Bloody Good

by Georgia Evans

  Peter eyed the two thick doorsteps of fried bread, what looked like three or four tomatoes, and the promised egg. “I think this will be plenty. Save the toast for tomorrow. Oh! I need to give you my ration book, and we ought to talk about board and…”

  “Time enough later, lad. I’ve got a nice, tidy vegetable patch and I swap with Mother Longhurst for eggs, so we’ll do alright. I will need your ration book, but right now”—he paused to take a long swig of his tea—“we need to talk about last night.”

  “Yes.” Although what exactly was he going to say?

  That was done for him. “What happened last night happened. You didn’t imagine anything. But I’ll ask you to keep it to yourself.”

  “Yes.” Downright loquacious that was. “I meant, of course, it’s good to know I wasn’t hallucinating.”

  “You weren’t, but there are some things I prefer to keep to myself. Last night those boys needed rescuing, and you trusted me with what you don’t tell others, so I decided I could do the same.”

  Fair enough. Perhaps. “But how could you do that? You as good as held the house up. That was a supporting wall and when you moved away…”

  “I’m stronger than anyone imagines. Including you. I was born in North Wales. They say we have the stone of the mountains in our blood.”

  There was more. Much more. Had to be. But for the life of him, Peter couldn’t imagine what it was and he wasn’t about to ask. “I won’t tell, but you deserve some of the credit. I couldn’t have done it alone.”

  “They got out, that’s all that matters.”

  “And Sid is still asleep on the parlor sofa?” He hoped to high heaven he hadn’t overheard that last little bit.

  “I checked on him while you were dressing. He’ll be out a while, yet. I made him a cup of cocoa when we got back and slipped in half of a sleeping pill I had left over from when my wife was ill. The boy needed it. Rest’s the best thing at his age and missing a day of school won’t make much difference to him. He’s not the scholarly sort.”

  “Where will they go?” Sleeping on the sofa couldn’t be permanent, even with a war on.

  “The ladies on the evacuee committee will find somewhere. They’re not bad boys. Rough. What would you expect from the East End? They’ve had a bit of trouble at school, but Mrs. Roundhill knew how to handle them. Taught in London herself before she married. And now…” He shook his head. “She’s in a bad way, poor lady, and with the vicar due home this morning.”

  Coming home to bad news. How many other people in the country woke up to bad news or had no roof over their heads this morning?

  If he started on that line he’d end up in the doldrums. “Someone’s meeting him?”

  “Aye. Jimmy Black will, they’re friends. Eat up, lad. Want another mug of tea?”

  He skipped the tea, but made short work of the breakfast. Something told Peter it was going to be a long day.

  Chapter 18

  “You’ve survived two days,” Gloria said to Peter as they rode their bicycles down into the village. “Think you can cope with the school visit on your own tomorrow?”

  “Checking for head lice?”

  “Should have been done the first week after the holidays, but as you’ve seen, we’re spread a bit thin.”

  “If I can’t deal with head lice, I’m not going to be much use to you, am I? It’ll be a first for me, but they can’t be that different from sheep lice, can they?”

  After she regained control of her bike, Gloria gave him a scowl. Hard to do when she was still chuckling. “I’d keep that thought to myself, if I were you. Mothers get very touchy over head lice. Tend to blame it all on the evacuees, which isn’t at all fair. But suggest their little cherubs have been rubbing heads with sheep…”

  “I get the message. Forget sheep. School is one place where my veterinarian skills will not be highly esteemed.”

  “I think you have it. It’s not that tricky, really. Just do a class at a time. It’ll be easier than slogging across a muddy field to look at sick cows.”

  “Dying cows,” Peter added. “At least I convinced him to keep them indoors, but I doubt they’ll make it. I’ve never seen anything like it. They should call in a qualified vet.”

  “You’re pretty well all they’ve got. The vet in Leatherhead who used to come out here is in the Army now. There’s a vet in Dorking, but he’s about a hundred years old and prefers dealing with lap dogs and old ladies’ budgies. I think you’ve found yourself an unofficial job on the side. Won’t take long for the news to get out that you’re a vet.”

