Spitfire

by M. L. Huie

  “But not just yet,” Fleming had told her at the end of their chat. “The world has changed. We’re not fighting a war out in the open. Now the war is in the shadows, and being in the shadows requires a certain amount of … delicacy.” His posh accent teemed with the languid vowels of the aristocracy.

  “And I’m not delicate?”

  “Oh dear God, not in the slightest.”

  Then he leaned around his desk as if to look at her legs, but Livy soon realized the true source of his interest was her dress.

  “I imagine this sort of frock’s de rigueur for ladies on the Press and Journal copy desk?”

  Livy crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Yes, well, we have our work cut out for us then,” he said, sighing, and reached into his jacket. Fleming placed a thick business card on the table and slid it over to her with his fingertips.

  A street address in Kensington had been typed in the center of the card in a simple font.

  “Be at this address at eleven AM tomorrow morning. Do not be late. There is a bakery at the corner of the street. I forget the name. Bring raspberry scones. Make sure they’re fresh.”

  “That’s it? I don’t even know who to ask for.”

  “Just follow orders, darling Olivia. That’s all you have to do for now.” As she rose to leave his office, Fleming studied her. “By the way, ask her what sort of dresses she thinks might flatter your figure.”

  Now Livy had two more hours to kill this morning before she needed to set out to Kensington. What to wear? God, she hated fussing over clothes. Never one to give much thought to what she wore, Livy favored plain, serviceable skirts, dresses, and jumpers so she didn’t need to think what skirt went with what blouse. Having no idea what she might be in for this morning, she chose a simple pleated skirt, a cream blouse, and a light navy jumper. It felt a bit big, so she shoved the arms up to her elbows.

  Livy hadn’t cleaned the place in weeks, so she used some of her nervous energy to pick up clothes. She found a half-eaten piece of toast under her bed. Just like her mother, she thought. Never really interested in keeping a house. Too much to do outside.

  With that in mind, she set off for the address a full hour and a half before the scheduled appointment.

  The walk to southwest London took Livy past the stark reminders of the war Fleming had asked her to leave behind. Five years after the height of the Blitz and whole buildings remained crushed, rubble just cleared off the sidewalk. It looked as if a giant fist had randomly smashed this block and the one after but left the next intact.

  Women pushed prams with other mums, chattering away about rationing, while men worked in the street or hurried back to work. The crumbled buildings had become part of the landscape and, like a row of flats or shops, were ignored. A young couple sat on a bench in front of what had once been a church but now looked like a demolition sight. They shared a bag of chips and kissed after the last one.

  And just like that her mind went to Peter. She could still feel the surge of passion they had shared that one night in the abandoned café. The night before they’d been captured.

  Peter and Livy had spent the weeks after the invasion with the maquisards in Vercors, a mountainous region in southeast France. The other members of their circuit had remained in Paris to relay information to the advancing Allies. Peter Scobee made his reputation fighting alongside the armed resistance fighters in Vercors. But as the Nazis pushed back, Livy and Peter fled north. Hunted, like the rest of the scattered fighters.

  After five long days, sleeping wherever they could, they finally made it back to the abandoned café near Paris where they’d spent so many nights with the others. Livy missed Michelle especially and hoped they could reunite with the others too.

  Dirty and beyond exhausted, Peter and Livy collapsed into their makeshift beds in the storeroom. A leak in the roof above where Livy slept had left her pile of blankets and rags soaked. She’d slept on rocky ground and in brambles, but the mildew stench was too much.

  Peter offered her his dry ad hoc bed. That’s how it started. Simply. He offered to take hers. She wouldn’t let him. They’d have to share.

  Livy felt the desire inside her building. God, she’d felt it for weeks. The connection with Peter had been strong since she’d brought André back from the German prison in Chaville. The minute-by-minute living-and-breathing danger of Vercors had forged an even deeper bond. At least for her.

  Livy knew Peter was married with a young son back home. He’d made no secret of how much he missed them. She’d seen their pictures, for God’s sake. But home—England—seemed like an alternate universe compared to the surreal relentless day-to-day of war.

