Bloody Right

by Georgia Evans

  “Mum’s in the hall, helping,” Jim said. “She told us to play quietly.”

  So they weren’t even June Willows’s responsibility. “Then I suggest you go right into the village hall and explain to your mother what happened.”

  They didn’t exactly rush to follow that direction.

  “Better get a broom and clean up the broken glass too,” Tom Longhurst added.

  Good point. Mary watched the two boys drag themselves toward maternal retribution. It was getting downright chilly. She wrapped her arms around her chest as she followed the boys back inside.

  “Take my coat,” Tom Longhurst said, unbuttoning his tweed jacket.

  “No, don’t bother. Thank you, but I’ll be inside in a jiffy.” She darted forward and grabbed the door. “Were you heading here?” She hoped not. On his way to the Pig and Whistle most likely.

  “Yes, I was. Mother wanted me to check numbers. She’s baking apple pies.”

  As if Mrs. Longhurst couldn’t guess how many pies might be needed. Honestly! Flimsy excuse wasn’t the word. “How kind of her. She’s a wonderful baker.” He’d nipped ahead of her and had the door open and was lifting the blackout curtain. Would be downright rude and silly to not go in. “Better tell Gloria or Mrs. Chivers,” she said quickly. “They’re organizing this shindig. I’ll keep an eye on those boys.”

  She darted across the hall, full steam ahead as the irate teacher, to find that Mrs. Polson had done the job for her. The two boys were fairly quivering under the scolding. “And now you’ll clean up the mess and cover the broken pane and on top of that, pay for the new glass out of your pocket money.”

  Mary almost began to feel sorry for the pair of them, heads hung and shoulders slumped under the weight of guilt. “Clean up and find a piece of cardboard to cover the hole and I expect Mr. Simmons could fix it,” she said. The school caretaker was pretty adept at replacing panes broken by cricket balls, and other flying missiles.

  “He’s expert. Mended a couple my brother and I broke over the years.”

  Darn, it was Tom Longhurst. Right at her shoulder.

  “You think he would, sir?” Jim Polson asked, eyes aglow with relief.

  “Best ask him in the morning and cover the pane for now. There’s a gale blowing through.”

  Mary tamped down her irritation. She and Mrs. Polson made the same request and the boys stood there. Tom Longhurst tells them and they hop to it. Alright, she was being unfair. There were precious few men left in the village and Tom was a favorite of most of the boys. And a good many of the women as well. She darn well wished they’d get his attention instead of her.

  “One good thing,” Tom went on, giving her his most appealing smile. “They proved that the paper strips on the glass really do hold the pane glass together.”

  “Yes,” she replied. It certainly did. When Jim lifted the curtain the shattered fragments hung on the strips of tape that crisscrossed the window pane.

  “Put that curtain back down!” a voice called across the hall. “Or we’ll have the air raid wardens down on us.”

  “No point in inviting Jerry to the party,” someone else added.

  Nothing more she could do here. Might as well head back to the table where Gloria and Mrs. Chivers sorted food donations.

  Only Tom tagged along. “You know Peter Wills is playing the piano for tomorrow night.”

  Of course she knew. She and Gloria had been in on the planning for Gryffyth Pendragon’s return since the very beginning. “Should be fun.” Although she rather questioned the tactlessness of dancing at a party for a returning amputee. But it seemed no one else had any qualms.

  “So,” Tom went on, with another too charming smile, “will you promise me a dance?”

  Damn! She was not a swearing woman, but really. She’d gone to the pictures with him once (grave error of judgment that had been) and now he laid claim to her. “I’ll give you one dance, Tom.”

  “Just one? I’m being rationed?”

  Heaven help her! She’d turned him down twice already. Maybe she was too tactful. “Tom, I’d better let the other women have a look in. Can’t monopolize you, can I?”

  He actually paused to ponder that, which gave her a moment to get back to the table by the door. Once she was behind that…

  “Wouldn’t mind,” he said, grabbing her hand.

  She would. “One dance, Tom,” she repeated, taking her hand from his and feeling the eyes of half the assembled company on her. “Why don’t you check with Mrs. Chivers and see how many pies we need?”

  “Excuse me,” a voice, to her left, said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  Thrilled to be interrupted, Mary smiled at the speaker, the cook from Wharton Lacey. “Yes?”

  “Just wanted a quick word. If you don’t mind.”

  “By all means. Miss Aubin, isn’t it?” Mary stepped to the side and Tom moved away. To ask someone else for a dance, no doubt. “Can I help you?”

  “Just wanted to introduce myself properly. You’re the Guernsey girl, am I right?”

  “Yes, I’m Mary LaPrioux. Evacuated here with my class.”

  The woman held out her hand. “Edith Aubin. From St. Clement’s Parish on Jersey.”

