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Part 49

Posted on Saturday, 28 January 2006

December 24th 1942 - Weybridge, England

Logic has no place here, it is the principle of the matter which concerns us.

"Hullo." The door bounced back from the wall where it had been thrown and was only just prevented by a quick hand from impacting on a face.

"Someday you are not going to catch the door in your hand." Mac pushed himself up against his pillows to eye Pyro somewhat sceptically.

"Meaning I'll catch it in the face?" Pyro dropped heavily onto the foot of the bed with a sigh. "Not a chance old frog."

"The Doc doesn't believe I lost this finger to a tin opener." Mac extended his right hand with its long absent finger.

"That's because he probably couldn't even imagine such a filthy tin opener." Pyro rubbed his face with a rather grubby rag. "Probably couldn't imagine such a grubby rag as that which was called a dressing for that cut."

"Ye-es." Mac pushed himself more upright. "It also didn't help that I then had the finger shattered by a bullet. What brings you here?"

"Oh, the words of a sweet little bird."

"A sweet little bird?" Mac couldn't have looked more unimpressed if he had tried.

"Mm. Has the first name of Lucille and the last name of O'Niell and she seemed to think that you were arriving by train in Cambridgeshire late this afternoon."

"Uh." Mac frowned.

"She seems to think she has to keep it secret from everyone ... and hence she will not make your bed until after your arrival. She mentioned it to me because she seemed to be having difficulty arranging for you to be collected ... not wanting to send the Butler and not being able to go herself."

"Ah." Mac relaxed, but the frown remained. "If you are collecting me from the train this afternoon ... why are you here now?"

"Because I had a better idea and it needs you."

"Me?" Mac carefully closed his mouth. "Pyro, I still can't walk."

"You can kick the rudder pedals can't you?"

"And?" Mac's expression settled for the simply suspicious.

"Ashie, as you're well aware, had what is best called a museum of aeroplanes scattered across this country. I've been collecting them for the museum they were left to."

"And?"

"There's one left ... well two, but the other's not an issue." Pyro paused. "It's a Bristol and I can't fly it."

"Why not?" Mac frowned.

"Because it's that monstrosity you were flying at the end of the last war, still set up for you and I can't fly it."

"Oh." Mac carefully closed his mouth, come to think of it he wasn't certain if he could fly that Bristol even if he wasn't still a wreck.

"Now, be a sport, see if you can get it off the ground with me as your observer."

"Well..." Mac hesitated and then shrugged. "None of their business how I get to Cambridgeshire. Is it still armed?"

"Yes." Pyro paused. "Original guns though."

"Well, we're sunk if caught anyway so we might as well be slaughtered for a goose." Mac pushed his bedding aside, waved his toes and slid his feet over the edge. "Voila." Mac dragged himself awkwardly back onto the bed. "I still can't walk. Wheelchair is in the corner. Fetch it please."

"Certainly." Pyro fetched the contraption and watched as Mac tipped himself into it.

"Far from elegant, but it does the job without nurses." Mac paused to catch his breath and then spun the chair around and headed for the door.

"Aren't you going to notify anyone of your departure?"

"No point." Mac paused before punching the lift to take them down. "They've heard the elevator and they know I'm not stupid."

"Just think you are."

"This Bristol got secondary controls?"

"Yes." Pyro glanced around the front hall as Mac shot through and out onto the drive.

"Where is it?"

"Rosings currently." Pyro waved the long dark car forward to pick them up.

"Miss de Bourgh Darcy there?"

"Juliette arranged for it to come from where ever it was stored." Pyro helped the driver bundle the wheelchair into the back before joining Mac in the backseat.

"Think she can get my chair chucked on a train up there?"

"She'll bring it herself." Pyro leant back to glance at the hospital. "The whole lot are collecting for Christmas Dinner I believe. Have you been past these gates at all since April odd?"

"Once ... twice ... three times." Mac considered the matter carefully as he counted. "Hope took me out once in the first week. Nemo was proving resistant to moving. Second time I called a taxi when I could use my arms and took off for an ice cream in town. The Doctors had a fit. Third time I toddled across to Tangmere Ops and had a chat. Was stuck in bed for two weeks after that ... the doctors wouldn't talk to me."

"Well, settle back." Pyro leant back as he spoke. "It'll be an hour at the quickest before there's anything to do."

"Good oh." Mac closed his eyes and was very definitely asleep a couple of minutes later.

"I do appologise Mrs. McKenna." Dr Adams wiped his brow and glanced out the window. "I'm afraid Mr. McKenna departed significantly earlier than anyone expected."

"Well, if he arrives by train this afternoon you may rest assured that you won't have to worry about him returning." Hope glowered at the wall for a longish moment. "I'll kill him myself."

"Yes, Mrs. McKenna." Adams replaced the receiver with some relief, but he couldn't help wondering where the errant McKenna had got to. It was hours before the train departed and McKenna was anything but a sociable bird in desperate need of anyone's society.

"All safely here." Pyro practically fell out of the car before scrambling round to help the driver with the wheelchair. Mac did fall out of the car, he picked up the edge of the chair and descended into an inelegant heap on the gravel.

"Uh-huh?" Mac grabbed an offered hand and was soon installed in the wheelchair. "Let's see this Bristol. I don't trust Ashie for servicing that bird."

"Well, I'm leaving you there by yourself ... so don't fall on your face." Pyro shoved the chair out across the formal gardens of Rosings, around to the back and out a small gate into what was probably a hayfield during the spring. The grass was almost as short as the grass in the formal gardens and the Bristol was hunkering in the cover of an old shed.

"Thanks." Mac swung himself up onto the Bristol, his hand automatically reaching back for the spanners he needed.

"They're in the cockpit."

"Ah." Mac grabbed the small canvas bag out of a pocket and set to work on the engine cowling. Pyro watched for a couple of moments, then turned and drifted out into the field. In the stables behind the house a Sopwith Camel was still in storage and to date Pyro hadn't even managed to get into the area where it was housed, let alone actually begin the work so that it was operational.

"Hullo?" Mac edged his way carefully into the gutted stable.

"Mm." The grunt came from somewhere to the left. Mac wheeled himself carefully in the direction of the sound and he froze as he came into the second and inner part of the stable.

"Is that...?" Mac stopped and carefully closed his mouth as he edged around to see the side of the Camel's fuselage. The ugly, jagged tear still marred the plywood. Smeary marks showed where the wood's integrity had been compromised and the damage concealed by putty.

"Yeah." Pyro appeared on top of the wing and rubbed his face. "I didn't know he had this until I was making the inventory of the museum."

"How'd he get it?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." Pyro swung his feet off the edge and dropped to the floor before checking his watch. "I'm guessing the Major had something to do with it."

"Possibly a sound guess." Mac moved back towards the door. "Lunch time."

"Good." Pyro brushed his hands on his trousers and took control of the wheelchair.

"Does he have the other two?" Mac pulled his hand off the arm just before Pyro slammed the arm into the door frame.

"Yes ... well, no." Pyro managed to get the wheelchair out of the stables. "Ashie's own is the mail plane at Glendevie. Mine is...somewhere else."

"Ah." Mac glanced back over his shoulder at the stables. "Do you think Florrie knew it was saved?"

"Who knows." Pyro pushed the wheelchair across to the main doors. "How's the Bristol?"

"Not bad." Mac rubbed his nose. "I think you've had some major work done on it."

"I had to get it at least partly working if only so I knew that I couldn't fly it." Pyro hauled the wheelchair up the stairs and into the house. "It's a beast to start."

"You clearly don't know the trick." Mac nodded out a side window which showed the shed in the field, it was empty.

"How the..." Pyro frowned out the window.

"Trade secret, can't expect me to betray that."

"Oh, shut it." Pyro got the chair moving again and they finally reached the main kitchen where a reasonable meal was spread out and Juliette was working on a sandwich while arguing with the driver from earlier. The subject seemed to concern apples, but neither Mac nor Pyro wished to enquire for further information.

"Feed yourselves and leave when you want to...just go before five and leave the chair where we can find it." Juliette looked up briefly and then resumed the arguement as if she had never broken in on it.

"I think we can fly in an hour if we've kit and I can take it for a brief run to verify that I can control it." Mac nibbled on a couple pieces of lettuce.

"Good." Pyro grabbed food for himself and then pushed Mac back out of the kitchen and around to the field. The Bristol stood in the far corner, its nose to the wind and ready to fly.

"Let's test, then get kit." Mac was already pulling himself up into the cockpit.

"Sounds good." Pyro shifted the wheelchair away, and took the prop.

"Switches on." Mac had been fiddling in the cockpit for a moment before he made the call.

"Switches on." Pyro confirmed it, the old drill bringing a faint smile to his face.

"Suck in." Mac's expression was intent.

"Suck in." Pyro wound the prop around carefully, listening to that once very familiar sound of fuel gurgling into cylinders.

"Contact."

"Contact." Pyro poised the prop and then hesitated as his mind realised he was almost sixty and preparing to spin twenty kilos of prop.

"Thanks." Mac gave a small nod and Pyro responded with a twisted grin before risking his back. The prop spun, the ignition flamed and roared. Pyro skipped aside and swung up into the observer's cockpit.

The Bristol nosed cautiously forward, roared and then lunged across the field, gaining speed before flinging itself up into the air. It seemed to be limping and Pyro would have been worried except that Mac clearly wasn't. The Bristol wheeled and heeled, swinging around in gracious arcs over the field before finally lowering cautiously down to touch the grass again and come to a halt near the shed. Mac swung it around once more and trundled down to the far end of the field before bringing it to a halt and killing the engine.