  “Gloria, I had three years in veterinarian college and that was before the war.”

  “That’s three more years than anyone else hereabouts.”

  Maybe, but he did rather worry about the ethics of setting up an unofficial practice, and besides, he was still mystified over those two cows.

  “Peter,” Gloria went on—they’d come to first names easily. “Would you mind taking the eggs up to Alice? Would save me the pull up the hill and I need to stop in the village and see how Mrs. Brown is doing.”

  “Not at all.” Would give him a chance to say a few words to her alone. High time he did. “I’ll drop them off. What about this afternoon? You need me for anything?”

  “You’re on duty tonight at the first aid post. Take the afternoon off. Read up about head lice.”

  Halfway up the hill toward Alice’s house, Peter almost turned back, but darn it, he did have the eggs to deliver and he wanted to see her again. Hell, he wanted to do more than see her, and if she was upset with him, best to find out. Perhaps.

  She’d been civil enough yesterday when he’d seen her for maximum two minutes, but dash it all, a woman didn’t kiss as if it were going to be illegal tomorrow unless she was at least a teeny bit interested, did she?

  He was about to find out.

  If she gave him what for and turfed him out by his ear, at least he’d know where he stood.

  In the doghouse.

  And with that sobering thought in mind, he opened the gate and wheeled his bicycle up the path toward The Gallop. Now which door to head for? That was decided for him when the back door opened and Alice walked out, a laundry basket in her arms.

  “Dr. Doyle?”

  She turned as he approached. “Hello, Mr. Watson.”

  That was better than “Go away!” He propped his cycle against the side of the house and took the eggs out of the basket, hoping to heaven they weren’t already scrambled. “Mother Longhurst asked me to bring you up some eggs. She said you’d need them with the house full.”

  “We certainly could. Ours went off laying after the bombing.” She balanced the laundry basket on one hip and reached for the eggs.

  “Let me hold that for you.”

  She gave an odd little smile but handed the basket over and took the string bag with the box of eggs. “I’ll just be a jiffy.” She was back right away and handed him the string bag. “Better be sure she gets this back, or she’ll put the hex on us both.”

  “Eh?”

  She smiled and the sun on her hair made little bright spots of shine. “Surely Nurse Prewitt filled you in about Mother Longhurst’s reputation.”

  Oh, that. “You mean that she’s the village witch? You believe that?”

  “No.” God, her smile was lovely and crinkled up the corners of her eyes. “But my grandmother does, along with half the village. They’ll often go to her before they come to me. I think her ‘cures’ are more in the mind than anything else. Mind you, her hens lay better than anyone else’s in the village, and I bet hers aren’t pitching a snit because we had a bomb two nights ago.”

  “Could I help you with this?” He indicated the basket of laundry he’d kept ahold of.

  “You want to hang up the washing?”

  “No. I want to talk to you, but thought offering to help might be a good way to get you to listen.”

  She looked a lot more than doubtful, but nodded. “I’d be a fool to turn down
an offer to help peg it out, wouldn’t I?”

  Was he being the fool? The next half hour would settle it one way or the other. He hoped.

  Actually, standing in the sun and hanging out sheets wasn’t a bad way to spend an afternoon in her company.

  “Well, Mr. Watson, how’s the job so far?”

  “So far, so good but I’m not too thrilled about checking for head lice tomorrow.”

  She had a wonderful laugh, too, like bottled sunshine poured over warm skin. Oops! Thinking about warm skin might not be the best line of thought.

  “Gloria foisted that one on you, did she?”

  “Is it some sort of initiation rite?”

  This time it was a chuckle, sexy and alluring. “You could call it that. Really, it’s a job we all hate. The children get upset and embarrassed, the parents mortified. The locals blame it on the evacuees bringing the evil lice into the pristine village and the poor old evacuees swear blue murder they never, ever had them in their sweet lives until they ended up in louse-infested Surrey.”

  She slung a sheet over the line and handed him a couple of pegs. He’d done this before. When he was about seven helping his grandmother. “So it’s a sticky situation.”

