew he was sitting in a rusty six wheeler trying to figure out how to get apples in Baghdad when he'd barely enough money to get the two of them accommodation for the night. Thomas had neglected to collect his pay before they departed, he'd instead got a fascinating drawing of some street Arabs playing on the road and preventing the passage of a tank. They'd caught the train again at Al Jumaymah and were now bound for Al Quatif.
Another wait at another halt, not a long one, and then Al Quatif. There was also yet another sketch on Thomas' block when they finally reached Al Quatif. Rory glanced at the sketch and drew his brows together rather sharply for it seemed to be yet another sketch of himself. Inside the six wheeler this time and different from the others. Rory did not recall Thomas stirring even once during that leg of the journey, and yet his sketch block indicated otherwise. Rory hesitated and then abruptly went in search of someone who might be able to answer the question of when a train would arrive. He must learn Arabic if he was to make any headway with these people.
"Ten minutes!" The uniform which came stalking around the halt was alien to Rory and he paused to watch it. "Ten minutes to say he wasn't the person I needed to speak to."
"Could have told you that, Old Boy." The English Officer who was apparently escorting the alien uniform had propped his jacket on a couple of sticks and was reclining in the resultant shade. "The train will come when it comes and they couldn't care if it came in five minutes or five months time. Knew a chap at school who was around these parts a fair bit and he had an absolute screamer of a story of some old Arab who was walking to Baghdad from Basrah. The Arab said it would take about two months to the one who enquired. The enquirer said he could get the Arab there in two days. 'No thanks, two months will be soon enough.' Do sit down, the train will come soon enough and you're wasting water."
"He's walking around." The alien waved at Rory with an aggravated hand.
"He is one, very intelligently clothed for this climate unlike ourselves, and two, carries a decidedly large and full water bottle which he no doubt knows how to use."
"Are you using this direct route to Baghdad?" Rory had hesitated about talking to the men, but the introduction of his person he decided was sufficient invitation.
"Yes." The Officer pushed a sleeve out of the way and looked at Rory thoughtfully. "Been out in these parts long?"
"No." Rory settled on one heel and took a mouthful of water. "I'm only a couple of months back from Burma."
"Lord." The Officer straightened. "I heard things were pretty grim out there."
"Pretty grim, but the Nips seem to have been halted on the frontier."
"A relief." The Officer settled back. "This is Grant Hughes of the United States Marines and he is rather impatient with our inefficiency."
"I completely fail to see why a railroad has not been laid between the Suez and Baghdad. It would greatly improve the communications."
"Our communications are fine." The officer rolled his eyes at Rory.
"We've been travelling for two day already."
"There is a more direct route." Rory squinted into the distant sunlight where there seemed to be a bit of a disturbance. "That is restricted for military emergencies and military personnel... or pretty women, and takes only about six days." Rory shook his head and squinted again. "Only coming from Damascus?"
"We were flown from Tripoli, where the landings were, first to Malta to drop some supplies and then to Haifa. Seen something?"
"There seems to be a disturbance, but I doubt it will get us to Baghdad." Rory rubbed his eyes gently.
"This more direct route." The American was persistent and Rory frowned slightly.
"There are two more direct routes. The first is by air and restricted to those of the Brigadier rank or higher... also King's Messengers. The other is six wheeler and goes straight across."
"Why do no tracks go through?"
"No idea, but probably something to do with the sand."
"I would have requested a jeep if I had known it was going to be so impossible."
"You were going to drive it?" Rory realised with some shock that he had lost patience with this whinging yank and his oppressive manner.
"Yes."
"Compass?"
"I carry one anyway."
"Oh dear." Rory found his irritation fading into pure amusement. "Just going to drive to Baghdad with your standard issue compass."
"Is there a problem?"
"No." Rory rubbed his chin and winced at the bristles he felt. "Just that your average prismatic compass has an error of some four hundred yards over twenty miles."
"And?" The Marine looked more than a little impatient. "You can see that sort of error and correct for it. Just talk, that's what you are, lazy and totally useless and... "
"Over four hundred miles that becomes an error of five miles. It is approximately eight hundred miles from here to Baghdad, gives an error in the region of ten miles... you don't get that sort of visibility around this part of that world. That is, of course, assuming that you manage to stay on the road and also manage to dig yourself out when you become bogged."
"How do you know that?" The Officer had straightened with a slight frown.
"LRDG Navigator gave me a lecture on the subject when I asked the importance of theodolites."
"Ah." The Officer subsided under his jacket again.
"What happens from here?" The Marine had twitched restlessly before conceding and retiring his idea of driving himself across.
"We wait until the train arrives. We catch the train. We return to the junction and catch the train to Kirkuk. We descend at Rutba and then kick our heels until we successfully thumb a lift from a passing six wheeler." Rory gave a slightly malicious grin.
"You consider that good communications?"
"Oh, that's not the path used by communications."
"Then why am I here?!"
"Possibly because you are not a communication, least of all an urgent communication." The Officer glanced out from under his coat. "You were told the two paths of communication... everything else has to find its own way." The Officer disappeared again, but reappeared immediately. "I think the Officer is attempting to attract your attention."
"Thanks." Rory had just noted Mallern as the officer spoke and flicking a brief wave of farewell, Rory retreated.
"Not being very nice to that Yank."
"He was complaining about the transport." Rory dropped onto the rickety seat and inspected Mallern's sketch of the rail terminus, complete with the sleeping porter.
"Ah, yes." Mallern twitched a faint smile. "They always know best about things like transport. Let it go and tell me you can arrange apples."
"I think I can ... but I think you'll have to wait about a week for them." Rory leant back with a sigh. "You're apparently awake so you can wake me when the train arrives."
"Mm." Mallern was already working on another sketch. Rory couldn't believe how tired he felt.