  Mary clasped her hand. “I’m from St. Martins. It’s good to meet someone else from the Islands.” Even if she was from Jersey.

  “Just wanted to say hello.”

  “I’m glad you did. Home seems a long way away these days. Have you been here long?”

  “Fifteen years. Used to be I went home every holiday, but now…”

  Who knew when they’d be home? If ever. “I alternate between homesickness, being glad I’m safe, and worrying about everyone left behind.”

  “You get news?”

  “Yes,” Mary replied. “But how much can they say on those Red Cross forms? We set up a code before I was evacuated, so we could let each other know if anything dire happened.”

  “I’ve an old mother, I worry about her,” Edith Aubin said. “Didn’t have much schooling so she never did write much. I’ve a married brother and sister but seldom hear from them.”

  Worrying. Had to be. “I think there’s a limit how many of those letters they can send.”

  “I know,” Miss Aubin replied. “I tell myself he uses them to write to his wife. She and the children went back to her family in Devon. But I can’t help but worry.”

  She looked more than worried. She looked downright haggard. “Do you know where in Devon? The doctor’s family are from that way and so’s her new husband. Perhaps if you ask them.”

  “Miss LaPrioux!” a voice called across the hall.

  “Sorry, I’d better go,” Mary said. “I’ll talk to Alice.”

  “Come up and have tea one day. I’d enjoy talking to someone from home, or at least close to home.”

  “Thank you, I will. I’ll stop next time I’m over your way.”

  “Please do.” With a nod, the older woman buttoned up her coat and left.

  Mary went over to see what Mrs. Chivers wanted.

  “I think you’re breaking Tom Longhurst’s heart,” Gloria said, as she and Mary walked home, their shaded torches lighting the way.

  Mary assumed she was teasing. “He’ll survive.”

  “You really don’t fancy him, do you?”

  Good question. “He’s a nice enough chap.” And, she had to admit, one of the few single men left in the village, now that Gloria and Alice Watson, the doctor, had snagged the nicest two. “But he’s just not my type.”

  “He’s smitten, sexy, intelligent. If you gave him just the weeniest come-hither he’d be yours for the taking.”

  Maybe. But he was clearly and unmistakably human, and Mary wasn’t about to tangle with him. Going out to the flicks once had been an error in judgment she was not likely to repeat. He might have a hammerpond on the edge of his land, where she bathed when the need for water overwhelmed her. But she could just imagine the look on his nice, human face if she said Oh, by the way. I�
�m a Water Sprite. You don’t mind if I go off in the moonlight and swim in all weathers, do you?

  Might almost be worth it to see the shock in his big blue eyes, but no. She’d been trained from childhood to keep her nature a secret, and a secret it would remain. Unless she met another of her kind, and the odds of meeting another in landlocked Surrey was about as likely as the Germans deciding they didn’t want to invade her home after all.

  “A penny for them?” Gloria asked. “Tom on your mind?”

  “Gloria, he’s just not my sort. He really isn’t.”

  “I didn’t say he was your Mr. Right, but how about a Mr. Right Now?”

  Mary shook her head. “No. Someone else can have him.” They were practically lining up after all. Of course, there was still the problem of the damn dance she’d promised him.

  Maybe she’d stay home tomorrow night. Fat chance of that. Sensible, oh-so-human Gloria would nag her into going. There was no way out, short of breaking a leg or developing some contagious disease. She was going to have to brace herself to dance with the most eligible bachelor for miles around.

  Chapter Three

  “Dad, I’m not going tonight. I can’t. And that’s flat!”

  Howell Pendragon looked up from filling the teapot, almost baptizing himself with boiling water at the sheer panic in Gryffyth’s eyes and the sweat beading on his forehead. “Right you are, son,” he replied, putting the lid on the pot and covering it with the knitted cozy Helen Burrows made out of Air Force Blue wool. “Tea’ll be ready in a minute. Want a piece of toast with it?”

  “Did you hear me, Dad?”

  “Yes, I heard you.” Would have been impossible not to, given he’d as good as shouted. Another mark of how keyed up he was. “You don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  Howell put two mugs on the table and reached into the bread bin. “What do you expect me to say, son? You said you won’t go. You’re a grown man. I can hardly wallop you on the bum and tell you, ‘yes, you are!’ The way I did when you refused to carry your cousin Bronwen’s train at her wedding.”

  “Dad, I was six at the time.”

  “And now you’re twenty-six. So you won’t come. Want one slice of toast or two?”

  “I don’t want any toast!”

  Silly git! Not that he’d say that aloud. Howell shook his head and put four slices of bread under the grill. He was hungry and he bet Gryff was. He fetched the week’s ration of cheese from the pantry and started slicing. The lad had always had a weakness for cheese on toast. (He damn well wasn’t calling it Welsh Rarebit the way the English did.) And they had two hours to go before Alice Watson would pick them up.

