Previous Section, Section XVI, Next Section
Part 52 Posted on Sunday, 19 February 2006
April 10th - Tripoli, Northern Africa
Appearances can be deceiving.
Annette had opened her door carefully and unloaded her arms before really paying attention to anything, and then she noticed three things. The first noticeable thing was that Roger's Office was not silent. In fact Roger seemed to be engaged in a debate of a purely acrimonious nature. The second point of interest was that the hat rack contained three hats, when normally it didn't even contain Roger's hat. The third thing Annette noticed somewhat abruptly was that Eoan, far from settling under the desk with his usual huff of disgust, had remained at the corner of the desk, his hackles up and his ears pricked intently. Annette hesitated for a long moment and then very deliberately she settled in her desk and began transcribing a pile of letters Roger had apparently written out of hours so that they'd be ready for signing soon.
"They're good for another two hours yet I suspect." Rory emerged abruptly from the inner office with a grin on his face and a gleam in his eyes. Annette looked up from the thirteenth letter with a frown of confusion.
"I assume Mr. Thomas Mallern is the other hat then." Annette's confusion had cleared quickly and she waved Rory towards a seat. "Safely back from drawing Americans?"
"No, just swinging past for rations." Rory abruptly stretched and then yawned. "Why is Roger so resistant to lending you out?"
"Is he?"
"That." Rory waved his hand towards the inner office. "Has been going all night and mostly because Roger won't lend you even for a week."
"Why does an artist want a female secretary in the wilds ... particularly when he has you already?"
"Doesn't want you for the wilds. Mallern is all lined up to have a chat with Eisenhower and draw some dramatic little sketches for some US paper and he wants to present an appropriate image ... otherwise known as men who have managed to avoid court-martial on two occasions are never viewed kindly in military establishments." Rory closed his eyes for a second and sighed. "At a guess though I'm figuring that Thomas is going to have to suffer a disreputable image."
"Mr. Mallern might have approached me first and discovered whether I even could come."
"Problems?" Rory's brows drew together sharply.
"No, but I know for a fact that Peter James is not in very good health at the present moment and I've no wish to make his life unnecessarily difficult or painful."
"Would have thought you'd want to be as difficult as possible." Rory shrugged and then gulped for Annette had shot him a warning look.
"Neither of us have any choice in our current situation and there is no point in making things awkward by bad behaviour."
"Sorry." Rory was staring down at his shoes. "It was a joke in poor taste. I didn't think..."
"You never have and the door is opening." Annette bent back over her letter and bit her lip against tears that stung the back of her eyes. So stupid and senseless. She had known it was a joke and would probably have laughed any other day...but for some reason she couldn't laugh today.
"Come on Halifax." The man who stalked out of the inner office was a complete stranger to Annette. The man grabbed his hat as he passed and reached the door without pause. Annette shot a quick glance at Rory who was grabbing his own hat and realised with a shock that she was going to speak.
"Rory, tonight if you can make it ... we ... I..."
"Don't worry." Rory gave a tense smile as he followed Mallern through the door. Annette leant back with a sigh and knew a degree of relief which was undoubtedly irrational.
"Is that why Mallern wanted you?" Roger was frowning as he stood in the doorway to his office.
"Rory is a friend whom I have known since I was two years old and unless you can behave decently I'll thank you to restrict all conversation to purely business matters." Annette finished the last of the transcriptions with a bang, tore the page from the type-writer and handed the whole pile to Roger. "Letters for your attention, you have a meeting here at ten o'clock and a meeting over lunch with Major Anderson."
"Anything this afternoon?"
"Not so far, but neither has the morning mail arrived yet." Annette shoved another page into the typewriter and picked up where she had left off the previous evening on a rather lengthy report Roger had given her several days before.
"Let me know if anything comes." Roger began withdrawing into his office.
"Yes, sir." Annette banged the return on the type-writer and then groaned and buried her face in her hands. Roger's question had been totally unwarranted and inappropriate, but that did not make her behaviour any more appropriate. Least of all when she had to acknowledge that part of her snappishness was due to disappointment, for the trip sounded fun and there was no doubt but that she'd have seen more of Africa while on it. However she wasn't going and Roger had managed to tinge the whole idea with impropriety.
Rory had followed Mallern from the squashed little offices with his head in what would be best described as a whirl. Rory's mind was methodical, if occasionally unorthodox, and it was unappreciative of being met by what seemed to be a counter-indicative situation. Instinct said Annette had wanted to come, but logic pointed out the sheer impossibility of that. If Annette was disappointed about not being able to come, it was fair enough that she should be snappish. However the problem lay in necessity. As far as Rory knew there was nothing binding Annette to working with Roger, in fact if the past few months were anything to go by there was more than sufficient reason for Annette to throw the job over and find another. That Annette didn't leave indicated that contrary to Rory's instincts she liked the job, which meant Rory's instinct was most likely wrong. The situation was impossible and Rory was fast approaching the point of frustration where he started kicking walls.
"Halifax." It was Mallern who broke in on Rory's meditations and the word was accompanied by a sharp tap on the shoulder.
"Yes?" Rory looked up from his shoes, which he hadn't realised he was watching.
"We seem to have a tail."
"That's hardly a subtle way to draw my attention to the matter." Rory managed to restrain himself from turning around to look, but it was close.
"It's not a subtle tail." Mallern's tone was almost meditative. "In fact I'm more inclined to think he's amusing himself while attempting to catch our attention."
"Grey character?" Rory had turned on Mallern's words and it hadn't taken him long to see the man who had attracted Mallern's attention. "I suspect you're right about him."
"Grey hair, a grey suit and a grey countenance do have that effect." Mallern abruptly propped himself against a nearby wall and pulled out his sketchpad. "You seem to know the man, so I shall leave him to your tender mercies."
"You would have left him to me anyway." Rory shot half a glance back at their tail, who had settled himself nearby and seemed to be investigating a tray of the most rotten looking oranges Rory had ever seen.
"True." Mallern half closed his eyes as he considered the small brawl which was developing on the other side of the street. "I shall draw this stirring scene of international co-operation and await your report ... though I advise you to be a bit nicer to him than you were to that American."
"That American did two things this man will never do if he is who I think it is." Rory resettled his hat with a sigh and pushed off the wall.
"What gross sin did the American commit?"
"He annoyed me and he responded beautifully when baited. This man is trained not to annoy and if baited he merely looks at nothing and makes you feel like a complete idiot." Rory hunched his shoulders and moved away.
"Remind me not to annoy you then." Mallern called it after Rory's retreating back.
"Remember to pay my wage often enough and you needn't worry." Rory crossed the street to where Peter James continued to study the fruits on sale. "I doubt those fruits are worth the expense Mr. James."
"I rather agree with you." Peter James looked up from his study and after a moment moved away from the stand. "You seem to have a good memory."
"No, Annie mentioned you and I've seen you in the vicinity."
"I did forget she would likely have mentioned my presence to you." Peter James gave a slow nod. "She keeps herself entertained by calling me Dr Livingston."
"She would." Rory abruptly leant against a nearby wall and pulled a newspaper from his pocket. "Mallern seemed to think you were entertaining yourself while waiting for us to notice you so you could speak to us."
"Mr. Mallern seems to have understood the situation remarkably well." Peter James settled to read the other side of Rory's newspaper. "Mr. James congratulates you on making good in Burma, he commends your courage and wishes you well in the future."
"How the devil can he do that when he's been dead since before I..." Rory skidded to a verbal halt and lowered the paper to stare at the other. "I see, he's not dead."
"Mr. James is..."
"Don't even attempt to tell me that he's living in Lambton." Rory raised the newspaper again. "Annie would be writing to him if it really were him."