"I'll get the kit and be back." Pyro slid down to the ground and raced the wheelchair away. Mac fiddled with a couple of nobs and hoped Pyro would remember to steal a couple more sandwiches or something, they were going to need them before they hit Cambridgeshire ... provided they didn't come down somewhere short of the target.

"Here ... Kit." Pyro flung an armload of leather up which sorted out into gauntlets, boots, jacket and helmet.

"Goggles?"

"Thought that was enough to start with." Pyro was rapidly pulling stuff on himself. "I can't believe we used to wear this every day." Pyro cursed as he lost a boot and went hopping after it.

"You've been spoilt." Mac had managed to get everything on and was waving a hand around for his goggles. Pyro handed them over as he scrambled up.

"For that I'll keep the chocolate Juliette donated to our worthy cause."

"Don't even dream of it." Mac extended a hand for his share of the chocolate.

"Well, don't crash me." Pyro handed over a lump of paper about the size of a fist. A good supply of chocolate.

"Confound it!" Lucille flung the letter aside and after a moment threw a large tome and a paper-weight after it.

"I see." Brian calmly abstracted the paper-weight from the wall, then retrieved the book and tidied up its covers.

"I'm annoyed!" Lucille sat up with a distinct light of annoyance in her eyes.

"Really?" Brian restored the book to the bookshelf and the paper-weight to the writing desk. "I hadn't noticed."

"Brian." Lucille glared at him and then stuck out her tongue.

"You can't do that." Brian shook his head doubtfully. "You're seventeen now."

"I can too!"

"Well, don't ... later. Mrs. Mac will be here in a state which must be little short of the murderous."

"Why?" Lucille looked up sharply.

"Mac." Brian wriggled his jaw before clunking his teeth together sharply. "She called the hospital so they'd sedate him before he caught the train. A very good way to stop him from coming."

"What happened?"

"That we still don't know." Brian dropped into a nearby chair with a sigh. "He bolted in the morning before the docs shot him and he's been invisible ever since. One assumes he'll arrive at some point."

"I would have thought she'd murder him out of hand." Lucille tilted her head thoughtfully.

"She's sworn to do that if he comes by train ... I think Pyro's gone to grab him in person." Brian gave a shrug. "Since she's stated she'll murder him when he gets off the train, she can't murder him if he comes by car."

"Mm." Lucille opened her mouth, then closed it and scowled at the scrunched sheet of paper in the corner.

"So ... weather warning issued, what required confounding?"

"Annie." Lucille scratched her head and gave a sigh. "She's impossible. Rory sells her to the press and yet she's not only civil when she next meets him ... she's probably going to marry him before a year is out."

"How the heck can you deduce that?" Brian had retrieved the letter and spent a couple of moments scowling at it himself.

"I know Annie." Lucille tucked her legs up. "She's still interested in him...very interested in him."

"All she asks is what happened to him in Burma ... simple enough."

"But why does she care what happened to him in Burma? She didn't give two hoots about Mac quitting flying. She wasn't interested in Jeroen's abrupt change of squadron and neither did she ask why Annie-Bug had to change sections in the ATS. I mean she is interested, but the most basic outline will be sufficient for her to fill in the gaps and she's satisfied. There's no point saying it's because she already knew because that's the most awful garbage. You'll see, if I send anything except a highly detailed account of the whole situation she'll telegraph for the details. She's in love with him and I'll bet you nearly anything that she marries him within a year."

"Does that bother you?"

"N-yes." Lucille grimaced at her own uncertainty. "I..."

"You don't trust him?" It really wasn't a question as Brian phrased it.

"No." Lucille sighed and dug the heels her hands into her eyes. "I've known him all my life, and yet..."

"You remember the letter Annie sent you after the mud settled?"

"Err." Lucille abruptly nibbled on her finger. That letter from Annette had almost given Lucille hysterics, it had seemed so pompous and out-dated that Lucille really couldn't help but laugh until the tears poured. If she hadn't laughed she would probably never have spoken to her sister again.

"Live and let live ... your sister's actually a pretty hardy citizen who can actually look after herself."

"I should be happy." Lucille looked anything but. "She'll never get too buried alive from life ... she daren't with him to rescue from whatever new form of idiocy takes his fancy each week." There was a brief pause and then Lucille started to her feet. "What the...?" A dull buzzing rumble seemed to fill the air.

"A Bristol?" Brian had shoved his head out the window and almost broken his neck attempting to find the aeroplane overhead.

"A what?"

"A Bristol." Brian grabbed Lucille and dragged her out into the gardens and around to the back. The elderly, canvas clad aircraft seemed to be travelling too slow to fly.

"Oh." Lucille settled on the edge of the field and then waved her hand out across the dusty path where the planes landed. "What are those?"

"Dust devils ... means there's a bit of cross-wind." Brian settled into a half-crouch and frowned at the Bristol which was already lining up over the trees at the far end of the field. "I'm worried as to who is flying that museum piece."

"Why?"

"Tricky wind, high trees, short field and an aeroplane which probably hasn't been flown in twenty years."

"Oh." Lucille settled and watched as the Bristol seemed to virtually stop over the trees.

"NEMO!" It was James' voice which came simultaneously as the huge dog came crashing through the hedge. "Nemo!"

"No." Lucille managed to catch the boy just before he tore out onto the field.

"But Nemo..."

"Should be dead if he can't avoid an aeroplane." Brian had taken over holding James' shoulder, much to Lucille's relief. The boy was actually becoming too strong for her to hold him. Nemo was tearing around the sheds and along the side of the runway towards the trees, barking his head off.

The dust devils caused Mac to frown as he lined up the runway. He really didn't feel in the need for anything but a nice head wind today.

"If that dog of yours has pinched chow you won't hear the last of it." Paige's voice was only sort of audible over the roar of the engines. Mac gave a grim smile as he lined up the over-tall trees and prepared to come down.

"You just count on him covering up your sins." Mac rubbed his shoulder gingerly where a bullet had torn his jacket. It seemed not to have penetrated to the skin, but it stung a trifle.

"Cook's on the tarmac."

"Shut up." Mac frowned, if the cook was out Nero had definitely made at least an attempt on the food.

"Also Garry." Paige had picked up Major Gareshot the C.O. and not a normal associate of the cook.

"I'll crash you!"

"What, and bend the kite? I'd like to see you try."

"Well I might as well jump out now." Mac had noted something which had escaped Paige to date. Behind the cook stood a barrel with split staves. Nero had not only foraged for extra food, but he had clearly been successful.

"Land." Paige twisted around to speak. "I need to report."

"Right." Mac put his nose down and practically dove into the ground, coming up just in to time to avoid crashing and the undercarriage groaned with the strain. The Bristol taxied quickly to the hangers and Mac ignored the babble of voices which was audible over the engine. Paige and Garry could deal with the cook and the others, he wasn't having lunch anyway and it wasn't like he hadn't warned the cook not to leave the food barrels out in the open.

The crowd moved away as Mac ignored them and began inspecting the rents in his empennage. Nero nudged his knee and he scratched the head abstractly as he pushed a finger into one of the tears. The doped canvas was rough and sharp edged, scraping against his skin and proving that it would need a patch. That was an out and out bullet hole which could not be sewn shut.

Nero nudged Mac's knee again. Mac again scratched the rough head as he twisted around to inspect the underside of his Bristol. Some considered it work for the ack-emmas, but Mac had learnt from Colonel Thomlin and one thing he'd never forget was that he needed to satisfy himself as to the airworthiness of his machine.

"It's a nasty one." Mac fingered a couple of long gouges in the plywood, no real damage except to the paint and varnish. "Glad we finished him, Nero." Mac returned his attention to the empennage. Nero rubbed his nose against the hand which had stilled in its kindness. "Oh." Mac resumed scratching as he tallied up the number and size of patches he would require on the tail. Not a bad day, only a couple of holes and the Jerries had lost an aeroplane.

"Mac." It was Major Gareshot who appeared next to the wing tip.

"Afternoon, sir." Mac scribbled his calculations on his kneepad before fully turning his attention to the Major.

"If Nero doesn't stop raiding the food you'll soon find yourself paying us to let you fly."

"I was aware of that." Mac had already seen his pay packet more than halved because of Nero's foraging.

"We can't just accept it, the men will have a fit."

"Equally you're not happy docking me of pay I never get."

"Something like that." Garry leant against the wing. "Any suggestions?"

"Leave?"

"You never take it ... but that's irrelevant." Garry nodded. "We're docking two days leave for the past fortnight's losses."

"Very good sir." Mac had nodded and then turned back to the Bristol. The two days leave was no loss, he'd merely have to stay at the aerodrome instead of possibly managing to run down to Paris. No worry there, he wasn't overly fond of Paris. A couple peaceful days with Nero in the next field would do much more for his nerves than a hustled trip to Paris. Mac scratched Nero's ears as he began investigating his wings. The inspection was soon done and Mac handed it over to the mechanics to check before strolling away with Nero towards the boundary hedge. It was a lovely day for throwing sticks and forgetting that twenty miles away was a beastly and bloody war. Nero was a faithful reminder of a sane world and well worth the food he stole. Mac scratched Nero's head again as he came within reach.

"MAC!" Out of nowhere something struck Mac on the side of the head and with a stunned blink he realised that he was not across the water and he was not walking towards the boundary hedge. He was still some thirty feet off the ground and seemingly intent on crashing into the trees at the far end of the runway. Mac grimaced and quickly wheeled the Bristol around. They only just cleared the trees at the far end as it was.

"Sorry." Mac knew Pyro wouldn't hear him, but he had to say it. The Bristol lined up again and came down easily and smoothly, taxied across to the sheds and then actually fell silent when Mac cut the switches.

"Hullo." It was Brian who appeared first and Mac gave a slight smile as he recognised the signs of draining tension. Brian was no fool and he had known something had gone wrong on that first attempt at landing.