  She told herself—before he kissed her the first time—that this was just an escape. A way to forget it all for one night. But it didn’t stop there. How could it? They tore into each other like starving people devouring a full-course meal. Livy, who had never been accused of being shy and retiring once in her life, pushed Peter down and took off his trousers as if they were on fire. Then she took him inside her and pushed and pushed until the relief came so quickly that they both began to laugh.

  Despite their exhaustion, they continued to find energy for each other and the next time lasted much longer. Their bodies were in sync in the same way their minds and hearts had been in the field.

  When they finally slept, it was in each other’s arms, which surprised Livy. A night of shagging was one thing, but she hadn’t expected the tenderness and vulnerability she felt from this man. So they lay together and tried to sleep, mere hours before the dawn. Hours before the war and their lives might end.

  “Miss?”

  A shiver went through Livy as she turned to see a constable on her right. The kissing couple across the street had gone.

  “You look a bit lost, miss.”

  Livy held up the card Fleming had given her. “I think I know where I’m headed. Thank you, Constable.”

  The policeman smiled and walked past her. She put a hand to her mouth. Steadying herself against a phone box, she took a long deep breath. She’d crossed over into the better part of London and couldn’t afford another daydream episode.

  The Blitz had not spared the posh homes of Kensington, although Livy noted that reparation seemed much further along here. Ah well, she thought, the rich get what they want when they want it.

  She followed the High Street to an address just off the Earls Court Road. From the bustle of the main thoroughfare, Livy found herself on a narrow street dense with homes considerably smaller than the showplaces of Kensington. Nevertheless, these compact Georgian houses retained a certain old-world glamour despite the occasional peel of paint.

  Livy found the address and then went back to the bakery on the corner, where she dutifully purchased the required pastries and headed back to her destination.

  At precisely 10:57 AM she rapped on a bright-red door and waited. A minute later she knocked again, this time a bit more insistently. She waited. A minute later the door cracked open about six inches.

  “What?” The voice belonged to a woman, although the light was so dim on the other side Livy couldn’t discern her features, only a silhouette.

  “It’s—it’s eleven. I’m on time.” Livy didn’t know what else to say.

  “It can’t be eleven.”

  “Yes. Eleven. I—I brought the scones,” Livy said, as if they might be some sort of entrance code.

  The woman inside sighed dramatically. “Fine.” The door slammed.

  Every bone in Livy’s body screamed, Get out of here and tell Fleming to get stuffed, but a voice at the back of her brain kept her there. A voice that—quite loudly—said, Be patient. You need a job and you can always drink later. Livy didn’t like the voice, but she heeded its advice.

  Then the door opened, wider this time. A woman stood on the other side, looking as if she had just stepped out of a Noël Coward play. She must have been in her midforties, Livy guessed, but with the transparent sexuality of som
eone much younger. She held a cigarette holder at the end of one long gloved hand as if the effort was beyond tedious.

  The whole pose suggested casual contempt.

  “You’re early,” the woman said in a husky, trained voice that bore none of the sleepiness it had held minutes ago.

  “I just wanted to be on time.”

  “Being on time, darling, is not being early and catching your hostess unawares. Now … do come in.”

  The woman stepped aside and appraised Livy from head to foot as she passed. Her mouth curled down as she finished the survey.

  “Are those clothes from your personal wardrobe, or is that some sort of—costume?” she said, tossing back thick golden hair that spilled out of an ornate turban. One hand held closed the expensive dressing gown she wore over a silk slip.

  “These are mine.” Livy’s bolt-and-run impulse grew stronger by the second.

  “Where does he find them?” the woman said to herself as she grabbed the scones from Livy and disappeared into the kitchen, taking a long pull at her cigarette.

  Livy stood in the middle of a compact drawing room where two well-kept Queen Anne chairs sat on either side of a tea table in front of a covered hearth. This area of the room was immaculate. The other side of the room, which consisted of a stiff sofa and accompanying table, was buried under a pile of newspapers, open books, and even a few dirty glasses. It looked as if a typhoon had hit one side of the room.