"You seem confident that she isn't."
"Annie always talks about her mail ... even if she has to invent the letter to talk about it."
"Mr. James may have requested no correspondence."
"I am undoubtedly a fool, but I'm not that stupid." Rory lowered the newspaper once more. "When did Mr. Darcy communicate this wish to be silent? That oaf Roger reads her mail ... and everyone else's. Roger wouldn't keep his mouth shut for five seconds if he found proof that one a Darcy was alive and two he was writing to his old flame."
"Miss Fouchiard was never a flame." Peter James pushed the paper back up again. "Your mentioning that brings me to the other duty I was required to discharge for Mr. James. Mr. James extends his appologies to you for what happened during the winter of 1940-41 and the spring of 1941."
"Ext..." Rory closed his eyes for a second. "What can he possibly have to appologise for?"
"He knew before he ever danced with Miss Fouchiard that F ... Miss Thompson would take some form of vengeance. Mr. James did not consider the possibility of her attacking through you though."
"You tell Mr. James from me, just as soon as you next communicate with him, that omniscience is not gifted to humans, though he does an impressive imitation of having it. I don't know why he danced with Annie and I've reached the conclusion that I don't want to know ... but if he's going to try and take responsibility for my acts of idiocy from me I've got news for him. My life is my responsibility as are my acts of idiocy. I thank him for interfering and saving me from the kick-out...but in future I'd like it if he asked me first and so you can tell him."
"You do not think too highly of Roger." Peter James neatly folded away Rory's newspaper.
"Roger is an imitation." Rory pushed off the wall and then hesitated. "That's why Annie stays isn't it?"
"Sorry?"
"There's no need for playing dense. Annie's no fool and she knows Roger is cautiously pumping her for any and all information concerning James Darcy. Why he wants that information I am in no place to even guess. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't. As long as Annie sticks close to Roger she knows what he knows ... she leaves and you lose all knowledge of whatever agency controls Roger. You're watching Annie because what she's up to is risky ... more so since the world as reads the English newspapers is looking towards her as the one and only love-interest in James Darcy's life. Whether the myths that Darcys only love once are true or not I cannot say, but you yourself have stated that Annie wasn't a flame ... and Annie would have told me weeks ago if she'd married the man."
"You seem confident on that point."
"I know Annie." Rory spoke curtly as he abruptly began to walk. "Maybe it's deliberate on his part to protect where his genuine vulnerability lies. Maybe it's his idea of a joke. Maybe it was simply a situation which got out of control and has built up an alternative path which he's not sorry to take advantage of. Whatever the reason it is undoubtedly well founded and would probably stand strong if anyone tried to argue with him over it. He's definitely taken all possible precautions against Annie getting hurt ... but then she runs her own risks working for someone like Roger."
"When did you figure all this out?"
"A comment Annie made several weeks ago when I called Roger a fool. The rest has been developing slowly and some of it only fell into place when I started talking to you a couple of minutes ago."
"Mr. James was correct." Peter James handed Rory his newspaper with a small bow and two fingers of acknowledgement in a mock salute which was closer to his nose than his forehead.
"I hope a general never taught you that." Rory pushed the paper into his pocket.
"No, sir." Peter James abruptly came together into a perfect parade ground salute. Rory flinched at the cracking and creaking which accompanied the movement and Peter James grinned. "Never try being smart, boy. You've brains of a sort, but they're much better use where they are."
"Meaning in my head?"
"Sort it out for yourself." Peter James resumed his normal and somewhat blank expression before turning to return the way they had come. Rory glanced around himself in a degree of confusion and then blinked. In the process of their walk they had managed to cross the street and stop right next to Mallern who had just finished some sketch which definitely had not been the brawl he'd begun drawing.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir." Rory settled himself comfortably on his shoes and glanced around the street.
"Informative chat?"
"Couldn't say, just a message which had been waiting to arrive for a while." Rory glanced up at the sky and then shrugged. "At some point I'll possibly decide it's valid, at the present moment I think it's a trifle premature."
"For you everything is eternally premature ... unless you do it on impulse and then undoubtedly it is less than half cooked."
"Better than burning everything."
"At least I get so far as burning it. If I left the cooking up to you, as I leave all other supply and accommodation matters, I'd end up having to chew on the cookbook because you'd never get past wondering whether the recipe was safe ... have we finished with this exchange of personalities yet?"
"Probably not, but I'll say yes just so we can go somewhere so I can achieve accommodation for us."
"That grey character has a bad effect on you." Mallern gave his head a small shake. "Was it who you thought it was?"
"Yes." Rory hesitated and then refrained from expanding on the monosyllable. It was not at all necessary for Mallern to know about Mr. Peter James.
"Dear me, you've come over all discreet ... I'll refrain from asking further."
"Kind of you." Rory hunched his shoulders slightly as he followed Mallern down the street. Rory wasn't admitting it even to himself, but he was not looking forward to this upcoming meeting with High Command. Even if they were foreigners Rory doubted that they'd like him any more than the English varieties of High Command liked him. Altogether alarming ... but he had walked 900 miles, dug graves, nearly drowned in a river and become friends with Annie again, surely he'd be able to pass himself off with credit now.
April 23rd 1943 - Rosings, Kent
I don't care what is written about me so long as it isn't true. - Dorothy Parker
Juliette had a very thoughtful frown on her face as she turned the radio off. It was a very nice radio which had been built by someone who clearly understood radios. It was a radio transceiver of vast range and even Ashie had conceded that it was a very nice radio. Ashie had never approved of either Juliette or any of her belongings ... not that Juliette cared for she did not approve of Ashie, he was ramshackle and unreliable. The set easily pulled in signals from the Americas, Asia and Australia. Juliette utilised the set primarily to listen to foreign news, not for the news itself, but the languages. She had always been proud of her linguistic abilities and considered war no excuse whatsoever for allowing those skills to deteriorate. The set meant Juliette could maintain her knowledge of modern languages without travelling all over the world all the time. She was very allergic to travel of any kind and had a collection of speeding tickets which proved beyond any doubt that when travel was forced upon her, she disposed of it as quickly as possible.
"Boots, you're frowning." Annie-Bug's voice was most certainly not what Juliette expected to hear and she shrieked in response and then simply glared. "Now that's a glare ... do I get a scowl now ... or a smile?"
"Neither." Juliette gave her head a tiny shake and then smiled. "Ah ... well, you got a smile."
"Thank you." Annie-Bug disposed of herself on the battered bed which shared the radio transceiver's room. "Why is this bed in here?"
"I think it was here first." Juliette looked at the bed rather thoughtfully and then shrugged. "No reason why it should be pitched simply because a radio decided to move in here."
"True enough." Annie-Bug was frowning at the radio set and Juliette groaned.
"Out!" Juliette abruptly shooed her twin forth and slammed the door shut. "Since you looked I'm now going to actually ask why you're here."
"Well..." Annie-Bug stubbed a toe against the wall.
"Annie-Bug your feet are bare."
"Well, my shoes were dirty and my socks were worse."
"If you insist on coming through the Coal Hole the least you can do is bring a change of footwear." Juliette lead the way quickly upstairs and into her own rooms.
"It's odd being here and not having to worry about Grandmother." Annie-Bug kept looking around herself rather uneasily. "It never occured to me that she could die."
"Well, she did." Juliette abruptly threw a dress, underclothes, and a pair of shoes on the bed. "I'll be waiting downstairs."
"Boots..." Annie-Bug hesitated.
"Yes?" Juliette paused in the doorway and half turned back.
"I got fired again." Annie-Bug abruptly grabbed the clothes and vanished around the screen to wash and change.