  “You could say that. Not that these days aren’t laden with sticky situations.”

  He wasn’t missing this chance. “Yes, about Sunday night.”

  “What about it?”

  “Something you want to apologize for?” There was a definite edge in that.

  “I was asking you.”

  She flipped another sheet on the line. He took the cue and dug into the peg bag for a handful.

  “Let’s put it this way: If, by some chance, you gave me a lift home on another occasion, and the same thing happened, would you object?” That was a damn wordy way of asking, “May I kiss you again.”

  She apparently thought so, too. Not that he could read her expression as she hung the final sheet up and almost stabbed the line with the clothes pegs.

  “Mr. Watson,” she said after what seemed like ten hours but was really that many seconds. “Do you think for one minute I’d have let you kiss me if I objected? I have two brothers; I learned early how to fight. If I’d not been willing, you’d have ended up bent double on Howell Pendragon’s front lawn clutching your family jewels.”

  Put that way…“I see.”

  “I’m not sure you do, Mr. Watson.”

  “Then try to explain so that I do understand.”

  She picked up the now empty basket. “Have you had lunch? Gloria tends to skip it, I know.”

  “Er…er no. As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

  “Gran put a pot of stew on for tonight. She won’t miss a couple of servings. Come in”—she turned toward the door, hesitated a moment, and looked back at him—“Peter.”

  Deep breath. Dash it all, two deep breaths. If that last wasn’t an invitation, he’d never received one, but an invitation to what? Lunch?

  Right!

  Peter followed her into the large kitchen. A vast enamel pot simmered on the stove, and a pile of clean dishes was stacked on the draining board. Alice reached for two bowls. “There’s a toilet down the hall on the right if you want to wash up.” She lifted the lid on the pot and a wonderful savory aroma wafted up in the steam. “The meat might still be chewy, but the veggies should be ready.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got good teeth.” Yes, he loved her chuckle. “I’ll be back in a tick!”

  After spending the time it took to lather up his hands, worrying that his teeth comment might be misconstrued, Peter emerged. Nervous wasn’t the word. He had a chance, he wasn’t sure what of, but Alice Doyle was inviting his company.

  Now it was up to him.

  “Did you find a towel? Soap? With our surprise visitors, things seem to go missing.”

  “No, I mean, yes. Everything was fine.” He’d taken longer than he’d thought. While he was soaping and worrying away, she’d laid the table, served two bowls of stew, sliced bread, and put the kettle on. “Smells wonderful.”

  “I’m never quite sure what Gran puts in her stews, but they always turn out well.”

  “A bit of Devon magic?” Now, what was that look for? “The stew looks marvelous. Hadn’t realized how hungry I was.”

  “You need to watch out for meals when you’re with Gloria. Be sure to pack a sandwich or something. She never seems to eat much—must be why she stays so thin.”

  He took the seat she indicated. She sat directly opposite. Gave him a perfect view. Pity it was rude to stare.

  The aroma hadn’t misled—the stew was delicious, and once he started eating, Peter realized just how hungry he was; the bowl of porridge for breakfast had been hours earlier. “This is delicious; your grandmother’s a super cook. I remember those custard tarts.”

  “Good thing she is, too, or I’d eat as little as Gloria does.”

  “I like her.” That got him a sharp look. “She’s a good nurse. Listens to everyone.”

  Alice relaxed. Just a wee bit. “She is. She’s been here about five years or so. At first people thought she was standoffish because she keeps to herself a lot, lives alone, and has so far avoided getting any evacuees. Mind you, she’s on call as much as I am, and being in the village sees people who can’t or don’t want to bike up here.”

  “Talking of evacuees, what about your surprise visitors?”

  “That’s where Gran is, off to harass Lady Gregory and the billeting board to find somewhere for them that doesn’t entail putting them out one by one. We can’t keep them here and houses are full to the seams. What about Sid Arckle?”

  “He’s still sleeping on the sofa in the parlor, but seems there’s a farmer offered to take him and Dave. Said he’d take on Dave when he gets well as paid help.”