"A little inattention." Mac pulled himself up so he sat on the fuselage. "How are you?"

"None to bad." Brian gave a slow nod of understanding before he was joined by Lucille who was with difficulty restraining a sobbing boy.

"Hullo Marmelade." Mac hesitated and then carefully lowered himself to the ground. For a miracle his feet held his weight and he gave Marmelade a brief hug before he leant backwards and carefully sat on an old wheelchock he noticed half hidden in the grass. Marmelade immediately settled on the ground and attached himself to one of Mac's legs.

"It was Nemo..." They were the only intelligible words Mac managed to decipher and he looked around rather curiously for the Alsatian. Nemo was almost under the wing and clearly intent on jumping.

"Nemo!" A curt word and Mac was relieved to see Nemo skid to a halt. "Heel." Nemo came as close to heel as possible, shoved a wet nose into Mac's ear, gave him a lick and then sat without being instructed to.

"That must be a relief." Pyro slid down from the Bristol and moved forwards shake hands with Brian. "Wasn't my original intention...but fate had other plans."

"I suspect he'll be thankful as well." Brian gave a crooked smile.

"Ellis McKenna, if I wasn't so relieved to find that you were alive..." Hope's expression was dark as she stalked over the grass. "I assume it was Pyro's idea of fun to fly you here!"

"No." Mac pushed to his feet, failed to find them and was only just caught in time before he pitched headfirst into the grass. Brian soon handed the load across to Hope and she was frowning at Pyro.

"What does he mean by no?"

"He means that Pyro didn't fly him up." Mac straightened himself up and took what little of his weight that he could carry off Hope. "I'm tired, not unconscious. I flew us because no one else can fly that old Bristol."

"What..." Hope half turned.

"We'll have this arguement later." Mac shifted again. "Sorry to impose Brian, but I really do need to find somewhere to rest before I make myself bedfast again."

"Luce has already gone to make beds." Brian took Mac by one arm then lifted him and simply carried him into the house. "I'll be back to help with the Bristol when I've settled him."

"Don't bother." Hope's voice carried easily. "It'll be fun putting this thing to bed."

"Don't worry." Mac had felt Brian hesitate in his stride. "Hope's thinking of aeroplanes now, not about being cross. She'll be fine until she comes up tonight ... at which point she'll ring a peal over me and call me all kinds of idiot."

"Why stand for it?"

"Because she's right." Mac ducked his head to avoid the top of the door. "Flying an ancient Bristol up at this point in time and in my condition is not sensible. It was great fun though."

"What happened at the landing?"

"Nothing." Mac ducked his head again. "Just forgot it wasn't twenty odd years ago and my memory landed before the Bristol did."

"Oh." Brian carefully lowered Mac onto the newly made bed. "Do you want Nelli?"

"No thanks." Mac waved the younger man off. "I won't have anything to eat either, though a glass of water would be nice."

"Right." Brian moved away to arrange water while Mac arranged himself in the bed. "This dog...?"

"Nem." Mac snapped his fingers from the side of the bed. Nemo bounded into the room, checked and then settled down next to the bed with a loud huff.

"That dog has definitely not forgotten you." Brian shook his head in silent amazement, then rolled his eyes for Mac was already asleep one hand draped over the edge to rest on Nemo's nose. The number of photographs Brian had seen of Mac doing exactly the same thing with another dog was beyond count. What was the magic between this man and his dogs?

December 1942 - Kabrit, Canal Zone

Strange friends are found in strange places.

Lieutenant Alistair Bennet had accepted his commission reluctantly. There were certain joys about being a private which far outweighed the perks of being a Lieutenant. In the past month Alistair had become accustomed to his change in rank and his change in duties. Now, if Alistair could change anything, he would change the fact that he'd literally had a pistol held to his head to accept the commission. Having arrived in the middle of the night, exchanged a few rude words with the sentry and crashed into a spare tent Alistair wasn't really certain if it was even known that he was back in camp yet. Alistair hadn't seen Sergeant Jessop since that day and he was mildly concerned that the incident would mar what had been a reasonable friendship.

"BENNET!" The roar echoed through the camp and answered almost all of Alistair's questions. His presence was known of and Sergeant Jessop was incoming. Alistair kicked out of his bed and shoved his head out of the tent and into the blinding blaze of the middle of the day.

"What?" Alistair squinted as Jessop came stomping up.

"Hair-faced ______." Jessop dropped with a thump onto the sand. "What possessed you to think that you could sneak in at ungodly hours without mama getting concerned?"

"Dunno." Alistair retrieved his hat and then wriggled out of the tent altogether. "Possibly the fact that 'mama' pulled a gun on me and swore all manner of horrible things if I didn't get myself killed."

"Rubbish, that's just what the Hun'll do if you don't get nobbled." Jessop stretched. "Still doesn't explain your time of arrival."

"Well, I wasn't in the mood to walk any faster and that's how long it took."

"No wonder our truck couldn't find you when it met the train." Jessop gave an abrupt yawn.

"I also missed that particular train." Bennet gave an appologetic grin before stretching his arms out and yawning. "Anything been happening back here?"

"A couple of busted arms because the idiots didn't do as they were told, but otherwise we've a batch of newbies just itching to get out there and blow up some aircraft."

"We spent more time machine-gunning the road and blowing up fuel stocks in the last bit. I'm apparently here to relieve you of all the newbies as soon as the Colonel comes through on the radio."

"He came through last night. Get the newbies to Cairo, he'll contact you there and give you the rendezvous."

"Wonderful." Alistair yawned again and then jacked up onto his feet. "Anything else?"

"They need more stores ... to be got in Cairo from Q. Also there's a naval type been getting underfoot for the week who'll travel with you as far as Cairo, and if favourable he'll continue with you as far as Alex. Obviously if you're going through the Depression he'll make his own way from Cairo to Alex."

"What's a salt doing here?"

"Malta Convoy, apparently he fell off the bridge and rescued by a fishing boat." Jessop waved a hand at the strange uniform which was clearly approaching. "As you can see for yourself, he doesn't appear the careless sort and so I've no doubt there's a real yarn behind how he fell off the bridge. Most of us suspect he was either blown off, or swept off when the boat was sinking."

"Hoppy!" Alistair had abruptly recognised the approaching naval type.

"Might have known it would be you." Captain Michael Hopgood shook his head slightly as he spoke and then shook hands with Alistair. "This thug tells me you'll see me safely to Cairo."

"If you're lucky we'll get you safely to Alex. What idiocy caused you to fall off the bridge?"

"Oh, just a slight matter of the fact that the water was around my waist and a slightly larger wave came past. Nothing else to do except swim for it, we'd been running decoy because of a sub and the sub shot us. I think nearly everyone else got into boats and was picked up, but I was a stubborn twit who stuck to my bridge and correspondingly had to swim for it."

"How nasty of them. Getting another ship in Alex?"

"More likely a ticket back to ye olde fashioned home." Hoppy gave a shrug. "If I'm lucky they might give me another ship, but since we are plum full of patrols and hours and all the rest of it they'll probably shove me behind a desk for at least a couple of days."

"Well, enjoy your foray into the desert. If all goes well you'll be in Cairo within the next week or so."

"Good-oh." Hoppy nodded and drifted away again.

"That's a good officer that one." Jessop gazed after the retreating back thoughtfully. "Knows when he's not wanted and gets out of the way. You're wanted up at HQ tent for various reasons not mentioned to my unimportant little self. Before you go though, why are you so friendly with a salt?"

"My cousin was in active service in the Navy between '36 and '39, the Navy then got a bit stroppy over something or other and he was given a desk job. Hoppy was his commander on his first, and only surface vessel."

"Two years and only one ship?"

"He changed to the submarine service and did some good work in testing and training."

"That explains how you know this Hoppy, but it doesn't say why you're so friendly."

"My cousin never forgets anyone he likes .. and he liked Hoppy. Spend a couple of evenings with someone like Hoppy and you really have to be friends."

"True." Jessop pushed to his feet. "Seems that business calls us."

"True."

"Come damage your reputation by drinking with the boys if you have half a chance before bolting for Cairo. We'd kill for some good news."

"You'd kill for a lot less too." Alistair gave a grin, a nod and then moved off towards the tent which served as headquarters in the camp. In the year and several months Alistair had worked in the SAS it had grown from a unit of sixty men and six officers to two Regiments and Alistair had a fairly strong feeling that Stirling was gunning for Brigade Status for his brain child. The training camp had grown to fit the requirements of the SAS with its ever increasing status, but those survivors of the early days would probably always remember the little camp they'd begun as...a little camp which only had tents because they'd stolen them from the New Zealanders. However time was a-wasting and Stirling would never forgive him if he was late getting those new men to Cairo, he was late starting as it was and there was no saying what hiccups would interfere during the transfer. Hopefully they'd have some time to kill in Cairo instead of having to charge straight out into the desert. Chances were slim though for the battle front was now quite a considerable distance from Cairo and it would be a good couple of days driving to get everything out there, let alone find the rendezvous, the new wadi and be issued instructions for the next attack. Ah, to be a private who only had to do as he was told.

Part 50

Posted on Saturday, 4 February 2006

January 7th 1943 - Cairo, Egypt

The real test in golf and life is not keeping out of the rough, but in getting out after we're in. - anonymous

"Hullo." There had been a very long silence between Annette's arrival in the doorway and Rory's acknowledgement of her standing there. Annette had not spoken, simply stood there, waiting.

"Hullo." Annette moved from the door and carefully sat on the visitor's chair. The constraint was almost tangible today and Annette very nearly left instead of sitting down.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Rory pushed himself up against the head of his bed. It wasn't really a query, and yet he definitely wanted an answer.