"I'll make tea." Juliette had calmly swung around and continued out the door. It was a quarter of an hour later when Annie-Bug came into the cavernous kitchen and settled on one of the scrubbed wooden stools. There was a comfortable silence in the room until Juliette knocked an empty milk can into the sink. It clattered and crashed and then was silent. The tea went on a tray into the parlour and the two women settled.
"Sorry to be so abrupt about it." Annie-Bug sipped her tea thoughtfully. "I really meant it more an ask as to whether I could be any use here."
"There is no shortage of work here if work is what you want." Juliette tucked her feet away under her chair and glanced out the window at a formal garden which was rather draggled. One part-time gardener was simply not enough to maintain the formal gardens of Rosings Park, and each month of insufficient care would take years to correct. Juliette had simply given up on the formal lawns and turned them into hayfields, a century to repair the damage and daisies, or a century to remove the instinct to hay. Hay was more useful these days...though June would be a very hard month with the increased hay harvest.
"Good." Annie-Bug abruptly gulped the rest of her tea and then waved her hands rather energetically for she had burnt her tongue.
"Please!" Juliette's mouth had tightened only fractionally.
"Ah, to see that grimace again." Annie-Bug grinned and settled more comfortably on her seat and earning herself another small grimace. "Now, I repeat the earlier question ... why the frown?"
"Was I frowning?"
"Yes. You'd turned off the radio and you were frowning at it." Annie-Bug paused for a moment of thought. "Actually you frowned two frowns."
"Two frowns?" Juliette looked exceedingly skeptical of this idea.
"Well one frown was a sort of 'Hmm, what now?' frown and the other..." Annie-Bug hesitated. "Doesn't matter."
"The first frown was a frown considering the future." Juliette hesitated in turn and abruptly rubbed her nose. "Jeroen is at Foulaché and coming home by not precisely the fastest method as of this evening. Not fast, but safe."
"Oh." Annie-Bug simply stared. "I think I'll be delighted when I see him for myself."
"Wise precaution." Juliette sipped her tea. "Even James occasionally makes mistakes ... though I don't think he has this time."
"Why do you say it like that?" Annie-Bug looked at Juliette in clear perplexity. "I thought it was a symphony you were listening too when I came in."
"An old recording of the Prague Philharmonic ... very nice recording." Juliette carefully laid her tea aside. "I like listening to the radio on occasion and the news did not come by radio. James..."
"Juliette, that confounded hand has been drafted." Stan came storming into the room with a rather irritated expression on his countenance.
"We have a part-time gardener and that is it?" Juliette's expression was a well-bred blank, which could well mean anything.
"Precisely." Stan nodded curtly to Annie-Bug and then returned his attention to Juliette. "I've no doubt we can hire boys to help ... but most of them will be pig-ignorant."
"Really, Stan." Juliette rose to her feet and crossed to the window. Annie-Bug watched Juliette in intent silence for clearly something was bothering her.
"We don't qualify for land-girls because this place isn't large enough these days."
"These days?" Annie-Bug glanced at Stan in curiosity, it seemed a rather odd qualification.
"Your grandmother sold off almost half of the land at some point between the wars." Stan leant against the doorframe. "I believe James bought it off whoever bought it from her, but I believe he hasn't yet had time to legally rejoin the land ... though we're farming it again."
"How do you know that?" Juliette turned sharply from the window.
"Somerset House." Stan showed his teeth in a warning smile. "Only way to find out the Darcy holdings without necessarily asking a Darcy."
"Surely you'd only find out the English ones there." Annie-Bug drew her eyebrows together.
"English ones were the only ones that mattered." Stan gave a yawn. "God help you if James dies, Juliette."
"Be quiet!" Juliette flashed in sudden anger.
"What...?" Annie-Bug's was flipping between the two of them. Juliette's expression was downright unpleasant and Stan's was simply concerned.
"None of your business, Anneliese."
"Stan?" Anneliese turned her attention to Standard with a plain enquiry on her face.
"I..."
"No, Standard."
"Juliette, it concerns her just as much as it concerns you."
"No it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"She's married."
"You're married too."
"That's totally different."
"Juliette de Bourgh Darcy, if someone doesn't tell me what this double talk is about I will first scream and then I will read every record in Somerset House to find out what this all means ... if I have to."
"Probably would take every paper for you to understand it." Juliette turned back to the window as she spoke and Annie-Bug could only stare at Juliette's back.
"Jul..." Annie-Bug stopped herself, abruptly rose and left the room. Stan hesitated for a moment, then he too turned to depart, but not to follow Annie-Bug.
Juliette remained where she stood, back to the room, blind eyes staring out across the tangled gardens and unkempt lawn. She was still standing there an hour later when Standard came back into the room.
"I say, Juliette."
"Shut it." Juliette abruptly pushed off the window sill. "Where's Anneliese?"
"That's just what I was about to ask." Standard remained stolidly blocking the doorway. "Annie-Bug's not in the house, not in any of the buildings, not over at Charlotte's..."
"She better not go to Charlotte's." Juliette jolted and anger flamed again.
"Relax, she's not." Stan's mouth tightened fractionally. "What I'm telling you is that your little twin has left Rosings."
"Her car hasn't left." Juliette indicated the main sweep of gravel which passed outside the window.
"She has two feet and it's less than three miles to the station."
"Annie-Bug would never walk to the train station."
"Don't see why not, she's unemployed and she has no reason to remain here."
"That's you're fault."
"Mine?"
"All information concerning Rosings Estate is DSA and well you should know it. Why bring it up?"
"Because I feel Annie-Bug has a right to know."
"No one has any right to know anything about this property except for me and Mr. Darcy."
"Must be tricky keeping Inland Revenue out of your hair."
"Stop being idiotic, Stan. Rosings is not your concern, it never has been and never will be. Neither is it Annie-Bug's concern." Juliette turned back to the window. "You can leave."
"Quite the grandmother today aren't we." Stan shifted into the room and slammed the door. "Like hell, Sis."
"I told you to leave."
"And I'm telling you to make me." Stan leant against the door. "You do not have half a dozen footmen floating around to do your dirty work for you these days."
"Why don't you just take off?" Juliette turned abruptly to look at Stan.
"Because, Little Sis, though you do most impressive impersonations of your grandmother you are not that old..." Stan caught himself and hesitated. "Suffice to say that I'm inclined to think that you are not a sour old cat, rather that for some reason you are very, very upset about something."
"Uh-huh?" Juliette snorted skeptically and turned back to the window.
"Care to explain why else you deliberately, intentionally and as maliciously as possible insulted your own twin sister in the most hurtful way you could?"
"Perhaps that's just what I am." Juliette gave a shrug.
"You may be able to fob your own conscience off with that sap, but you can't fob me off with it. What happened, Juliette?"
"He said goodbye, Stan." Juliette's shoulders shook twice, then she turned and buried her face in Stan's chest.
"Oh heavens." Whatever he had been expecting, Stan had to confess that the real answer had not been on the list, anywhere. Stan hugged the thin, shaking shoulders as his mind considered the sheer enormity of the situation. There was only one he Juliette ever referred to without classification, and that particular he never said goodbye to anyone under any circumstances whatsoever. If he really had said goodbye ... it was just unheard of and as good as a death warrant for why else would he have said it. "I don't believe he really means it."
"Then why would he say it?" Juliette lifted her head and Stan cursed for that was the very question he had no answer for. If he didn't mean it, why would he have said it?
"In all probability he's crook as a cat, miserable and starting to question just how much he can take." Stan balanced his words carefully before he finally replied to Juliette's demand. The temptation was to tell any handy lie so long as it changed Juliette's expression ... but knowledge of Juliette demanded that he speak nothing but the truth and what he honestly believed. "I'm not saying for a moment he's in a good place, coming home soon, or anything even remotely nice and happy making ... but I'll be damned if I believe he's going to be idiot enough to just give up."