  The woman came back into the room, carrying a tray with everything ready for light tea, including quite posh-looking cups and a matching pot.

  Having dispensed with her cigarette, the woman placed the tray on the table and gestured for Livy to sit. Smiling without a trace of irony, the woman placed a cup and saucer in front of Livy. Next, she used silver tongs to pick up one of the scones and gently put it on a small plate for her guest.

  It seemed as if she’d gone into the other room as an arrogant diva and come out as the perfect English hostess. Livy assumed the former was her real self.

  “Clotted cream or jam, darling?”

  “Jam. If you please.”

  “The tea’s Earl Grey. I hope you don’t mind. It’s the only tea as far as I’m concerned. Milk?”

  “Sure. Milk’s fine.”

  “You have a name, I assume?”

  “Livy.”

  “A surname?”

  “It’s Nash. Livy—”

  “Miss Nash, then. My name is Sherbourne. Emma Sherbourne. You no doubt have heard of me.”

  Livy had no intention of playing along. “Can’t say I have.”

  Emma Sherbourne’s lips pursed slightly and her gaze hardened. “I am an actress of some repute. Although I’ve not had the opportunity to play … your part of the country, I do love the vowels of Lancashire. So … colorful. You said milk, yes?”

  “Yes,” Livy said, lifting her cup to the milk.

  “Miss Nash, it is customary to pour the tea before adding milk.”

  “Tea, please—Miss Sherbourne.” She’d had just about enough of this tea party nonsense.

  “It’s Missus, darling.” She poured the tea and fairly flounced over to the other chair. Then, with effortless precision, she prepared her own tea and scone, adding extra cream and jam. She then took one small bite of the scone, chewing it slowly. When she finished, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with the lace napkin and placed it on her lap.

  “Miss Nash, no one in polite society extends the pinkie when holding a teacup. Thumb and forefinger will do nicely. The proper place for your napkin is your lap, and if you insist on blowing on the tea before taking one of your very loud sips, then I shall have to wear earmuffs.”

  Livy slammed her cup down, luckily on the saucer. “Look, luv, what is all this? I’m told to show up with scones at this flat of yours, which most of it looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in a year, and you sit there in your fancy dressing gown and tell me how to take tea? That’s not what I signed up for.”

  Mrs. Sherbourne grinned and took a very elegant sip of her Earl Grey. “Do you know Shakespeare, Miss Nash?”

  “I know his plays.”

  “Then you must know The Taming of the Shrew? No? Personally I find it distasteful, but my job, like Petruchio’s in the play, is to tame you. The shrew. Or perhaps you prefer spitfire.”

  Livy resisted the urge to throw the tea in her face and storm out.

  “I prefer to be treated like an adult.”

  “I’m sure you do, dear, but the way this works is I give the orders and you follow them. So, you brought the scones. Well done. But you were early. Tsk-tsk. Now, in an attempt to tame you, I am teaching you to take tea like a proper lady. Is that quite clear, Miss Nash? So—put your napkin in your lap and sip your tea quietly. There’s a good girl.”

  Livy hated her. But she did exactly what she said.

  * * *

  The raspberry scones routine continued the next two days, with Livy arriving at Mrs. Sherbourne’s door precisely at eleven. Each time, the Great Actress, as Livy affectionately thought of her, met her at the door with a broom, dustpan, and several large crates. Despite the cleaning implements, Sherbourne still wore her turban, dressing gown, and those long bloody gloves.

  Then she took light tea on her own, even treating herself to a second scone, while Livy cleaned the filthy half of the sitting room.

  “Make sure all the theater books are in the same crate, darling. There’s a good girl,” she purred.

  On the third day, once Livy had finished sweeping, tidying, and washing and drying the stained glasses, Mrs. Sherbourne invited her back to the sitting room and offered her what was left of the day’s tea. She’d been kind enough to replace the second scone with a piece of wheat toast, although the jam jar was now empty.

