With Love, Wherever You Are

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  When the train pulled into a huge station, she wondered if it could be Birmingham. Not wanting to be trapped in the wrong station, she stayed in her compartment. Sure enough, a few minutes later they pulled into another busy station. This time the porter ran through the corridor, making a heavily accented announcement in what might as well have been a foreign language. She wondered if she’d ever get used to British English, especially Liverpool’s version.

  She was on the train that ran between Liverpool and Birmingham, so she couldn’t go wrong if she waited for the last stop. Then Frank would be there, and everything would be all right. More than all right.

  She lost count of how many stations they pulled in and out of. Four? Five? How many towns lay between Liverpool and Birmingham? They’d turned off the heat inside the compartment, so maybe they were almost there.

  The train stopped again. People got off, but she didn’t see anyone waiting to get on. With a whoosh, the connecting car door opened, and the porter stormed up the corridor. “End of the line!”

  He was about to pass her. Helen jumped in front of him. “Is this Birmingham?”

  He gave her a look like she was a fly on top of his wedding cake. “Right. Birmingham. England.”

  The train jolted, as if rammed by an oncoming train.

  “What was that?”

  The man sighed. “We reverse the train now. Off with you, unless you’re going back to Liverpool.”

  Helen grabbed her bag and dashed off the train. The platform was filling again. On the other side of the tracks were a dozen platforms. She surveyed the area, hoping to spot Frank.

  Panic growing inside her, she ran from one platform to the next. Once, she thought she saw him. But when she ran up and tapped his shoulder, the GI who turned and smiled at her wasn’t Frank.

  Where was he? He had to be here . . . unless she’d gotten the code wrong. It was getting dark. They only had two days together, and she was wasting time looking for him. Frank had spoken to her advance man, so he would have known where she was coming from and when she’d get there. He would have taken a train to get him to the station before she arrived. Cold sweat sprang to her forehead, while soldiers left in friendly groups as if off to a party.

  Methodically, she checked each platform four more times. He had to be here. But he wasn’t.

  “Pardon me, ma’am. Lieutenant.”

  Helen glanced up into the most handsome face she’d ever seen—a cross between Errol Flynn and William Powell. His accent wasn’t Liverpool, and she doubted it was Birmingham.

  “You’re lost, are you not?” His voice was kind, mellow, charming even.

  “I must be.” She felt tears trying to break out, so she started walking away.

  He took a step after her, then stopped when she glanced back. “I beg your pardon. You looked as though you might need assistance. And we are allies, are we not? Could I assist you in some way?”

  Could he? Or was he putting the make on her? Did it matter? She was abandoned. She needed help.

  The man must have known what she was thinking. “I’m really not trying to have my way with you.” He smiled. “Are you meeting someone?”

  “I thought I was meeting my husband in the Birmingham station today, but—”

  “Ah. But which Birmingham station?”

  “There’s more than one?” She felt like an idiot. Of course there was more than one. Didn’t Chicago have stops all along the lakeshore, from the South Side up to Evanston and Northwestern? Why hadn’t Frank thought of that?

  “Six stations, I’m afraid.” He studied her face, but if he thought she’d let him see her cry, he had another think coming. He put his arm around her shoulders to guide her. “Come along. Let’s see what we can do about this.”

  BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND

  Frank ran the length of the tracks, shouting Helen’s name. He knew it wouldn’t do any good, but he’d go crazy if he didn’t do something. What if she hadn’t received his letter? Or she’d forgotten the code?

  A civilian with two children called after him, “You again, Yank?”

  He nodded and kept running. This was Frank’s second trip through Birmingham’s east station. He’d been to the others, all five of them. His arteries constricted as his heart pounded, nerves and synapses sparking. His dad hadn’t been much older than Frank when he had his first heart attack. Had it felt like this?

  He dropped his pack and forced air into his lungs. In seconds, he was off again, asthma or no asthma. He rechecked every platform. Maybe she was racing from station to station looking for him. They could spend her entire leave circling each other.

  How could he have messed up like this? He’d caught a lift to Bristol station and arrived in Birmingham an hour before Helen’s train was scheduled to pull in.

  What if something had happened to her? He’d never forgive himself.

  That thought made it harder than ever to breathe. He hated his asthma. He hated train stations. And Brits. And soldiers. And war. Most of all, he hated himself. Why hadn’t he found out about Birmingham stations before sending the code to Helen? Of course there would be more than one station in the second-largest city in England.

  An announcement squealed and scratched over the loudspeaker—probably for arrivals or departures. He couldn’t understand it. He turned to a young woman who was staring at the boards. “Excuse me. Did you hear the announcement?”

  She frowned at him, then took a step back.

  “Never mind.”

  “’Hoy there!” An old man in the olive uniform of the Great War hobbled toward him, waving something in his hand. His mouth moved, but Frank couldn’t hear as a train pulled beside them.

  Something in Frank chilled. He thought about the telegrams he’d seen delivered. A boy he’d gone through residency with got a telegram saying his brother had been killed in the Pacific. Frank had been there when the messenger walked up, waving the telegram . . . like this man.