"In other words I've got to keep fighting just in case that stupid curse is true!" The expression had changed, it had died and Stan had never been so terrified in his life. What was happening?
"No, the curse has nothing to do with anything. You've got to keep fighting because you know he's worth fighting for, just as you are worth fighting for. Everyone is worth fighting for ... particularly if they are fighting for themselves." Stan gave a small smile as Juliette closed her eyes again for a moment.
"Why do you think Annie-Bug needs to know about that?" The shoulder movement was rather expressive.
"Because Annie-Bug, like myself, views Rosings as a haven from the world, a place where time stands still and youthful innocence can be remembered. Sure, the land is currently held under Brian's stewardship ... but what happens if Brian dies? Where will you go? Where will we go? What will happen to Rosings? Annie-Bug deserves to know that this is a place we Darcys are going to have to fight for if we want to keep it. Time doesn't stand still and Rosings will be lost if we don't do something about it. Rosings isn't something you should carry alone, if we want to enjoy it, we should realise that we have to make it what it is first ... can't always rely on there being a Juliette to do it for us."
"Thanks, Stan." Juliette straightened up and rubbed her face. "I'm going out for a bit, but hopefully I'll be back in time for tea ... make it for yourself if I'm not."
"Right." Stan gave a brief nod and an encouraging grin. "Go to it, Sis, you're worth a hundred old grannies because you listen and you've got the gift of admitting when you've made a muff of things. I'll be out in the fields doing my noble imitation of a farmhand should you want me before dark."
"I doubt it." Juliette gave a small smile and then picked up her car keys. "Time I acquired another speeding ticket anyway."
Part 53 Posted on Tuesday, 28 February 2006
May 7th 1943 - Bavaria, Germany
To see a light is to see a way forward.
The light was agonising and yet Joe refused to close his eyes to it. The white finger lanced into the room, revealing dripping walls, streaming stone and a foul trench. The light reached upwards and revealed the ceiling to be as bad as the walls. The light then swung around and revealed the two occupants who leant against the wall slightly back from the door. One flinched and blinked, but kept his eyes open. The other remained unmoving, his eyes closed and his expression empty.
"How long have they been here?" The query came from the darkness behind the torch and it was sharp.
"Joe Turier, waiter, 2 months and ... seven days." A second voice responded and Joe finally differentiated at least four sets of feet in the shadow behind the light.
"The other?"
"Stephan Kalt, unemployed." Another voice answered, then hesitated for a very long time.
"What is the date?" Stephan stirred, but did not open his eyes.
"Seventh of May."
"Year?"
"Nineteen forty-three."
"Eight months and fourteen days." Stephan spoke firmly.
"See them taken to the infirmary ... blindfolded." The first voice gave the order and feet moved in response to it.
"But..." Joe started off the wall, but found himself restrained by a cold hand. Stephan's expression was a rather sad smile.
"Joe, it is a kindness that he blindfolds us. That is a very feeble torch and it hurts even with the eyes closed. Think what real light will be like."
"Oh." Joe submitted to the heavy blindfold and hoped he managed to conceal the insane degree of relief he felt at the return to darkness. Darkness was a known quantity, the world outside of the cell was the unknown, and truth be told he was very, very worried by their removal from the cell.
Joe rolled over awkwardly, groaned and squinted towards the window. It still hurt to look, but the pain was more than worth it. There was not as much light as usual though, and after a squinting peer Joe managed to decide that there was an obstruction in the window and with a muffled moan he rolled out of bed and staggered across to the window. He would have reached the window except that he fell over someone's feet before he reached it.
"Mind it." A quick hand arrested Joe's fall almost before it began.
"Thanks." Joe tightened his grip and pushed himself back onto the other edge of the window sill. "You've got quick hands."
"I did see you coming." The reply was dry and Joe was aware that the other was folding up a small scrap of paper.
"What's that?"
"Couldn't say." The scrap changed hands. "Found it in the window tracks."
"Some sort of mathematics?"
"Elevation calculations for a gun I think." Stephan shrugged. "Not one of ours, I'm guessing a prisoner was passing the hours and left it behind."
"Possible." Joe bent back over the scrap of paper. "Going to hand it in?"
"Why? No use to anyone since it might equally be a calculation exercise for an imaginary gun." Stephan rose and moved back towards his bed. "It's another hour yet before breakfast yet."
"How are your eyes coping?"
"Getting used to the light." Stephan settled down and closed his eyes. "Wake me at breakfast if you can, I'm tired."
"Will do." Joe scanned the scrap of paper for a moment of two longer before pushing it into his pocket and reaching for the newspaper which they had access too, it was a mere month and a half old.
May 27th 1943 - Möhne Dam, Germany
Guardian Angels exist ... if they don't I'm a ghost. - RAF Pilot, 1943
Brian O'Niell watched unblinkingly as he slowly wheeled over the Möhne Dam. The model had been very good and it was difficult to realise that he was not staring down at the model. This was reality. This was the result of several months of training in a squadron so shrouded in secrecy that no one had understood anything. They had been trained ruthlessly to a degree which would have pleased even Ashie. The result, he was now wheeling over the biggest dam in Germany with a specially designed bomb which made his Lancaster look like a bug which had been stepped on rather than an aeroplane.
Gibson had already taken G George in and scored a direct hit. M Mother had bought it for this type of bombing had no allowance for error, and there had been an error. P Popsie had been next and it had been clean. Next would be...
"T Teddie, you're up next." Gibson spoke abruptly over the r/t and Brian almost jumped as he wheeled across to line up his run.
"Sir." Brian drew a slow and careful breath as he swung around into line and switched on the targetting lights. "Mick, you with me?"
"Got you loud and clear, Cap." Mick O'Rourke's calm response brought a smile to Brian's face.
"How are we?"
"Disgustingly high, Cap."
"Coming down." Brian dropped into a gentlish dive as Charlie adjusted the throttles. "Charlie, yank me clear if I'm hit." The flack had been bad and they did not need to dive into the ground because Brian had fallen over the controls when hit.
"Bit lower, Cap ... up a whisker ... down a hair ... oh, there's my darling." Mick hated low flying usually, but for some reason this had never disturbed him. "Hold it steady as is, Cap." The dam surface seemed invisible and Brian carefully held his course as they roared towards the dam wall.
"Flack's getting warm." Franz spoke almost meditatively from the upper gun turret before laying down a line of fire which dissuaded some of the fire.
"____!" The word came as the Lancaster jumped from the bomb drop and the word held all the news Brian didn't want to hear. Charlie was already slamming for full throttle, possibly without even thinking about it. There was no time for anything, one could merely pray and climb as fast as possible.
The explosion when it came was a blinding, brain-searing flash followed by a thunderous roar which split the head wide open. Brian had flung his hands up to protect his eyes and ears from the explosion, but he might as well have tried to wrestle an elephant for the good it did. The shock wave followed split seconds later and the Lancaster was tossed like an autumn leaf in a playful breeze.
At sixty feet the shock wave should have torn the wings cleanly off the Lancaster. At sixty feet the flash should have engulfed the Lancaster and ignited the fuel tanks. At sixty feet the combination of the explosion should have instantly killed the crew. At the very least the Lancaster should have met its end in the hilly terrain around the Möhne Dam, thrown into a hill by the shock wave. None of these happened. Deafened, blinded and thoroughly disoriented, Brian seized the controls as soon as it became clear that the worst of the shock was past. Brian did not expect any response from the controls for the hydraulics and wires all had to have been destroyed, but with a hill immediately visible even to his flash blinded eyes Brian acted on instinct, grabbed the controls and yanked the Lanc around.