  “You did so well with your tea today, Miss Nash. It’s almost a pity you still have to dust the room. But I’m expecting guests and can’t very well have a mess, can I?”

  Livy’d had enough. Was this Fleming’s idea of a joke? Making her clean and tidy for this over-the-hill thespian? She’d left one demeaning job where she’d kowtowed to people who didn’t deserve her respect only to end up in another. Livy snatched up the feather duster and would have smashed every lamp in the place had she not remembered that she’d put aside just enough money for another of Black Market Billy’s bottles of that delectable piss otherwise known as Polish vodka.

  And he delivered.

  For Livy, the rest of the night was something of a blur.

  * * *

  The next morning, her head throbbed a bit more insistently that normal. Usually it ached at the back of her skull. This hangover had more hammerlike qualities: bam-bam-bam. Then quiet. Then—bam-bam-bam.

  She shoved her head under the pillow, but the sound didn’t go away. It only muffled it.

  Bam-bam-bam!

  Livy sat up in bed and registered the midmorning light. The rhythmic banging had returned, but now she knew its source. The ache in her head originated at the door to her flat. She shuffled out of bed quickly to stop the horrible noise. Livy opened the door a crack and allowed her wobbly body to slump against the wall.

  Mrs. Sherbourne stood on the other side of the door.

  “Miss Nash, you seem to have forgotten our rendezvous this morning.”

  Livy’s head took over the throbbing as the light from the walk-up seared into her brain. So, like a good soldier, she retreated, flopping on the bed and covering the head she deeply wished she didn’t have.

  * * *

  Sometime later she woke up again to the smell of coffee. Actual coffee. The kind of coffee she had not tasted since Peter had found a bag of old beans in a cupboard at the café where they lived. The cup sat on her bedside table next to a full glass of water.

  “Drink them both. The water first.” Mrs. Sherbourne sat in the lone chair, at the foot of the bed.

  Livy lifted herself enough to take a long swallow of water. “How’d you know where I live?”

  Mrs. She
rbourne grinned and her eyes fairly twinkled. “Really, Miss Nash, a child could answer that question. Drink your water.”

  After another sip, the vodka taste disappeared and Livy began to crave the coffee. “Fine. So—thanks for the libation. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  “I do mind. I’m not going anywhere, darling.”

  “Look, Mrs. Sherbourne, you may be old enough to be my mum, but you’re not. It’s my flat. Now clear out.”

  But the Great Actress sat in her chair and folded her gloved hands across her lap, as if she had all the time in the world.

  Livy fumed, put down the unfinished water, and sipped the coffee. God, it tasted good. It actually had flavor, rich and dark.

  “Finish the water.”

  “This is my flat and if there is any taming to do, I’ll do it. So when my head stops wobbling about, I’ll find you a few bob for the coffee and then I’ll thank you to piss off.”

  “We will have to work on your charming personality, won’t we?”

  “Look, I’ve had three days of cleaning your flat and taking tea, and I’m fed up. This is not what I signed up for. You want to train me for proper fieldwork? Train me, then. But I’m not your lapdog. And don’t give me that rot about taking orders. I’ve taken orders, luv, from far better than the likes of you.”

  Livy pulled herself out of bed. Even though her head felt like the apex of a seesaw, she managed to reach her purse in the bathroom.

  “Olivia, darling, I don’t think I’ve ever told you that I was a guest at Ravensbrück at the very end of the war.”

  Livy froze. She’d heard stories. Michelle, the other girl in her SOE circuit, had told her that Ravensbrück was the camp where German doctors experimented on women.

  “I didn’t know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  The grin still had not left Mrs. Sherbourne’s face. “It’s not something one shares over tea, is it?”

  She placed the tip of the glove on her left hand between her teeth and began to carefully remove it. By the slow pace, Livy guessed it had some sort of packing material in each finger. The hand beneath the glove was warped and distorted, her pinkie and ring fingers missing above the knuckle. The intact fingers resembled twigs more than anything. The back of her hand and the palm looked as though they had been crushed. Only her left thumb appeared untouched.