"Yes." Annette hesitated a long moment before she responded.

"Thanks." Rory pushed the hair off his face, aware that this last bout of malaria had left him abominably weak. "You didn't seem quite..."

"Like a delirious nightmare?" Annette finished the sentence with a twisted grin. "Kind of you, old friend. Kind of you."

"Yes, that's rather what I thought." Rory gave a small smile, he was tiring rapidly. "Thanks. Thanks for coming and thanks for letting me know it really was you. Nice to know what isn't mind distortions." Rory realised that at some point he had taken Annette's hand, and he had no idea what to do with it. It was a very nice hand in his opinion and it fitted very comfortably in his own hand. Rory blinked and continue to stare at the linked hands.

"I'll come again if I can get the time." Annette gave Rory's hand a quick squeeze and then was gone. Rory continued to stare at his now empty hand for a good couple of minutes, and then with a sigh he pushed himself down under the cover and closed his eyes. At the present moment it seemed impossible that he'd ever be strong enough to leave his bed, though by experience he knew he'd be out of bed for at least part of tomorrow.

Rory had slept for perhaps an hour before his mind began waking up again. Rory was quite accustomed to the odd phenomenon of his mind going active long before his body did. At school Rory had in fact perfected the technique whereby his physical body was soundly asleep but his brain and ears were wide awake. Nothing seemed to scare the masters more than a student who they were willing to swear had slept soundly through the class reeling off the theoretical component of the class after some not too distant interval of time. In this particular case Rory himself was very reluctant to wake up, mentally or otherwise, but his mind had other ideas. His mind was milling restlessly, churning up memory and thought, munching and mashing them all and then inspecting the result. His mind had done this before when he was recuperating in Burma and Rory had some nasty suspicions about what lay ahead. There was something inevitable and inescapable when his mind began behaving like this. When his mind began churning like this Rory knew that nothing would stop it until it had done what it wanted to do. All he could do was wait for it to finish.

Rory poked at his dinner. He wasn't hungry. He hadn't been hungry even before his mind went to work, but he was less hungry now. Rory chased a sad looking bean around on the plate and wondered what he could do with it to conceal that he hadn't eaten it.

"The name is Bennet and if you don't want that bean I want it." The announcement caused Rory to look up and his jaw dropped. The man in the doorway had a wide grin, a truly formidable beard and the weathering obtained only by many, many years in the sun.

"Sorry?"

"Your bean." The man pointed. "If you don't want it, I'll have it since I'm ravishingly hungry. The other matter was the fact that my name is Bennet...which will only mean something if this is my really, really lucky day."

"I'm not acquainted with any Bennets."

"Clearly not my lucky day. Neddie's acquainted with Bennets, two to be precise and quite a few ex-Bennets, half Bennets and semi-Bennets ... I think she may even have met the quarter-Bennet ... but she might not."

"Oh." Rory couldn't think of anything even remotely sensible to say in reply to this patently insane remark.

"That was just by way of establishing my bonafides ... or otherwise known as reassuring you that I am who I claim to be."

"Totally insane?" Rory couldn't resist the dry query and was somewhat relieved to see the laughter spark anew in the other's eyes.

"Alack, our closely guarded secret so brutally revealed." The man dropped onto the chair with a clump and it groaned rather mournfully.

"Careful, that's my only chair."

"I'll give you another if this one expires under me." The man stretched and then gave a rueful grin. "Sorry, Lieutenant Alistair Bennet at your service."

"Related to James Darcy." Rory closed his eyes for a second as his mind chucked up the relevant information. "I really didn't need this sort of a reminder."

"Will confess I nearly fell off my chair when Neddie said I'd have to clear it with you before I could pinch her for the night."

"Neddie said...?" Rory had some difficulty in closing his mouth. "What..."

"Pretty much what I thought." Alistair abruptly yawned rather cavernously. "I'd cut you out but for the fact she's too intelligent for my taste."

"You're infinitely more likely to be cutting out Mr. James Darcy than me." Rory spoke dryly. "If I'm very, very lucky I'm a friend."

"Jim?" Alistair grinned. "Not a chance, he only ever makes friends ... and that precious rarely."

"Then you'd be cutting nobody out."

"Who cares, she's told me I need your permission to take her out since she apparently made some arrangements with you. Do be nice and let her entertain me."

"But..." Rory hesitated, his mind in a complete whirl for he had no recollection whatsoever of making any arrangement with Annette at all.

"Please! You can come as well if you want... though it will make the evening awkward. Just drinks and a dance down at the NAAFI ... except neither of us drink and I'm a down right lousy dancer."

"Sure." Rory shook his head slightly. "Wasn't aware of making any arrangements to entertain Annette myself but..." Rory shrugged.

"Wouldn't worry." Alistair rose with another grin. "That girl has a mind of her own and the ability to obtain whatever it wants."

"That's the uncomfortable part." Rory hunched down on his bed and then started as the other looked back in.

"Say something to me?"

"No." Rory turned his attention fixedly to the ceiling. "Just wishing I hadn't been such a gods cursed silly idiot."

"We all do it at some point. Wouldn't worry about it mate, you seem to have learnt the lesson and either she'll forgive you or you'll find someone else. Wouldn't worry about it." The door was slammed shut this time and Rory sighed. Wonderful advice that, don't worry about it. One might as well stop the tide from rising to wet the feet. Some silly twerp had tried that once. Rory rolled over as he dug around in foggy memories of school history. Egghead? Maybe not, though it would have been an appropriate name. Something about a Canoe ... yes that was right, the king who stopped the tide was a canoe ... no, not a canoe, that had been the silly jingle Banner had produced to help them remember who had tried to stop the tide. Canoe ... Canute ... one of the Danish Kings ... helmets ... Hard hat ... the hard-hat canoe ... Danish ... hardicanute tried to stop the tide. Failed of course and probably abdicated as a result. Egghead seemed more appropriate but he had a feeling the eggs were earlier than the canoes and the confessor had followed the canoes before being messed up by 1066. English history really was the most marvellous stuff for helping pass the time of day when recovering from Malaria. Then had come the Plantagenets after William Rufus ... Richard Coeur de Lyon ... though Banner had once written Coeur de Loin and much merriment had been derived from the Housemaster's restrained correction of the error. Then there was Maud and Stephen who escaped from each other at Christmas ... he seemed to recall that she was his aunt ... or perhaps his cousin but old enough to be his aunt ... and she sometimes called herself Mathilda, which was also the name of his wife. All very confusing. All the fault of another Edward who died without an heir. All really a total waste of time, but he really didn't wish to think of Annette and whether or not they were friends. The fact she had considered it necessary to send Bennet around to free things up seemed promising. Yet ... Rory dropped it, he didn't know what he'd do if Annie was only tolerating him. Probably go screaming mad...which is undoubtedly what he had been when Lila took control of his life. Never again, he was going to fight for this friendship tooth and nail. Come what may, he, Rory Halifax, had no intention whatsoever of ever letting Annette drift out of his life again.

January 23rd 1943 - France

I haven't failed - I've merely found 10,000 ways how not to do it.

"Guess I wasn't meant to land like that." Jeroen had been giggling over the idea for hours now. This was not a good sign, but what else could he do? Jeroen knew he was in the right place. He had no idea where the place was, or why it might be the right place to be, but he had no doubts about it being the right place. In ten minutes he was going to cross the road he sat beside and walk into the pine wood on the other side. The road was deserted, an unused mess long forgotten in the pine woods, but he had a schedule to keep. In ten minutes he would cross, and until then he was going to watch his watch and try not to giggle too much.

If a doctor had popped out of the ground and told Jeroen he had concussion, Jeroen for one would not have been surprised. He wouldn't have been surprised by the doctor popping out of the ground any more than he'd have been surprised by the diagnoses. Odd things seemed to have been happening in the past couple of days, but he'd learnt to ignore them. It was sense that he have concussion for he'd fairly walloped his head trying to get down alive and it was a good hour after he'd met terra firma that he'd left the cockpit. The only miracle in his opinion was that he'd not been picked up. His condition was definitely better than when he'd tried to fly through the hill at Pemberley, but he was still a wreck.

The rain was sheeting down, and had been for the past day or so. Jeroen had only the vaguest sense of time. A couple of times he would have been willing to swear he'd been walking around France for his entire life. Equally certain he had been that he was about to tuck into a fried egg back at the aerodrome. It was no sense worrying when his mind wandered, just so long as he retained his grip on that tenuous bit of knowledge that he was on the right path to the right place, and when he got there, all he had to do was wait.

Jeroen crept across the road when his ten minutes expired. The bushes on the other side concealed a small depression and he fell into it with a splash. Jeroen had lain there giggling for a good couple of minutes before his brain ordered his body to move. He didn't need pneumonia now. A brief battle with a couple of bushes left him totally drained and it took him nearly half an hour to realise that he was sitting on the edge of a tiny clearing. The clearing contained a hut which was just a tiny bit smaller than the clearing and was so overgrown that it looked like another mess of bushes. Jeroen had found the door by accident and fallen into the hut. The hut was deserted, clearly not lived in or disturbed for many years. A summer cottage, forgotten in the war and left to moulder. Two large, ironbound boxes stood in one corner, but Jeroen's mind was too drugged and sluggish to register them. In fact only one thing managed to register as he pitched headfirst into the hut and that was that the hut was curiously warm and dry for its apparent desertion. Obviously it had been well tended for once and the roof and walls were still sound for all the overgrowth. Jeroen stripped off his clothes, hung them on a nearby contraption which seemed appropriate for drying stuff on and then simply collapsed in a corner on the floor.

Time was a factor completely unknown to Jeroen when he returned to the conscious world. He felt horrible. His head felt like a split pumpkin. His eyes felt like dirty cotton wool and his tongue was rather reminiscent of the socks he used to wear in winter. It was still pouring rain outside, but it was over twenty-four hours since he'd wound his watch and it had stopped.