The Lancaster responded to the commands only just in time. Brian had control, but they were the soggiest, gluey-est controls he had ever tried to fly with. The Lancaster clipped a tree with one wing as it heeled over and around. Brian had no idea how he and the Lanc had survived and he had no intention of thinking of his crew ... least of all Mick who had been in the bomb-aimer's turret as they'd gone over the dam wall. There wasn't a single intact screen in the cockpit, Brian was not going to think of what the underside turrets were like. Some Guardian Angel had been badly overworked and undoubtedly required immediate retirement.
The engines were choking and coughing like they were suffering from bad asthma. Brian might have said something about throttling them back a bit, but Charlie seemed unconscious or dead and Brian hadn't the time or hands to see to the throttles himself. The outer starboard engine had died almost immediately after Brian had clipped the tree. If the Lanc made it back to safety, Brian was willing to lay anything that the exhaust was clogged with dust, concrete and tree branches. The inner starboard engine was probably the healthiest of the remaining three ... but Brian wasn't about to issue it with life insurance for anything less than a 100% premium. As with the controls Brian lived with the expectation of their immediate demise at any moment.
The miracles continued to happen as the Lancaster continued to fly. Brian rubbed his eyes and ears, while squinting into the darkness in search of obstacles. Flying at well over two hundred miles an hour at tree top level was nerve-wracking and Brian was almost thankful to be flying in a dead plane ... bad enough being the pilot, but imagine being a passenger! The flash blinding was beginning to pass and somehow Brian was managing to see all obstacles before they were too close to avoid. Another Guardian Angel was working flat-out at piece-rates to keep Brian and the Lancaster in the air.
"Cap." Mick's voice was the very last thing Brian had expected to hear and he went so far as to drop the controls, before snatching desperately to avoid a hill which seemed to materialise from nowhere.
"___!" Brian took a deep breath before wincing as the strength left his left hand once more. "Geez, Mick!" Brian flicked his hand, flexed it and then grabbed the controls once more before risking a lightning glance at O'Rourke. "I take it..."
"Appleby was in the lower turret and didn't get out." Mick spoke in a curiously flat tone. "I got the hell back to the body just as soon as I realised I'd stuffed it. Franz has a broken ankle which he's fixing ... Joe has a headache."
"Charlie?" Brian dragged the groaning Lancaster over a church steeple which seemed inordinately tall.
"Busted 'is neck." Mick responded flatly after a brief pause to lean over the slumped engineer. "Sorry Cap."
"Forget it." Brian risked another look away from the windscreens. "Mick, I need to know where the hell we are ... and if possible find out what direction we're headed in."
"Compass?"
"Tossed in the bucket." Brian swore and pulled the Lanc back from attempting to nose-dive. "It walks in dizzy circles so I've been using the pole star ... or at least I think it's the pole star." Brian fished into his pocket and handed Mick the small bag he kept there. "There should be a torch, pad, pen and pocket compass in there. No promises about the compass, it may be dead as well ... the altimeter says we're at 18,000 feet and I need to know what sort of high ground we're going to meet."
"Controls?"
"Soggy but working. Try throttling us back a bit would you. The outer starboard is gone but we're still feeding it fuel." Brian moved his head cautiously in hopes of clearing the ringing from his ears.
"Throttles are gone." Mick had fiddled the throttles and other controls for a moment.
"Get someone to look at the fuel gauges when you've figured out our situation ... if possible I'll get us to England."
"You'll make it Cap." Mick was already fiddling with the sextant in an effort to get the requisite star sights. "Joe reports that the r/t can hear ... seems to have forgotten how to speak though."
"Möhne gone?"
"Yes, they're heading across to Eder."
"Our own sweet selves?"
"They yelled for us to answer and then Gibson called Dinghy Young around to dump his bomb ... They think we bought it."
"We should've ... however I'll be damned if I waste the life we've been given." Brian eased around another hill. "Get Joe to take a look at the undercart if he can ... I suspect we'll have to make a belly landing when we land."
"Right." Mick retreated, leaving Brian to the starry night, the soggy controls and the growing realisation that his left hand was becoming progressively more useless.
"Mick says the compass works and I'm to tell you that the undercart is shot." Joe had crept into the cockpit.
"What's the current heading?"
"340 ... 350, Mick says the course is none too bad currently and he'll be in to talk about it just as soon as he's figured the course out. You've enough fuel to get back."
"Good." Brian shifted to shake his left hand again before abruptly freezing. "Is Franz in any shape to come forward?"
"Aye." Joe had been on the point of leaving but he came back at this. "Problem?"
"Something's wrong with my arm ... probably just a bad bruise but if he can check it he probably should."
"I'll send him forward with his kit." Joe retreated considerably faster than he'd arrived and Brian frowned as he realised that his arm was now totally useless.
"Joe says you've a dud arm." Franz appeared moments later.
"Left arm ... I think it's just badly bruised ... not responding very well to commands." Brian grimaced as he dragged the Lancaster away from a tree it seemed intent on ramming. "How's the ankle?"
"I've splinted it and can hobble around." Franz's breath hissed sharply. "Gib, close your eyes for a second, I need to check your face?"
"Why?" Brian squinted into the dark for a moment before he closed his eyes.
"Perspex all over the place, I want to check your face is alright." The light flicked momentarily across Brian's face. "Thanks ... your face is clean."
"Would have been surprised if it wasn't." Brian lowered the bomber a bit closer to the ground. "I had my arms up when the wave took out the screens."
"Looks like it." Franz was using a shuttered torch on Brian's arms, it was almost too much light, but somehow Brian kept his night sight going. The torch then played briefly around the cockpit before clicking off. "I'm sorry Brian, but this is going to hurt ... try not to crash us."
"What ha..." Brian's breath exploded from him. Franz may have been trying to be careful, but it felt like he was taking a blunt hacksaw after Brian's arm.
"That's done it and the local should kick in a moment." Franz moved backwards and looked out the gap where the forward screen had been in a rather blind manner.
"Local?"
"Anaesthetic, to keep you operational."
"What's wrong with it?" Brian flicked a glance away from the screens.
"It's broken Gib ... miracle it was working at all. Something busted it and put a good gash in your arm. You've been bleeding like a stuck pig."
"Right." Brian cursed as he nicked the top of a tree.
"Hang on while I check your left leg. I don't think all the blood came from your arm." Franz knelt down, fiddled briefly and caused Brian a bit more pain. "She'll do now, you had another gash down there."
"Good-oh." Brian nodded briefly as he avoided a barn.
"Joe and I will shift Charlie." Franz had bent over Charlie for the briefest of moments before retreating.
"Thanks." Brian nodded good-bye to Franz before testing the leg Franz had bandaged in avoiding yet another barn. Franz was back with Joe a moment later and they hustled Charlie's form out of the cockpit, leaving Brian to avoid a steeple.
"Cap." It was Mick who broke the silence next.
"What's up?" Brian flicked a quick glance away from the screens to check Mick, then frowned at the sight of a broad white bandage. "What happened?"
"Cut my head on something. Franz bandaged me up." Mick gave a shrug. "I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me here Cap. You'll not be able to manage the compass without wrecking your night sight."
"I wouldn't be able to manage the compass at all." Brian shook his head. "I've apparently busted my arm and Franz shot it full of something so I don't use it. Be good to have the company ... what's with the course?"
"We have to get past the flack at Hamm and it's a dashed narrow window."
"Mm." Brian avoided another tree as Mick turned his attention to get another reading from the stars. "Joe still working on the radio?"
"He's got it in pieces but doesn't seem at all hopeful."