  “Are you Lieutenant Daley?” The old man pronounced it “Dally.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re to stay where you are, Yank.” He didn’t hand Frank the paper, which looked like a note, not a telegram.

  “What?” A million thoughts raced through his mind. Maybe Anderson hadn’t answered for him at roll call. Frank hadn’t been able to secure a leave, so he’d just left. And why not? At first, the men could get a leave every four days, then every seven. Frank hadn’t taken a single day. He’d saved his days for Helen. But now, all leaves were being denied, so Frank had taken his own leave.

  “I knew ’twas you, didn’t I just?” said the old soldier. “Running around like we’re all on fire. I says to Clive, ‘It’s that bloody chap calling out for Helen.’ And isn’t it just?”

  Frank’s head was swimming. His stomach felt as nauseated as it had on the oil tanker. “What was me? I mean, you have a message? For me?”

  “Said I did, didn’t I? You’re to stay right where you’re put, you are.”

  “Who gave you the message? Was it a woman? Helen?”

  “Don’t know about no Helen, do I?” He waved the note as if he were holding the British victory flag. “Come straight from the major general, that did.”

  Stunned, Frank watched the man turn and walk back to the depot. Major general? Was some officer commanding him to stay put? No, Helen had to be behind it. On the other hand, maybe somebody had complained about the crazed American, and this major general was on the way to lock him up.

  He couldn’t just sit around waiting for—

  “Frank! Frankie!”

  He could have picked out that voice in a bomb raid. “Helen!”

  She was standing beside a British officer, who towered over her with a proprietary look on his too-perfect face.

  “Frankie!” Helen strutted toward him. She was gorgeous. Amazing. She was his Helen.

  Frank took off for her, clouds of steam parting between them. A whistle blew. People shouted. But all he saw was Helen. His wife. He scooped her int
o his arms and spun her until he was dizzy—dizzy from the sight of her, the feel of her.

  Helen pressed her hands to his chest, laughing. “Frank, set me down, darling.”

  Darling. Everything else melted away—the last three hours, the war, everything.

  “Frank—Lieutenant Daley—I’d like you to meet Major General Wallace Butler. He rescued me at the end of the line. I don’t think I would have found you without his help.” Helen smiled meaningfully at Frank, obviously expecting him to say something.

  “Thanks for helping my wife.” He pulled Helen closer to him.

  “My pleasure.” His smile revealed straight teeth Frank would have enjoyed knocking out. “Could I give you a lift somewhere?”

  Helen returned his smile. “That would be—”

  “Unnecessary,” Frank said. “Thanks all the same.”

  Helen started to object, but Frank stepped in front of her and shook the Brit’s hand. “Well, thanks again!” she called over her shoulder as Frank dragged her away.

  The fellow tipped his hat. “Anytime.”

  And at last, Frank was alone with Helen. He had pictured this moment for weeks and imagined all the things he would say to his wife. But he didn’t know where to begin. And apparently, neither did she. He wanted to let her know, face-to-face, how happy he’d been when he’d learned she was pregnant, but that she should never think the miscarriage was her fault. He wanted to tell her that he knew God would give them children when the time was right. But he didn’t want to start their time together in sadness.

  They kept walking out of the station. “I’m . . . I’m sorry about the mix-up.” He didn’t dare look at her. The last thing he wanted was for her to think of him as a dummy. But that’s what he was. “I should have checked which station. Now we’ll have to take a cab, I guess.”

  “I have a little extra money,” she said.

  An awkward silence passed between them, something Frank, in all his imaginings, had never pictured.

  “At least we’ve found each other now.” She shifted her bag and took hold of his hand.

  “Here! Give me that.” He took the bag from her. He should have taken it the minute he saw her.

  In the cab they chatted about little things. She told him about Liverpool and bunking in a broom factory, and he tried to describe Camp Pinkney to her. “I like most of the soldiers there, even the Brits. I hope you get to meet Major Bradford. You’d like him. I think he’s headed for a field hospital, though.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “I know. Becky, this nurse on leave from a field hospital, was knocked unconscious by one of our injured Yanks. They sent her to Pinkney to check her over, and she’s already working at the hospital there.”

  Helen cocked her head to look up at him. “Becky, huh? I hope she’s old and ugly.”

  An inexplicable guilt surged through him, throwing him even more off balance. “What? No. I mean, everyone’s ugly compared to you.”

  She studied him for another uncomfortable minute. “You really are adorable when you blush.”

  For the rest of the ride, Frank let Helen do the talking.

  Hours later, Frank sat on the tiny bed in their tiny room in St. Gilbert Hotel, 95 Hagley Road, and wondered if anyone, anywhere, had ever felt this much happiness. Even though he doubted the ancient gas heater warmed the room a single degree, he’d kept dropping in another sixpence because it made the room cozy as it blew nonstop. He and Helen had talked and made love, slowly, listening to the rain on the window. Then his angel had drifted to sleep, and he’d unpacked his provisions and used the old heater to make toasted cheese sandwiches, his specialty—the only thing he knew how to cook.

  Helen coughed in her sleep. He pulled up the quilt, tucking it over her shoulders.