Jeroen straightened cautiously and began a careful inventory of his condition. He had some horrendous bruises and a couple of nasty scrapes. No bones were broken, only one wrist was strained, or sprained, and his muscles were abominably stiff. Jeroen went to work carefully easing the stiff muscles and getting them moving again. He felt vaguely human when he'd finished stretching and exercising his muscles and he was rather relieved to find his clothes were dry when he felt them where they hung. After dressing again Jeroen looked around the small hut and was rather amused by how empty it was. The tiny upper floor which was directly under the sloping roof contained mattress bags which could be stuffed, but was otherwise empty. The lower floor contained the two boxes, the hand-crafted clothing stand near the empty hearth and one RAF Officer, still concussed and not quite in his right mind. Jeroen decided to investigate the boxes. It might be that some miracle came with this hut he had found and they would hold food, medicines, bedding and all the things he'd need to live for an unspecified length of time in this hut. The miracle occurred, the two boxes contained everything necessary for living for an unspecified length of time in a back country hut. The medical kit was beautifully self-contained and rather more complete than Jeroen would have expected for a summer house in the back woods. Now all he had to do was doctor himself, feed himself, recover and live until either someone found him, or he thought of a way to return to England. Jeroen couldn't shake the feeling that he had to wait. It was almost as if at some point in time an order had been issued and he was active enough to obey, but too addled to remember. Time would tell and there was no point attempting to return to England before his head recovered and he was fit and healthy again.

February 2nd 1943 - Tripoli, Africa.

In the world their are two kinds of people, those who watch cricket and those who don't.

"How anyone can possibly call this a New Year Game is quite beyond me." Rory was working on a sandwich while the ball, which had gone into the sea, was found.

"It's within two months of the New Year and it's not a bad game." Annette was reading a book. "Which reminds me of something which is puzzling. Why did you invite me to this? I thought you disliked cricket."

"It wasn't the cricket it was the pla..." Rory abruptly stopped, closed his mouth and cast Annette a look of exasperation. "You're having fun!"

"Mm-hmm." Annette turned her page. "You didn't answer the question though. Why did you invite me to this?"

"Because I have to come and I didn't want to go by myself...I thought you might enjoy it."

"Still not an answer." Annette turned another page.

"You fraud." Rory pulled the book out of Annette's hands and sat on it. "You can't possibly read it that fast."

"Hedger."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Uh-uh."

"Uh-huh."

"Fine!" Rory turned and hunched his shoulders.

"Ah, dear sweet memories of the school room." Annette gave a sigh. "So did I once argue with Lucille..."

"You compare me to that sister of yours and I'll..."

"Yes."

"Oh shut up."

"Such a gentleman."

"I mean it!"

"Why?"

"Not telling!"

"You're right, I shouldn't compare this with the school room. In comparison the school room was a veritable haven of erudite exposition on the higher mental plane."

"The ball's been found." Rory's voice was strained and his face an interesting shade of red. "Terminate this conversation now. You take an unfair advantage."

"Of what?"

"Oh shut up."

"Dear, dear, he seems to possess only three words." Annette heaved a sigh.

"Pig." Rory abruptly returned Annette's book to her, pausing first to scribble something on the flyleaf.

"Pity if this wasn't my book." Annette glanced at the new layout of the field before she settled down one, to read what she hadn't read before, and two to find out what Rory had written.

Most unfair of you to make me want to laugh so badly. I know some of the boys here.

"Dear, dear." Annette sighed mournfully, scribbled a note of her own on the flyleaf and then promptly dumped it in Rory's lap as the ball soared in a beautiful parabolic arc over and out into the bay.

"Blast." Rory flipped open the book, grimaced at what he saw and sighed as all the players and half the spectators re-entered the sea to find the ball.

"Conceded?" Annette took her book back and began to read again.

"No." Rory flopped back onto his back with a sigh. "I may agree in theory but I most certainly do not concede to the point."

"Dear, dear."

"Oh shut up." Rory pulled the brim of his hat down over his ears.

"We do seem to descend to the nursery at remarkable speed." Annette laid the book aside and glanced at her watch before turning her attention to the horizon. You could sometimes see ships out there and Annette enjoyed trying to see them. The horizon was also something very peaceful to look at while thinking, and Annette was aware that she needed to do some serious thinking. It had been a fun afternoon and the conversation had ranged far and wide, though laughter had not been lacking.

"You've grown up a lot." Rory's comment came several minutes later and Annette shot a sideways glance at him in surprise. Rory had pushed his hat back slightly and was watching her from the corner of his eyes.

"Saying you haven't?" Annette had to tease in response, there was something in Rory's expression that unnerved her.

"No." Rory abruptly closed his eyes. "I hope I have and I think I have....certainly not so unutterably callow as I was. Just observing that you seem to have come through a bad couple of years with remarkable grace and happiness. You have a very beautiful mind."

"Oh." Annette settled for returning her attention to the horizon. How did anyone deal with such an old friend? Rory had always been her friend. Always been special. Always been on her mind. She had sworn, after his stunt with Lila, not to even think of him. All very well to swear like that, but swearing and doing were two very different things. Even on the darkest of days he'd always been there, at the back of her mind.

"Sorry." Rory's word drew Annette's attention back to the sand and the fact that the ball had been retrieved. It also drew Annette's attention to the fact that she had tears on her cheeks and her eyes were stinging. "I didn't mean to offend by the remark."

"I'm not offended." Annette gave a small shake of her head and then carefully dried her eyes. This was the Rory who'd always been her friend, self-conscious, sometimes awkward and yet terribly good fun. Then Rory had gone to London and about a year afterwards he'd begun to change. Now the old Rory was well and truly back...but was he back to stay?

"Is..."

"Not offended." Annette picked up her book and focussed on it. "It's not been an easy couple of years, but I'm very glad if the efforts of friends have paid off."

"Don't discount yourself."

"Myself?" Annette stared at Rory in simple disbelief, how it could have anything to do with her was beyond her. All she'd done was grumble to anyone who'd listen. It had been Annie-Bug and the others who alternately teased, yelled and interested her in remaining a sociable human being.

"All their efforts would have been in vain if you hadn't wanted to remain true to yourself and a part of the world." Rory spoke rather shortly and pulled his hat back down over his face. "You have a beautiful mind and a will to match it and don't you dare let anyone tell you otherwise."

"Oh." Annette turned her attention back out to the horizon. There it was again, that queer edge of harshness which made an insurmountable barrier. It reared its head time and again, destroying the simple fun they built. No sense, no sense at all and it hurt when it happened. Annette picked up her book as the ball went flying into the sea once more.

In this manner Li Ting disposed of many idols at high rates, and thereby endeared himself so much to the avaricious heart of Ti Hung that he promised him his beautiful daughter Ning in marriage.

~Extract from the 'Wallet of Kai Lung' by Ernest Bramah.

February 28th 1943 - Bavaria, Germany

A memory, however insignificant, can be gold to others.

"Fünf ... vier ... drei ... zwei ... einz ... jetzt." Joe had made the count very slowly and precisely, seemingly oblivious to Hans' glare. The count had been accurate for exactly as he finished it the voice began. The voice came every night and discussions in the yard revealed the fact that no one knew who owned the voice. Two things were known about the voice though. The voice was reliable to the second when it came, you could set a watch by it. The voice was also an escaper of true longevity, for at least once every month it escaped, much to the confusion and distress of the warders and prison staff. Tonight was clearly not a night for escape and Joe settled back with his feet against the wall for the night's entertainment.

"Low."

"Mm?" Joe looked up in curious surprise.

"To take pleasure and entertainment in what is undoubtedly suffering for another is low." Hans had wrapped his shirt around his head in an effort to cut the voice out.

"Considering he doesn't know I find pleasure in it and the only other possibility is to lose my temper over I prefer to enjoy it."

"I would prefer to have respect for all humanity in some hopes that if anything similar ever happens to me that someone will have soul enough to shoot me and put me out of my misery."

"You know what has happened?"

"Of course I do." Hans snapped rather shortly as he reluctantly unwrapped his shirt from around his head. "Getting cold and it doesn't keep the voice out."

"No one else seems to."

"Practically everyone else knows all about that voice...they're just too scared to admit anything."

"Then what's the story?"

"He was a Captain and a Sicherheitsdienst Official of some note, his specialties were interrogation and intimidation and until 1942 he had a totally spotless record of perfect behaviour."

"Nazi?"

"There you run into a rather serious web of arguements. His record was spotless and his jobs numerous while he was in favour ... but his blot was the loss of fifteen prisoners ... rather a big blot to put in any copybook. No one can decide whether he's an official who got given the runaround, or a covert who did an amazing job of infiltration. In favour of the latter his work was purely verbal and personality based, not given to ripping out teeth and toenails. In favour of the former...well, he has a ten year history with the Nazi Party and true reliability."

"Why does he talk?"

"One assumes he's making up for all the non-talking he does when anyone speaks to him...or rather questions him." Hans yawned. "I am going to sleep ... and don't try asking anyone else about this, if the guards hear they'll haul you off to find out what you know about him."

"Ah." Joe settled more heavily against the wall in a vain hope that weight would squash the sharp lumps out of the section behind his back.

The darkness of the night had only just begun to give way to day when Joe's watch through the dark hours was rewarded. There was a clatter down in the yard and a small group emerged from the deeper shadow which was the prison. Four people in all, three were clearly guards, the fourth a prisoner who moved with a mindless docility and a very strange shambling gait. Joe watched almost without movement for the fifteen minutes of allocated exercise the prisoner had. The sun was rising when the group retreated back into the prison again.