"Good-oh." Brian paused and then gave a sigh.
"Problem?"
"N-o." Brian avoided another hill. "Just thinking the eggs back home will be nice."
"That they will be."
June 14th 1943 - Tripoli, North Africa
I'm a fairy and my name is Nuff ... Fairy Nuff. - Dick Smith Catalogue
"I'm almost inclined to call it tit for tat." Rory swore with some feeling as his one free hand scrambled around for a sound holding so he could take the strain off his other arm which was at the present moment carrying his entire body weight.
"I didn't say you had to go after that notebook." Mallern was looking over the edge of the cliff with extreme dislike.
"Right, and telling me that I'd be in Cairo for a month if I didn't get it isn't insistence?" Rory hesitated, got a grip and swung himself up the remains of the cliff.
"Well, I'm not the person who's lady love finally got out of Cairo ... a week ago you would have told that notebook to go float."
"I doubt it." Rory wriggled around inside his shirt and fished a collection of small rocks out of his collar. "But I might well have requested the trip to Cairo as a reward for retrieving it as opposed to a punishment for ignoring it."
"Someone's sense of humour has improved no end since I first met him." Mallern looked up from his notebook, his brows twisted slightly.
"Uh." Rory dropped onto the edge of the cliff and swung his feet in the open air. Africa during the day was hot and long since Rory had given up on shoes or an even slightly respectable appearance. Dressiness was all very well, but the desert was not an appreciative admirer and it took too much time when Mallern remained in the same clothes day in and day out. Tattered, oversized shirt and trousers held up by string and ventilated by several rents were the fashion of the day, though Rory did have good clothes for when they re-entered civilisation ... it reminded him of summer holidays and bird-nesting to sit on the edge of a cliff like this.
"Careful!" Mallern's cry caught Rory's attention just in time and a hasty grab saved an embarrassing and potentially very painful fall.
"Thanks." Rory resettled himself.
"Where were you? Off with the seagulls?"
"Bitterns to be precise." Rory gave a very faint smile and then grimaced. "I'll appologise in advance for I'm guaranteed to be in a bad mood this evening."
"Thanks for the warning, we're leaving now."
"Why?" Rory scrambled to his feet in total astonishment.
"Because if we don't go now there's no way I can dump you on Annette before the bad mood sets in and I'll be hanged if I have you on my hands in a grouchy mood when I've got a deadline bearing down on me."
"I am not that obnoxious!"
"You want to bet on that?" Mallern looked up sharply from the bag he was stuffing.
"No." Rory had not hesitated for long before he responded.
"Which reminds me, I've got a job for you."
"What?"
"Marry that girl so we have a permanent guide who won't lose us!"
"I'll be damned if I marry anyone simply so you don't get lost."
"I didn't expect you to. Marry the girl for your own reasons with my blessing, but for goodness sake marry her so I can take advantage of her manifest skills ... which Roger blatantly abuses and ignores."
"Tom..." Rory stopped and shrugged. "Much as I might wish to marry her she is simply a friend and I won't risk it. I've worked hard for that friendship and I'll be damned if I mess things up again."
"Ever considered what you're going to do when she marries someone else?" Mallern threw the bags into the back of the jeep and bundled the tent after them. "There'll be someone else in her life when that day comes ... another man ... and you know how logical and gentlemanly you are when you suspect her of messing around with someone else." Mallern set his mouth firmly.
"Stop it." Rory had his hands over his ears. "Stop it now, Tom!"
"Why should I? It's the truth and something you're going to have to face. Annette's the marrying type and she's got the wits to marry anywhere she wants to ... though I'm rather of the opinion that she doesn't intend to marry for money, power or position." Mallern threw the jeep into gear and they went bouncing over the sand. "I'm not totally blind, Halifax, you've done impressive work when it comes to self-control and building honesty and integrity ... but Annette Fouchiard is your weak point and if you expect me to believe you'll tamely let her toddle off, get married and bear some other man's kids..."
"Damn you." Rory response was soft and emphatic.
"I'll be damned alright, I've got three deadlines looming and we've got an invasion before winter. Don't get into sack-cloth and ashes until you've committed a real crime ... though I don't advise you to try it for a moment. Things were bad between you and your Annette long before that long-legged twirler swung into your life and fed you through the mincer. If that's the biggest mistake you make in your life you're a very lucky man ... that's all I'll say."
"Damn you." Rory stared across the baking land and then abruptly turned. "You speak as if you feel you committed a real crime ... as you call it."
"I did and I do." Mallern sent the jeep hurtling over the edge of a small escarpment. "However my life is my life and I do not chose to allow the world into it."
"Ah." Rory leant back on the unsprung seat as the jeep tore towards the coast. It was decidedly strange that from Mallern such a comment was unoffensive, perhaps that was honesty. Mallern did not let the world into his life, he witnessed it from a distance. Rory pulled at a lose thread on his cuff and permitted his brain to tick and fiddle to itself. What did he want from his life and the world? A definition of guilt? a definition of retribution? Random thoughts which undoubtedly would connect at some point. Six months, seven months of sinking every penny and every spare second into building a friendship up with Annette again. Had it paid off? Could anything pay off? Was there even a payoff ... beyond his own satisfaction of knowing that he had done his best. Perhaps satisfaction, in and of itself, was the pay off of effort. Dependence on others for reward, sounded like all of life was a financial transaction. That comment Annette had once made about gratitude, something about sending out bills of requirement when she needed it. Rory made a note to himself to find out about that comment some day. Gratitude ... he'd said it himself once that he'd wanted a little gratitude for his efforts ... but what of the efforts of others? Rory winced as he remembered lunches with Annette back all those years ago. Like anyone he liked to feel important, valued and an opponent worthy of respect by the world ... but to demand it like he had? Of the two of them, Annie was by far the superior and yet ... It made no sense for surely ... Then there was Ashie, that flimsy noble he'd heaped much scorn on ... Ashie, who had just once lost his temper sufficiently to reveal just what sort of person lay behind the idiocy and mannerisms. Rory had never felt so stupid and insignificant as he had felt that day that Ashie had ripped into him, casting aside for a brief period of time that carefully cultivated mask which kept the world at bay. Rory could still remember how those eyes had flashed. He could still remember the feeling which had welled up in his gut in response to something he could not name. Ashie as a flippant clown still bore the distinguishing attributes of a born leader, but Ashie enraged had revealed a man who all too probably deserved an incredible war reputation. In fact Ashie enraged had revealed a man of intelligence, strength and character who deserved more than the incredible reputation he had. The question was what caused such a retreat. If Rory had any fear it was something which he suspected he was the only person to have noticed, Annette had begun to develop similar traits, a frivolous, flippant attitude which was in fact nothing more than a means of keeping the world away. What was it? Why did these people who had everything seem determined to squander and hide it?
"I can hear the gears grinding from here ... what produce comes from the mighty, heaving brain which sits beside me?"
"I was actually trying to decide why the unfit wanted power ... and why those who generally had the power and the ability to use it seem determined to avoid it?"
"No answer ... unless you'll accept that those with the brains to use the power also have the brains to see the danger ... where as the twits who want power, and achieve power, are usually too preoccupied with forming the world to meet their own demands to realise how damned dangerous it is to meddle with the world."
"Oh." Rory pulled on the end of his nose and then sniffed.
"What brought on the train of thought?"
"Apart from a pile of pointless it was Wing-Commander Lord James Ashington-Frankston."
"You say that name without a stumble."
"When you've cursed him even a quarter as much as I have you'd be able to say any name without any difficulty at all."
"So what has that fop to do with anything?"
"Ever meet him?"
"No, never quite managed to scrape into that strata of society." Mallern gave a choked laugh.