  “What?” Helen sprang up in bed. “Frank?” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I was afraid I was dreaming again.” She took in the room with the look of a soldier who feared the enemy closing in. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Maybe an hour.” Frank stroked her soft hair. His fingers slid through the curls. “I’ve gotten to watch you the whole time.”

  “But I don’t want to waste a minute of our time sleeping!” She scooted to her knees and faced him. “We have to squeeze every second out of this day.”

  “Mind if we eat first?” He slid both sandwiches onto a hand towel and presented her with one.

  “You did this? How wonderful! So you shall be our official chef?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” He watched her take a big bite, then sputter. When she swallowed, her smile looked fake. “Too hot?” he asked.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “I guess I’m not so hungry. You go ahead.”

  “What’s wrong? You don’t like cheese?” Frank had been elated when he’d found his favorite cheese in the market. “I should have asked. I thought everybody liked cheese.”

  “I’m sorry, Frankie. I do like cheese, just not sharp cheddar.”

  Frank had wanted to wow her with the grilled cheese trick he’d learned from Jack in college. He felt slighted somehow, until he saw the look on Helen’s face. “It’s my fault for not finding out my wife’s likes and dislikes. So, no cheddar, but . . . ?”

  “Okay. I like Swiss and American and Muenster. And I might have been able to pretend I like cheddar if it weren’t so sharp.”

  Frank stood up. “We’d better borrow an umbrella and go out to eat then.” He would have been content to stay inside this room the whole time, but he wanted whatever Helen wanted. He only hoped it wouldn’t be too expensive. “Name it, Mrs. Daley. Where do you want to go?”

  “Dancing!”

  “Dancing?” Where was he going to find a place to take her dancing? But he was not about to be accused of making her “kowtow” again. “Great idea.”

  She bounced out of bed, shivering when her bare feet slapped the cold floor. “Brrrrr! Well, come on.” She held out her arms. “I’m not dancing by myself.”

  He lifted her off her feet and swung her around, grateful that she didn’t want to go out. They danced to whatever tune she sang in her thin, high voice that reminded him of tinkling bells, so much like her laughter. He dropped another sixpence into the heater, and they danced some more, his arms wrapped around her to keep her from shivering. She taught him the fox-trot, or tried to. Later, he paid the desk clerk to run out and get them potpies and biscuits.

  They were playing cards when Helen said, “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but about that telegram . . .”

  “I thought you’d want to know your husband was safe.” He put down his hand, two jacks, and asked for three cards, still amazed that Helen knew as much about poker as he did.

  She glanced at him, then back at her hand. “It might have been better coming directly from you, though.”

  “I couldn’t leave camp. Anderson was going into town.”

  “Oh.”

  “It wasn’t cheap.” He’d had to go without chocolate and toiletries for a month.

  “Right.” She dealt herself one card. “So Anderson could afford to send his wife a telegram? And you couldn’t? I’m just asking, darling.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying Andy used the money I gave him for your telegram and sent one to his wife instead?”

  Helen put down her cards. “Yes! She’s the one who told me you boys were on the other side.”

  When Frank could gain control of himself and his language, he explained everything to Helen. “Andy will pay for this.”

  Helen scooted onto his lap and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry. I should have known you wouldn’t send me secondhand information that way.”

  “You should have, Helen.”

  “Should have what?”

  “Should have known. Why do you always jump to the wrong conclusions about me?”

  “Always? I said I was sorry about the telegram.” She moved off his lap.

  “What about the letters you wrote before and after your miscarriage
? You sounded like you were ready to leave me and carry on alone.”

  “But I explained that. You know I didn’t get a single letter from you that whole, horrible time.”

  “So you jumped to the conclusion that I was such a scoundrel I’d stopped writing my pregnant wife?”

  She didn’t answer. Frank knew he should stop talking. But he couldn’t. “How could you not have known how happy I’d be to be a father? And then how desperately sad I’d be when I wasn’t?”

  Her eyes swam with tears. “I was sad too! And alone.”

  Frank had never seen his wife cry, but she was crying now. “That’s just it, Helen. You weren’t alone. You never have to feel alone again.” He put his arm around her, and she leaned into him, sharing her tears. She didn’t say anything for so long Frank wished he’d never brought it up. He couldn’t stand the fact that on their short rendezvous, he had made the woman he loved cry.

  Finally, she seemed to run out of tears. She slid back onto his lap and put her arms around his neck. “I should have trusted you, Frankie.”

  An awkward silence followed Helen’s words, and Frank didn’t know what he could say to fill it. “So . . . ,” he said in as light a tone as he could. “You should have trusted me. And I never should have trusted Anderson.”

  In the morning they braved the cold rain and strolled the streets of Birmingham. They took it all in, as if bombed-out buildings were no more than beautiful mountains, and fully armed military police trained performers for their enjoyment alone. It was as if when they were together like this, the world couldn’t possibly be at war with itself.

  EN ROUTE TO THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

  Helen had given up trying to sleep as the cramped truck bounced over frozen dirt roads. Colonel Pugh had shown up at the hospital and warned them to be ready to leave on twenty-four hours’ notice, something he’d said every day since their arrival in Liverpool. But this time, he hadn’t been kidding.