"Got it." Joe carefully whispered the words as he carefully eased himself down from his cramped perch up against the window.

"Got what?" Hans' query reminded Joe that he was not alone in the cell.

"The sunrise." Joe resettled in his corner with a yawn.

"That is the saddest invention I've heard in years." Hans rose and scrambled up to the window. "Daily exercise, three guards and we have a mighty nice view."

"Certainly there were people in the yard, but it was the sunrise I was looking for." Joe had closed his eyes and decided to sleep until breakfast.

"Raus!" The harsh clatter of arms disturbed the occupants of the cell. Joe was already reaching for his gamelle when his brain registered that it was still pitchy dark outside and the bolts had been drawn. This was not the breakfast call.

"Schnell!" The guard who entered the room gave Joe a kick. Joe grabbed his gamelle and blanket and schnelled just fast enough to avoid being hit with the butt of the revolver which the guard swung.

"Au revoir, Joe." Hans' tone was sleepy.

"'Voir." Joe scuttled into the clump of soldiers and wished he had some idea of what was happening. He had a very bad feeling that his odd behaviour the other day had been reported. The bad feeling was accentuated as he was hustled down floor after floor and finally flung into a cell which was on the bottom floor, and at least one level below ground level. The air in the cell was rank and dank. The floor of the cell was soft with some moist growth or other. The light was non-existant and somewhere a soft drip was making itself heard.

"J'ai un visiteur?" The voice held a note of soft wonder and Joe fought the instinct to withdraw and yell as a hand rested momentarily on his shoulder. "Il est un homme. Ca va?"

"Oui." Joe did not managed to quench the shiver which shook him as the hand moved slowly up his neck and onto his face. The hand was clammy and cold. It felt like death incarnate. "Et toi?"

"Moi? Je suis mort."

"Ah." Joe could think of nothing else to respond and focussed instead on not jerking away from those cold fingers which slowly explored his face. "Light?"

"It is part of their procedure." The hand withdrew, leaving just a voice in the darkness. "Special deprivation and isolation. The damp and cold lower the resistance and increase vulnerability to depression. Either you become accustomed to existing in this world, or you will go insane."

"Your voice is enough to send anyone insane."

"I realise that, but the opportunity to talk is too rare to waste, even if I do give you the creeps."

"I see." Joe was still slumped where he'd been flung into the cell. "Anything to sit on here?"

"Only the floor ... and that is very damp."

"What do you advise?"

"Propping yourself against the wall ... as close to the door as possible since that is the driest section of this cell."

"Ah." Joe cautiously rose to his feet and shuffle to what he hoped was his left.

"I wouldn't go that way." One of the clammy hands gently attached itself to Joe and pulled him backwards. "This is the door."

"Thanks." Joe ran his fingers down the corroded metal in relief and leant backwards. To call the door dry was a matter of comparison. Compared to the floor, the door was dry. Compared to a river the door was dry. Compared to just about anything else the door was wet. "What can be done here?"

"Anything to be found within your head and as much sleeping as you care to take." There was a soft noise. "I'm afraid I'll be bad company for you since I sleep upwards of twenty hours a day."

"I see." Joe did indeed see. In fact Joe saw significantly more than he ever wanted to have seen. In solitary confinement such as this, existance as he knew it was impossible. The question he needed an answer to soon was exactly how far he was willing to go to survive. Did he believe in his own adaptability as a human being? Or would he go insane attempting to force his will upon this sodden excuse for a cell.

March 7th 1943 - Lambton, England

Life is a progression.

"Miss Darcy to see you, Miss Darcy." The strange voice disturbed Georgiana's peace and she laid her tea aside with a small sigh.

"Please, invite her to come up." Georgiana gave a smile and listened to the retreating footsteps of the girl on the stairs. Mrs. Annesley had retired only a few months ago and Georgiana still was not accustomed to the new girl. Footsteps sounded again and Georgiana's expression grew slightly happier as her ears picked up the familiar pattern of steps.

"Miss Darcy." Only one set of footsteps entered the room, the other pair retreated. Georgiana waved the entering footsteps to the chair she knew would be appropriately positioned and closed her eyes with a faint sigh.

"Such manners, she falls asleep after I have entered the room."

"Please take a seat." Georgiana picked up her tea again. "Tea?"

"No thanks, Aunt George."

"Why you had to acquire that repulsive habit I have no idea."

"The habit of refusing tea is almost polite these days for I highly doubt anyone has it in abundance ... my ration stands at about two leaves a week."

"I was referring to that repulsive habit of calling me Aunt George." Georgiana laid her tea aside. "There was only one person in the world who ever got away with calling me George ... and I treated him rather badly all things considered."

"Everyone has treated someone badly at some point or other...I doubt Uncle Darcy was ever particularly disturbed by it."

"David couldn't care less how anybody behaved...unless their behaviour upset Elizabeth and I must say I'm eternally thankful that she was not of a manipulative turn of mind or she would have undoubtedly taken advantage of the situation to make everyone's life absolutely miserable."

"I can remember she laughed a lot." Juliette consulted her memories thoughtfully as she made herself more comfortable. "I was six when she died and I remember grandmother wouldn't let us attend the funeral. I don't think I saw any of you again until I was fourteen...but by then Uncle Darcy was..." Juliette stopped completely, her mind following an old familiar trail.

"David was on death's doorstep when you saw him again and he unhesitatingly did the one act I don't think anyone ever forgave him for."

"James did." Juliette spoke very softly.

"How do you know that?" Georgiana looked up sharply.

"Because James told me." Juliette tucked her feet under the chair legs. "I certainly forgave him when I fully understood ... I suspect Anneliese would have if she had ever known it had happened to get mad about."

"Anneliese was never told?"

"It was one of the conditions of the entire transaction...now there are only two people in the world who know the entire truth of that situation."

"He's still alive?" Georgiana half rose from her seat.

"He's alive." Juliette confirmed her words with a small nod invisible to the other, but she did not voice the small rider of 'just'.

"Is this ridiculous charade paying off then?"

"As to that I cannot tell you ... though I can firmly state that it is causing a degree of puzzlement and uncertainty in certain sections of the various governments of primary concern." Juliette gave a small smile and then jumped for footsteps had come pounding up the stairs and a door slammed open.

"Sis, I heard you were here." Stan literally erupted into the room. "You might have told me."

"I didn't know I was coming myself until last night." Juliette rose. "Problem?"

"Not half." Stan sank into a nearby chair and sighed.

"Must you be so rough on my furniture?"

"Don't get excited." Stan flashed an irritable look at Georgiana and then turned his attention back to Juliette. "Why not, Sis?"

"Must you call me that?"

"It is most indecent."

"Be quiet." Stan turned on Georgiana with a snap and then turned back to Juliette. "What's happening?"

"Where?" Juliette lifted a chilling eyebrow.

"Anywhere. I want news, and not the half-baked garbage force fed to me here."

"Darwin has been bombed."

"Darwin? What is Darwin? ... I've never heard of a ship called Darwin."

"It's not a ship."

"Then how could it be bombed?"

"It's a city ... on the Australian mainland."

"Irrelevant."

"I highly doubt that the citizens of Darwin feel that way at all."

"Stop being idiotic. What brought you here?"

"Technically speaking the reason for my visit has nothing to do with you because no part of it concerns you."

"Rubbish, everything concerns me ... particularly if it concerns Miss Darcy here who would consider my departure from her premises a ... a ... a consumation devoutly to be wished or some such thing since I'm supposed to be behaving in such a manner."

"That is more Ashie's manner than anyone's manner and I will return in a moment." Juliette rose and slipped from the room, leaving Stan to scowl and Georgiana to sip her tea.

"Where did she go?" Stan shifted on his seat.

"She may have gone any number of places." Georgiana's tone was repressive and after casting her a look of significant dislike, Stan rose and crossed to the window. The minutes ticked past exceedingly slowly and finally Juliette returned to the room with a thoughtful frown on her face.

"Where's James?" Stan whipped away from the window.

"Why would I know something like that?" Juliette looked decidedly curious.

"Because you tend to know everything."

"Well that's one subject I am forced to confess complete ignorance on." Juliette took her seat again and abstractly accepted the cup of tea Georgiana handed her. "I can state that he's alive, but I'm afraid that's all I do know on that particular subject."

"That's a relief." Stan frowned. "Why come here?"

"You're coming south ... tonight."

"Why?"

"Rosings has hay and harvest approaching and your help is required ... even comes with the perk of the fact that you may resume being Standard Robinson for the time you are helping."

"Does the greybeard know and approve?"

"No, but he will have to object before I change my plans."

"Fortunate greybeard." Stan rose. "I take a tactful hint and shall go and pack."

"Most kind of you, Stan." Juliette rose, nodded and then resumed her seat as Stan departed. Georgiana had kept her mouth closed through all of this, but her frown was dark.

"Is this a polite way of telling me that I've had him in my house for several months for no reason at all?"

"No, I have reason to believe that his time in this area has been invaluable ... particularly to James and his chances of survival."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't." Juliette tucked her feet under her seat and sipped the tea again. "I said I had reason to believe the results were worth the effort ... totally different to knowing the results are worth the effort."

"That the only reason you came north?"

"No." Juliette abruptly finished her tea. "My grandmother, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, passed away of acute heart-failure last night. I was told some period ago that you were the most appropriate person to notify should this event occur. I'm afraid I am otherwise unable to visit at the present moment."

"Well, I thank you for ridding me of him." Georgiana had clearly hesitated before she finally responded.

"I wouldn't have except that he came charging in and reminded me that he was the answer to some totally different problems." Juliette rose, placed her cup on the tray and straightened her hair. "I will attempt to visit you at least once before the end of the year ... unfortunately the lack of workers at Rosings is going to make it difficult."