"Well you won't meet him now, but take my word for it he's not a stupid fop by any measure."
"Then what is he?"
"I don't know, but he does deserve the reputation he won in the war."
"That coming from you is saying more than a little." Mallern glanced down at the gear shift and then re-engaged the engine which he had stopped for some unspecified reason.
"I'm not accustomed to meeting people who cause quite that effect on me."
"What effect is that?"
"How does Annette strike you?"
"Exceedingly easy on the eye ... quite intelligent ... " Mallern gave a shrug.
"Anything else?"
"Ahh." Mallern gave a small smile as he sent the jeep hurtling down as sickening descent which rolled and twisted like a boat in a deathroll. "You saying the famed Ashie had that curious effect as well?"
"Idiot or not, everyone knew who he was and though he was known as an idiot, he was not known for being an idiot."
"That makes no sense."
"The whole situation makes no sense." Rory leant back on his seat with a sigh. "Here's an idiot who should have been buried at birth and yet not only did he live, but regardless of where he has gone there are always people who claim his friendship ... and most of them are among the greatest minds in the country, and quite a few are out of the country. There's also that slight issue and age old ponder of the papers, why does a General, famed for his intolerance of fools, tolerate one who is considered one of the greatest fools of all."
"Anything else?"
"He was the godfather of the current Darcy and there is no question but that the two of them were as close as anyone gets to either of those two ... which is about a mile and a half." Rory paused to keep himself in contact with the jeep. "It makes no sense and yet why shouldn't it, he probably did save an entire division from annihilation simply because he crashed his aeroplane." Rory gave a snort.
"So the man plays the idiot ... why?"
"That's what I want to know?" Rory shook his head tiredly. "Why does a person who could be anything on the planet become nothing at all."
"That is definitely classifying your opinion of nothing at all." Maller swung the jeep over the edge and plunged downwards. "As a suggestion, has it occured to you that what he sought was happiness?"
"Happiness?"
"Happiness. That bizarre phenomenon which causes us to wake up in the morning with a smile."
"Would have thought he had no difficulty finding that." Rory frowned.
"Everyone has a right to happiness, but it's not found by money or power. No arguments, all these notables have both money and power ... to some degree or other. I suspect however that very few of them are happy with their lives."
"Oh."
"After all, if you had money and power and clingers ... who would you trust and actually talk to?"
"Umm." Rory fell completely silent for several minutes. "Do you think happiness is important?"
"Why ask me?" Mallern turned to stare at Rory in astonishment.
"Watch it!" Rory abruptly lunged for the wheel and just saved them from the ditch. "Isn't comfort more important?"
"Well ... are you comfortable when you're unhappy?" Mallern had finally returned his attention to the road. "I might just as well ask if you could go back to your old job in the insurance racket right now would you go?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Well..." Rory mumbled something unintelligible and sank back in his seat.
"Well?"
"I merely came to the conclusion that you had forced me to answer my own question." Rory turned his attention to the side of the road and silence reigned in the car until they ground to a halt outside the hotel they were lodged at.
"You've been awfully quiet this evening." Annette's words startled Rory away from his consideration of the food he was chasing around his plate.
"We both have." Rory hesitated for a long moment before he finally responded. "You haven't had a bad day have you?"
"No." Annette gave a smile and returned her attention to her meal.
"You are lying to me." Rory abruptly put his fork down. "Why?"
"Me?" Annette lifted her brows in amusement. "Why on earth would I? There is nothing in my life to lie about."
"Thanks." Rory considered things carefully in his mind and then folded his napkin as he spoke. "I know I've done some pretty unforgivable things in my life, but I had thought ... hoped ... I don't know, probably just a dream, but I thought we were past that." Rory rose and gave a tired smile. "Sorry to have been such a nuisance these past months, it must have been tough."
"Rory ... ?" Annette stopped for Rory had left, gone even before she began to speak. Annette quietly finished her meal, paid the bill, collected Eoan from under the table and walked out into the street. Something had happened, something she didn't understand and something which felt indescribably wrong. There was not long in which to act, a single night, and yet she must decide how to act before she did. Unfortunately in deciding how to act she needed to first understand what had happened and for the life of her, she did not understand what had just past.
Part 54 Posted on Saturday, 18 March 2006
June 20th 1943 - Deraux Castle, Cambridgeshire
Perplexity is the beginning of knowledge. - Kahlil Gibran
It was one of the few moments of peace to be found within the castle. Late at night, the children all safely asleep and the day's labour complete. The routine was comfortable and known to all of the women. Nelli read aloud from whatever book was chosen, Mrs. Butterworth communed with the rations packs and her cookery books in search of meals for the following day and Lucille worked on a bottomless pile of darning, stitching and patching. Nelli had originally helped on the sewing, but it was soon apparent that Lucille's work was far superior, and her enjoyment of the task too great to take it away from her. Nelli had gladly retreated to reading aloud and discussing any topic which was brought up for discussion, tonight the book was an Agatha Christie, much read but still enjoyed.
"Can those socks take another darn?" Mrs. Butterworth's doubt was understandable as she noted the socks Lucille had just begun to work on. The socks were almost weekly to be found in the darning pile, their original colour long since lost and forgotten among darns which now covered every hew of the rainbow.
"I rather suspect they're no longer socks." Lucille looked up with a tired smile. "Just two handfuls of darning."
"Why not replace them?"
"Faster to darn them still." Lucille had continued working as she spoke. "But someday I'll replace them ... someday."
"...jumped in beside Tommy..." Nelli paused again and glanced thoughtfully at the socks before turning back to reading. "...and the car rolled smoothly away."
"Tss." Lucille's harsh hiss stopped everything again and Nelli looked up in surprise to see Lucille sucking her finger with a dark frown. Never had Lucille stabbed herself with a needle, and yet she seemed to have done a really good job of it. "I think I'm too tired tonight." Lucille carefully folded the socks up and put away her work. "Goodnight."
"Night." Nelli waved a thoughtful but rather distracted hand as she reached over for a different book.
"Night." Mrs. Butterworth wrote a final small note and then frowned before laying aside her books. "She doesn't look very tired."
"She isn't." Nelli dropped her book and moved over to refold a few messed items in the repair pile. "Or at least not physically tired." Nelli gave a small shake of her head and then returned to her seat. "I doubt that one will ever know true physical exhaustion for she seems to have found and endless fount of enjoyment in simply existing."
"Then why claim tiredness?" Mrs. Butterworth was frowning, for she rather liked Lucille.
"Why do you think? Mac said they'd arrive today...and they've not come yet."
"Mr. Brian?"
"Aye." Nelli nodded and then shook her head wearily. "No idea what I'd do if I was in her shoes, but I've even less idea of what I do in his shoes."
"At least he's alive."
"Mm-yes." Nelli stared blankly at the book she held in her hands and then sighed rather tiredly, she rather wished the future would hurry up and come. So many imponderables and all of them had yet to find out whether Lucille would forgive her husband for lying about his whereabouts. In all probability Lucille did not know herself and in that confusion was undoubtedly to be found the source of her exhaustion ... providing that the assumption of her being uncertain was correct. Waiting really had to be the most demoralising and soul destroying torture ever dreamt up. Nelli focussed her mind, found her place on the page and commenced reading once more. The future would come when it came and it would be dealt with when it came.
It was well after midnight when the front door exploded into thunderous life. On the other side someone pounded with a vigour and force to wake the dead. The castle was silent and asleep, but such summons could not be ignored for long. Nelli sat up in bed, but decency and doubt forbade her going down to see who was causing the racket, and under what pretext.