  “A bit irregular, but Dave’s almost fourteen; plenty leave school before then. Remember who it was?”

  “A Tom Longhurst.”

  She nodded. “His farm’s up on Cherry Hill. He’ll be a fair employer, I think. Keeps his farm and animals well, and he lost a bunch of his laborers. They signed up right at the beginning of the war. His farm is up a bit beyond the heath where the encampment is that no one’s supposed to know makes munitions. Beats me how Sid will get to school.”

  The kettle whistled on the oven top and she got up to fill the pot. “Want some more stew? We’ve got heaps.”

  “Thanks, but this is enough.” She had a houseful to feed tonight after all.

  “Milk and sugar.”

  “Just milk.”

  She went into the pantry for the milk. “So,” she said, coming out with the bottle, “the Arckle boys set for a farmer’s life? Odd end for a pair from Shoreditch.”

  “Their father’s coming down in a day or two. To see Dave most of all, but also I think to talk things over with Tom Longhurst.”

  “Must be awful sending your children off into the unknown. But…” She shrugged. “A bit like going off to boarding school but much worse. Plus the worry of not knowing what’s happening and if you’ll ever see your parents again. Small wonder half of them are bed-wetting. Oh well. That’s a minor detail really. Here…” She handed him a cup. “Want a more comfortable seat? Let’s sit in the lounge.”

  She let the way to a sofa by a bay window that overlooked the front garden. The sofa was large and soft and he resisted the temptation to sit right next to her.

  Later. If he was extraordinarily lucky.

  She put her cup and saucer down on the round coffee table. “Tell me something about yourself,” she said.

  “You know a good bit already. I’m from Devon, went to Blundells, started training as a vet and ended up a CO and working here as a first aid assistant.” He didn’t want to go any deeper, not now. “Tell me about yourself. Your father was the doctor before you, and you have brothers.”

  “Two. Simon was taken prisoner after Dunkirk, and Alan is in the Navy. Dad really wanted one of them to become a doctor, but the mantle fell on me.
”

  “Not an easy job.”

  “Inheriting Dad’s mantle or being a country doctor?”

  “Both, perhaps. It’s not an easy job in peacetime but now…” Why elaborate? They both knew, only too recently, what it entailed.

  “I do what I have to. Dad used to have an assistant, but he joined up very early on in the war. I was working with Dad before he was killed so I just took over.”

  “He died in the blitz?”

  “No, that was the irony of it. We were crossing the road in Dorking after going to the cinema and got run over by a bus in the blackout. I ended up with a scrapes and bruises, but the bus went over Dad. Killed him instantly.”

  What a lousy thing to happen. “And your mother?”

  “She died when I was ten. Pneumonia.” She went quiet. Just for a few moments. “What about your parents?”

  He should have expected this. “My father’s dead, too. Died when I was nine. My mother’s remarried. Nice chap, and I have two little half brothers: nine and twelve. Don’t get to see them much. Just hope this war’s over before they get old enough to be conscripted.”

  “It can’t last that long, surely!”

  “Who’s to tell? And if the Jerries get here, as everyone seems to expect…”

  “It could be over fast.” She shuddered. “The idea’s horrific, but it happened to the French, the Belgians, the Dutch, the Norwegians. It surely can’t happen here.”

  But they both feared it could. “The Channel stopped Bonaparte.”

  She nodded. “Gran keeps saying that. I hope she’s right. The way they’re dropping bombs, they might not need to use boats. Just parachutes.” She drained her cup and put it down. “Let’s get off that, or I’ll end up maudlin. I didn’t invite you in to hash over the war and invasion.”

  Why had she asked him in? Was he supposed to take his cue from her comments regarding their kiss two night ago? Hell, it hadn’t been a kiss, it was a KISS, and he would all but kill for another.

  “How did your father die? An accident?”

  He went cold, then the heat of a flush raced up his neck, and his throat went tight. It would be so easy to say, “Yes, an accident,” but he couldn’t lie to her, not even with part truths. He told her.