"Land girls?"

"We're not a sufficiently large or productive estate to warrant the attention of the government."

"Wha..." Georgiana abruptly closed her mouth and rolled her eyes. "Don't bother, I know DSA when I hear it."

"Which is a relief since Stan couldn't care less." Juliette gave a quick smile. "I'll come visit when I can Aunt George." Juliette spun and reached the door just as Stan pushed it open.

"Timing, Sis."

"Be quiet, Stan." Juliette shut the door and lead the way downstairs. "By the bye, my grandmother is deceased so you needn't be afraid of her yelling at you again."

"I never was afraid of her." Stan threw his bag into the back of Juliette's car. "I merely considered it impolite to disagree with my hostess in tones which were in excess of what is considered a comfortable range for the average human being."

"Dear, dear, you have swallowed Miss Darcy's dictionary." Juliette started the car and headed south.

"Well, I know someone who still hasn't learnt to drive." Stan's knuckles were white where they gripped the armrest.

"Hmm, you just lack courage."

"I happen to like my life, Sis."

"Well you won't lose it tonight." Juliette checked her speed just slightly for on the last corner the rear had skidded out slightly and she really did not wish to end up in the ditch with Stan.

Part 51

Posted on Sunday, 12 February 2006

March 21st 1943 - Scampton, England

Friends meet in strange places.

"Gibbous!" Micky Martin had a pint in one hand and the usual straggling moustache which seemed to reach his ears.

"Mick." Brian snagged a pint for himself before dropping into one of the available chairs.

"Heard you were with the Tempsford mob?" Mick was from Sydney, Australia, and his entire crew was also Australian and the best to be had in all fields.

"I got shifted because the Admiralty were getting touchy...seems they're afraid I was giving away free lifts."

"Crew?"

"Hoping Mitre will dig them out of the mud for me." Brian nodded at 'Dinghy' Young, reputed to be the Senior Flight Commander, and at Henry Maudslay, the other flight commander and the closest to Brian in age. Brian was not sorry to be back in a squadron, even if it was the Tirpitz they were being sent against. No one actually knew why they had been gathered together in this new squadron, in fact nothing was known about anything, except they were Squadron X Scampton. Brian was not the only person who guessed that a super-secret squadron of the best bomber crews in bomber command could only mean the Tirpitz, there was nothing else worth the trouble.

"Gibson's the chief."

"I heard he'd cashed in for a bit of leave." Brian paused with his pint half lifted.

"Well they canned it on him and sent him here."

"Lucky sod." Brian lowered the level on his pint a trifle. "You know Yikey?"

"Erk?"

"Yup."

"Met him."

"I got him talking other day." Brian gave a grin.

"Air talk?" Mick's brows rose.

"Yup, he wanted to know how in hell my Lizzie even flew...let alone landed."

"Always said you were balmy." Mick shook his head and went in search of another pint.

"You still in the air?" It was Maudslay who settled in the other seat soon after and Brian gave a grin.

"Yikey seemed to think I was using something other than wings to keep myself up the other day."

"What happened?"

"Not much, a bit of flack and a couple of bandits on the way home."

"You bear a charmed life ... welcome to our elite company." Maudlay shook his head slightly. "Where's Jim these days?"

"Who's to know. Last I heard he was meant to be dead ... but I stopped believing that sort of guff years ago." Brian gave a shrug, they'd all mixed together at Eton and Maudslay's interest was no surprise. "Not playing cricket, that I can promise you."

"Well give him a wave from me if you see him."

"Will-do ... I'm out." Brian shifted after another pint before stopping to shake his head at the sight of a limp looking Flight Sergeant drooping over an empty tankard. "Flight Sergeant O'Rourke you seem to have navigated rather badly."

"Not at all." Mick O'Rourke paused for the briefest of seconds before acquiring another tankard. "My objective was to find one Squadron Leader Brian O'Niell DSO DFC ... and bar ... how'd you get the bar?" Mick lowered the level on his tankard a trifle.

"Brought some telegraph wire back from France which had a message still inside it." Brian got his own refill. "The others here?"

"Drifting around ... Franz is dry tonight and Joe decided to make sure he didn't get lonely."

"Joe's drinking water?" Brian looked more than a little skeptical.

"I suspect he's got vodka in his ... wouldn't surprise me if he drops some into Franz's."

"Vodka? How did Joe get vodka?"

"I don't ask." Mick rubbed his face, yawned and then rubbed his face again. "Appleby's here as is Charlie. Can you fly a Lanc?"

"Yes." Brian lifted a finger in response to a wave from across the room. "If I can't I'll kill you trying."

"Good." Mick drifted away as Brian headed across to Franz who had been waving.

"Franz ... Joe." Brian dropped into an available seat. "Appleby nearby?"

"He's over talking to Foxlee about spots." Joe waved a hand across the room to where Appleby was to be seen talking to Martin's gunner of two years.

"You boys heard anything?"

"Not a button I'm afraid." Joe gave a frown before gulping down the last of his glass. "Mitre dug us up and gave us marching orders."

"Marching orders." Franz gave a soft laugh. "Wing-Commander Talbot said you were going to Lancasters and we couldn't put through our transfer permits fast enough."

"Thanks." Brian had been silent for a long moment before he spoke, then he pushed to his feet with a shake of his head. "See you round, things are starting to hum." Brian headed back for his third pint when he was waylaid by a familiar face. "Dear me."

"Precisely what I thought." Wing-Commander Ellis MacKenna shook his head rather despondently. "To think I came here as a favour to someone just so I could run into you."

"Garbage." Brian shook his head as he discarded his pint on a nearby surface. "How are you?"

"Surprisingly steady on my pins all things considered."

"No Nemo?"

"The chances of Gibson not having his confounded mutt along were impossible and I'm not in the mood for splitting up a dog fight."

"Least of all a drunken dog fight." Brian nodded towards Nigger, Gibson's dog, who was finishing yet another drink someone had put down for him. "Possibly you are wise ... and what favour are you doing?"

"I've no idea ... except that includes low flying and bombs."

"Pity Ashie's not around."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence." Mac handed Brian another pint. "Join the fun, Gibson's delivered the news that he can't say a whisker until tomorrow ... apparently they haven't told him all that much yet."

"Cheers." Brian gave a chuckle before pouring a good quarter of his pint straight down his throat. There was no point trying to stay sober tonight, that was reserved for flying days.

April 1st 1943 - London, England

How can such a little thing make so much NOISE! - Briar

Sampson Beverage was more than a little unhappy as he waited for his lunch to arrive. In fact the year as a whole had been fairly unhappy and Sampson was too aware of a growing dissatisfaction with his situation in life. Sampson liked to think he had a good life and was being treated well, but regardless of all efforts he had a nasty feeling that someone was meddling with his life. Someone had to be 'persuading' the higher-ups to keep him on street-beat for so long. Sampson Beverage was too well aware that he had worked too hard and too well to be stuck on street-beat still. The lost interview had long since passed into the shadows of forgotten memories. If Sampson was honest with himself, he knew that the problem had only begun after he'd been accepted to cover the false Darcy.

"Dreadful weather isn't it." The voice startled Sampson and he jumped, and jumped again when he noticed the person who settled opposite him.

"Which one are you?"

"Would the other one talk like this?" Standard Robinson gave a yawn and produced a sandwich from some pocket.

"I see." Sampson Beverage sighed and then twiddled his thumbs. "Do you want something?"

"Me?" Stan grinned. "Of course I do, a little article in tomorrow's newspaper if possible. Failing tomorrow, as soon as possible."

"Oh?"

"I rather suspect you're beginning to regret joining us and so I offer you a little fun."

"Fun?"

"I want the whistle blown on me." Stan munched on his sandwiches somewhat vigorously. "Something small and rather subtle so the papers don't jump on you."

"And?"

"Then the real family will jump on me with vim and vigour." Stan finished his sandwiches. "Nothing big, but traceable."

"Subtle?"

"Preferably."

"Quiet?"

"Wonderful."

"So Darcys can be nasty with loud noises?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Something small." Sampson scratched his chin and blinked thoughtfully at the table ahead of him, an idea was already turning gently over in his mind.

"Good, I'll leave you too it." Stan rose to his feet.

"Try to tip me off to the uproar if you can, nothing like following up articles."

"I'll try." Stan nodded briefly and then left, just as Sampson's lunch arrived.

Sampson pulled his pencil and paper out and began to scribble, while simultaneously shoving food rather absent-mindedly into his mouth. Something subtle, yet quiet. Something discreet and yet sufficiently clear. Not too clear though. It must be something which meant something only to those who knew in the first place. Not easy at the best circumstances. Sampson shelved his efforts as he finished his lunch and headed out once more to try and find something interesting from street-beat.

Two days later Sampson had still to find an appropriate story to meet Stan's requirements. He had one effort, but he was actually reluctant to submit the effort to the editor...let alone submit it to Stan's public approval. In desperation Sampson turned to his jam supplies for inspiration. Strawberry jam was by far the best and had never failed him in the past. Sampson's relief was great when it did not fail him again. It only took a quarter of the pot before inspiration struck and it seemed to be a perfect gem, though not for a regular newspaper.

Dear Aunt May,

I discovered recently that someone who I thought was my friend might not actually be a friend. Though I am attempting not to jump to conclusions I fail to understand why this person might even wish to be a friend. I mean I'm nobody at all and this person I thought was a friend was in fact a member of the Darcy Family. What should I do now? I knew him simply as Jamie, but surely I can't call him that now that I know he is THE Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. These people cannot be one and the same and therefore my friend clearly can't exist. I'm also curious about a certain matter. If Pemberley is destroyed, is he Mr. Darcy of Pemberley or merely Mr. Darcy?