"Brian!" It was an ear-splitting scream and it shattered the silence even more thoroughly than the thunderous knocks which had come before. Nelli's hand moved to her heart, but otherwise she made no movement at all. Footsteps flew across stone, doors slammed and Nelli knew that more than Lucille were headed downstairs to open the front door. Decency was clearly not of any real concern and Nelli found her mobility again. A moment was wasted in seizing slippers and a dressing gown and then Nelli raced to join the crush at the front door.
Mac visibly retreated when confronted by the wall of humanity. The move caused the whole group on the steps to stumble backwards. A sudden surge out of the hall ensured the group on the stairs did not tumble down into the gardens. But Nelli was strongly reminded of an old painting she had once seen of hobgoblins at midsummer. A couple of the hobgoblins had slipped out into the garden, bent on enjoying a midnight romp. Nelli descended after the boys and soon had them back inside, the doors slammed and re-bolted.
"Hardly elegant." Nelli's tone was dry as she lead Mac and Morris back into the parlour. Lucille was fully occupied with sending the unruly brood back to their numerous bedrooms. Brian, given a brief hug by his mother and completely ignored by his wife since the door had been opened, was towed into the parlour and sat in a chair, he had the placid deadness of a doll. Though his appearance resembled nothing but one of those ancient Egyptian Mummies which kept being dug up.
"Well, I'll return the compliment by repeating your observation but in reference to this room." Mac settled into a battered armchair which would have scarified the Dowager Countess of Deraux's soul if she had ever seen it in her precious Green Parlour.
"This house houses thirty-five children during the day and twenty-two children at night...of which two happen to be your own. Would you like to maintain a pristine house with that many children running rampant?"
"No." Mac put his feet up and sighed. "In fact we maintain a worse house without even my own two."
"What's the official news concerning Brian?" Nelli glanced up from the teapot as Morris made a sudden move to his feet.
"You tell her the basics, the boy needs to go to bed." Morris was pulling Brian to his feet as he spoke. "The young lady ... Mrs. Brian, she knows where he'll sleep?"
"Yes." Nelli blinked in astonishment and then gave her head a small shake as Morris left the room. This whole situations seemed rather surreal, perhaps it would prove to be just a dream when she woke.
"Well, Morris has letters and various other things of importance and relevance, but the basic news is dead simple, he's deaf and blind and showing no signs of recovery." Mac rubbed his head tiredly. "He may recover eventually, he may achieve a partial recovery...he may spend the rest of his days unable to see or hear. There are facilities to help with such things, he will probably be issued with a disability pension, but I'm afraid you'll have to negotiate about facilities and help for yourselves because everyone else is too busy ... or they seem to be. Since you volunteered to take him back they're more than willing to free up his bed, and on the grounds of that may be a bit more willing to help." Mac paused again. "He'll be bedfast for the next month or so while the injuries to his left side heal ... oddly enough no one is willing to issue a deaf and blind man with a pair of crutches. He'll need some care..." Mac hesitated slightly, yet again the matter of Lucille skated close to but dropped before anything was actually verbalised.
"Well, there are enough people around here that I doubt he'll ever be left alone." Nelli shook the teapot up carefully. "You should have beds ready by the time you've finished this tea, any time for rising tomorrow?"
"We'll have breakfast whenever this place does and then take off." Mac accepted a cup of tea and blinked rather sleepily. It would be good to have a nice night's sleep on a genuine bed, the cots at the various bases he'd visited in the past months were playing havoc with the sensation in his feet and legs.
"Breakfast is at six." Nelli moved out of the room as Morris came into the room. "Mac will show you your tea cup unless he's drunk it."
"Thanking you." Morris straightened his back and gave a soft groan before taking the cup Mac indicated with a foot. "The boy's abed and comfortable to all appearances."
"Well, I'm glad it's not me taking on a deaf, blind and crippled husband, while actually supporting eight adopted children."
"Instead you gave your wife a periodic paralytic who breeds Alsatians and have farmed your children out."
"Have not." Mac abruptly lowered his feet and rose. "I'm for bed. You?"
"Not yet." Morris indicated his still half full cup. "What about the back of the car."
"Oh..." Mac somehow restrained himself and abruptly departed, returning in about a minute with Nemo in tow and a second Alsatian beautifully positioned just touching his leg on his left side. "I'm going to have introduce these two all over again before I go to bed ... and then I am going to go to bed." Mac moved to the door, paused, half glanced back and then carefully left the room.
"Right." Morris sighed wearily and leant back, closed his eyes and was far too aware that he would now not wake, nor rise, until the sun rose. Surely someday soon this madness must end, it tore at his sanity, destroyed his nerves and undermined what little faith he'd ever had in mankind.
Lucille slipped quietly out the side door and sighed as her feet found the damp grass. There was something about these late nights with the damp grass. One couldn't help dancing and spinning in such circumstances and Lucille acted accordingly.
"Dear heavens." The voice was mildly mocking. "One has to question which is wife and which is child in this place."
"I am both." Lucille picked herself out of the garden she had stumbled into when the voice had first spoken. "Greetings to you too, Boots."
"Why did you have to give me such a repulsive name." Juliette came carefully out from the bushes where she had been concealed.
"Repulsive? I think it's rather cute." Lucille was frowning into the shadows Juliette had emerged from. "Is that a horse?"
"Yes." Juliette responded rather impatiently. "How else do you think I travel when there are such fuel restrictions?"
"Never considered the matter actually." Lucille responded with cheerful frankness. "You wealthies have a talent for doing the impossible without a second thought...either that or you are totally incapable of doing anything at all."
"Thank you, well now you know, I do it by horse."
"I have only ever ridden a cow ... and that was by accident."
"You Fouchiards have a talent for the unusual." Juliette spoke rather dryly.
"Anything known about my sister?" Lucille changed the subject.
"Nothing you probably don't know yourself." Juliette drew back into the shadows. "Roger has left Africa and so she is unemployed again..."
"I didn't know that."
"Other than that it would seem that she has had some sort of a fight with Rory."
"I can't decide whether to be cross or delighted about that. Those two were always fighting...until they got all daft and mushy."
"So be delighted."
"Nope, for it's more than likely that they will marry if they've returned to their right senses."
"Well, they're currently not talking."
"So what, I'm not talking to Annie either and I can assure you that there is no one on the planet like Annie for making you talk, swear you ever so much that you're never going to talk to her for the rest of your born days." Lucille sighed. "Got a really bad feeling about this."
"Well it's all the news I have I'm afraid."
"Why did you come?" Lucille changed the subject again.
"Beg pardon?" Juliette had been looking at something in the shadows.
"I asked why you came."
"To see you, to speak to Ken ... who I caught earlier."
"Hence his air of muted excitement when put to bed." Lucille grimaced. "Why on earth did you want to see me?"
"To ask about Brian ... but the question is irrelevant since you're too happy for there to have been trouble in the transfer or delivery. Sorry to disturb your evening and all the best." Juliette slid back into the shadows and out of sight. A creak of leather, some heavy breathing and the slow clop of a very large horse were the only true indications of her departure. Like a ghost Juliette came and left, no material evidence remaining of her presence, but strange mental impact.
Lucille returned slowly to the house, dragging her feet in the grass as she pondered peculiar irregularities for which she had no explanation. It was like doing a jigsaw puzzle when you had only the grey backing to look at instead of the picture. Had the visitor been anyone but Juliette Lucille would have said there was wistfulness in the expression as she had turned and vanished. It was Juliette though, and why would Juliette be wistful about anything? A chip off the old block if there ever had been one, domineering, opinionated and totally ambitious for her own ends. Wistfulness would be no more a part of Juliette's vocabulary than failure or mistake. Juliette's expression had been wistful, though, like a child who has seen candy they know they will never taste.