Confuzzled.

Sampson grinned with satisfaction before abruptly folding the page up and scampering off to deliver it to 'Aunt May' in person. Joe would undoubtedly be very curious, but equally he would publish it even if Sampson did refuse to answer. Sampson was even going to buy the relevent edition because he wished to see what Joe cooked up as a response.

"You'll want to be watching yourself." Joe had read the effort with lifted brows and a twitching mouth. "The big man will not be happy if he thinks you've been holding out on a top notch interview."

"Well...the time's not right." Sampson gave a tight smile. "He's hardly a friend." The smile tightened rather grimly.

"Then I won't question further for the Darcys don't take kindly to meddlers." Joe tucked the page into his pocket. "This will do nicely ... though I've a suspicion it's like a kiddie's digging at the beach compared to a mine."

"Thanks." Sampson rose to his feet and grinned for somehow he felt happier than he had for months. "I quite agree it is probably a tiny little scratch of a beginning ... but it's not James Darcy behind it."

"So confident?"

"I said we were acquainted." Sampson scratched his neck. "There's something very odd going on."

"What, we're finally showing definite signs of winning this gods-cursed war?"

"Joe, this is called a tactful warning to prepare for storms ... I've never been wrong before and I rather think you can trust me this time as well."

"So what does the future hold?"

"I am not a fortune-teller!" Sampson glared as he banged out of his friend's room, but he was laughing when he reached the pavement and headed north-east for a comfortable bit of footpath to nose around for column material.

Juliette de Bourgh Darcy fingered the torn page thoughtfully, her expression thinning as she considered her options. Kitty had resumed her latest foray into knitting, quite undisturbed by the expression in the other chair.

"So, is this for real?" Caroline looked up from some pile of reports from somewhere or other.

"For real? I'm afraid such ... language is beyond my capacity of comprehension." Juliette laid the page aside and gave a faint smile.

"Then I'll use plain English." Caroline leant forward over her reports. "Did you know that your bastard born half-brother was masquerading as Kitty's godson?"

"You really have to ask that question?" Juliette's tone became decidedly sour. "Yes, I do know the difference between my half brother and James. Why?"

"Georgiana mentioned a while ago that James had gone off with you." Caroline met Juliette's sour stare with a smile of her own. "Why Georgiana chose to lie I have no idea, but I'm quite well aware that you won't ... provided the correct questions are asked."

"Now just how do you reach that conclusion?" Juliette's sour face became rather grim.

"Is it a secret?"

"No, I just wish to know how you reached that particular conclusion."

"That is a secret." Caroline smiled again and then frowned slightly. "So have you been lying like Georgiana?"

"Clearly you grant me more intelligence than Lord James ever did ... how kind of you."

"That's not an answer and that is also very incorrect." Caroline abruptly grimmed up to match Juliette. "I am not kind and my opinion of your intelligence is singularly worse that Ashie's."

"Which gives away the fact that Ashie had a very high opinion of her intelligence, all else apart." Kitty looked up from her knitting somewhat vaguely.

"Really?" Juliette lifted politely curious brows.

"We've left the topic." Kitty returned her attention to her knitting.

"Juliette?"

"Perhaps you permit me to arrange my own affairs." Juliette rose to her feet. "But in answer to your question, yes, I was aware of the masquerade and no, I did not consider it my business to mention it to anyone. You know perfectly well that the Darcy Estate has lain in the hands of various trustees since 1941 and therefore, even if there is a masquerade no one is gaining by it ... unless the gainer be James, and his gain be his life when this war ends." Juliette gave a tiny faint smile and left. Caroline's eyes narrowed to cat slits as she frowned at the closed door.

"Kitty, I am very suspicious when that cat sheathes her claws so effortlessly." Caroline abruptly rose and crossed to the fire-place. "There was a good hour of tactics left in that discussion and she dropped it. I'm going out tonight ... I suspect there will be a fireworks display and it would be a pity to miss it, since Juliette has so kindly given us advance notification of the event."

Stan Robinson ascended the steps with grave dignity, and an awareness that this was possibly the end. Sampson Beverage, that young pip-squeak, had done a beautiful job and had been given his just reward and was loitering in the shadows. Daoud was, as ever, not very far away and Stan was aware that that young man was deriving much cynical pleasure from the impending scene. What Chris thought of it all Stan had no idea, but all else apart it would warn that old turkey not to treat other people's lives so cavalierly. Possibly it might teach him not to underrate Juliette in the future. When all was said and done Stan would back his half-sister against anyone in the world.

Stan did the polite to the host and hostess, dodged a few questions and a subtle hint at a supper invitation before he won free of the crowd by the door. A few acquaintances nodded and one acquaintance was only lost after some rather pointed behaviour. Stan found himself a drink and grimaced into it for Juliette had clearly begun work before he'd even arrived. The rumours were already beginning to ripple in the room and it wouldn't be long before he'd have to pay attention to it.

Stan drained his drink and found another, dexterously avoiding someone whose name he'd forgotten in the process. He was not going to be sorry when he regained his anonymity, it was tiresome to cause such a large effect, particularly when you were feeling tired and strained. It had been bad enough last time, but somehow this masquerade was so much more draining and wearisome. So much more seemed to drag a his mind, he felt older, wearied. Stan wanted his own life, he wanted to know where it was going, not where it might be going if he'd been someone else.

"Jamie!" It had come sooner than Stan expected and he turned in a confusion which was far from feigned. Juliette was visibly furious, rare enough in itself.

"Really." Stan wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I find that name singularly repulsive."

"I see." The tone was dry and out came the dreaded magazine. "Are you going to lay claim to being 'confuzzled'?"

"Mm?" Stan inspected the magazine rather disinterestedly.

"All you can say?"

"I'll certainly agree that I am confuzzled as of this moment. Really Miss Darcy, you are my second cousin, not my keeper and I'll thank you not to trouble yourself with my affairs." Stan pushed the magazine into a pocket and turned away pondering how to discreetly keep the situation flaming. He needn't have worried though, Juliette had no intention of letting go so quickly and quietly.

"It is my name also and I am quite willing to remind you of..." What Juliette was willing to remind him of remained unknown to the massed forces of the party. Short and sweet the fight seemed to them for at that point Stan recognised a serious risk and avoided it by the simple means of clapping a hand over Juliette's mouth and literally dragging her out the door. The flash of the camera made them both flinch, but Juliette was quick to seize the opportunity. "Don..." Stan got his hand back in place like lightning. The camera flashed again and Stan shook his head vigorously before he realised that there was a very familiar Bentley coming to a halt in front of him and there was no need to try and find a taxi. Stan yanked the door open and bundled Juliette in before diving after her himself.

"Where to?" The query came from the front seat and Stan ground his teeth briefly before finding that he needn't speak at all for Juliette had answered for him.

"The Darcy Townhouse, please." Juliette straightened her skirts with a frown and sighed. "Really Stan, do you trust me so little that you must be so rough?"

"No." Stan rearranged his jacket. "The person I distrust is myself." Stan leant back and scowled irritably at the ceiling.

"Why..."

"Dump it." Stan hunched his shoulders.

"Fun." Juliette leant back and stared up at the ceiling herself.

"One Darcy Townhouse, complete with front door open and loads of newspaper people held at bay by formidable Morris ... you'd better prepare to run ... and prepare for a siege."

"Whatever." Stan flung open the door and lunged out, dragging Juliette up the stairs and into the main hall. The front doors, manned by Morris, slammed shut with a definite and rather deathly sounding thud. Stan hesitated for a long moment and then abruptly lead the way to the upper floors.

"You blew it." Juliette dropped into an armchair in the library and folded her arms.

"Nuh-uh." Stan dropped into the other armchair with a sigh.

"How was that not blowing it? Everyone knows you're not James!"

"The only people who know are those who knew James to begin with ... Claude Watson already knew. Kitty was keeping quiet, but she had plenty of suspicions. Caroline would have been suspicious except that she was too confident that she would be told if some such stunt was pulled. The Bingleys don't matter. The MacKennas would know if they spoke to me. Young Deraux knew. Who have I missed of any relevence?"

"None ... with the exception of incidentals up Pemberley way, down Kent and probably in the military."

"The point of this exercise was not to assure the Naval High Command that James Darcy was being a good, obedient boy. I never agreed to be a shield Jim could hide behind." Stan growled and then sighed. "The point of this exercise was to confuse as many people as possible for as long as possible. People were getting comfortable with me as James Darcy ... now they have doubts again. However, over the next few weeks we'll go to some lengths to reassure them that their doubts are unjustified and they'll calm down again." Stan relaxed back into the chair and stared up at the ceiling. "I had thought you were fine with all of this?"

"I was." Juliette had tucked her legs up and Stan abruptly remembered that she was only twenty-two years old, had recently become officially responsible for a rather large estate and was generally not in the circumstances any girl would want at that age ... she looked barely twelve as she hugged her knees. "I..."

"Spill it." Stan leant forward with a slight frown.

"It's nothing." Juliette became aware of how she sat and carefully straightened herself up. "I've creased this dress something horrid and the war seems to be getting to me slightly."

"Oh?"

"I want buttered crumpets, good tea and a new dress. I want to be able to visit my friends without accounting for every drop of petrol expended...I've even learnt to ride a bicycle."

"How the mighty have descended." Stan gave a slight choke and then rose. "Hint taken, Sis, I'll back off ... but do remember you're not alone in this world."

"Even if I wanted to think I was, I've never had the chance." Juliette rose as well, gave a small smile of farewell and slipped from the room. Stan sank back into his chair aware that Juliette was not departing by a main entrance and his company was undesired. War was hell and madness, and somehow even despite his best efforts, he'd become entangled in it.

Continued In Next Section