  Howell busied himself with plates and filling the milk jug, all the time casting glances in Gryffyth’s direction. He understood the lad’s reluctance. It was no joke for him, hobbling about on his tin leg while everyone else, old fogies to little nippers, skipped around on two. But dammit, Gryff had done nothing but mope and frown since he came home, aside from one trip down to the Pig with Andrew and Peter. He’d gone the once and refused ever after. It wasn’t good. Not at all.

  “Here you are.” Howell slipped two slices onto a plate and put it on Gryffyth’s side of the table. “Come and get it while it’s still warm and bubbly.”

  “I’m not hungry, Dad.”

  “Maybe not, but that’s your cheese ration for the week so best eat up, or you will be.” He set to pouring tea and made himself not watch his son. But nodded with satisfaction as Gryffyth walked over to the table. He managed that far without his stick. Good. “Here’s your tea.” Howell put the mug by the plate and sat down himself.

  The lad got himself into the chair, but pulling it up to the table was another matter. Howell knew better than offer to help. What grown man wanted to be pushed up to the table like a child? He took a drink of tea, noting with pleasure that Gryff was already picking up knife and fork.

  He let him eat, topping up his tea and not saying much until he cleared away the plates and produced the remains of the blackberry-and-apple tart Helen Burrows had brought over yesterday.

  “This is delicious,” Gryffyth said, between mouthfuls. “Just as it was when we were children. Remember how Alice and I and her brothers used to play together? Her grandmother used to bake the most smashing cakes and tarts.”

  “The Pixie touch, eh?” No joking there either.

  “That’s what she used to say. Said it was Devon magic.”

  Good opening, that. Not what he’d planned on saying right this minute, but never mind. “Why not? Ours isn’t the only sort of magic, lad.”

  “Oh! Dad! Fat lot of good that magic did me, sitting here with my tin leg.”

  “Dragon magic’s no use?” Howell almost laughed. “Then how is it you were the only one picked up alive?”

  He wished the words back the minute Gryffyth’s eyes brimmed with tears. Tears he blinked back with a snarl. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it, Dad? I was their sergeant and I couldn’t save them!”

  Howell reached across the table and grabbed both his son’s hands, squeezing until he opened his eyes and glared his fury at his father. “Right there, lad. You couldn’t save them. There were men in the trenches died and I couldn’t save them. They’ll haunt me until I die, just as your men will haunt you. But that’s the way it is. You survived, just as I did.”

  “You came home with both legs.”

  “True, but seems to me, son, it’s coming back that matters. Surviving. Don’t think your fighting’s finished just because they invalided you out. It’s not. We’ve had our own war here and it’s not been nice.”

  “I heard about the vicar’s wife getting hurt in the bombing, and Miss Waite being arrested as a spy.”

  The lad didn’t know the half of it. “There’s a lot more, son, much more. You need to know it all, but now’s not the time. If I started we’d be here until midnight and never get out of the house.”

  At least that got a bit of a smile. “Sounds like a good idea, Dad. Since I’m not going.”

  Time to get down to brass tacks. “Yes, you are, Gryff, and I’ll tell you why. First off, they’ve worked and planned this for days and you can’t let them down. People have given up their food rations and done without to put this on for you. Second, everyone needs a party. You’ve had it rough, so has everyone here. Not just the bombs and the worry about invasion. We’ve done without, made do and mended, seen friends killed or missing, and Brytewood needs a party. And this, third and final,” he went on as Gryffyth opened his mouth to speak, “you’re their hope.”

  He let out a cynical laugh. “Some hope! I come back hopping on a tin leg!”

  “Yes, son, but you came back. That’s what matters. Now that you returned alive, they can hope their sons and husbands and brothers will too.”

  “Hope they come back crippled?”

  “Better come back like you than as a name engraved on the War Memorial on the village green. Too many damn names on that already.”

  Gryff went silent, holding his empty mug in both hands. “Dad, I just dread sitting there. What the hell am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to come along, meet your old friends—those who are still here, that is. Have a couple of beers, maybe a bit more, and come home again. Tomorrow we’ll have a long talk.” Time he knew what had been going on in Brytewood. Might just be a gift from the heavens that he was back. Another Dragon couldn’t do anything but weigh the odds in their favor. “Tell me, son. When did you last shift? Been awhile, I bet?”

  Gryffyth stared at his father. “Last time was with you, just before I left.”

  He’d expected as much. “Tomorrow night, we go up on Box Hill and we shift together. You need to be reminded what you really are.”

  “Yes, Dad, a three-legged Dragon!”

  “Bet you amazed the doctors. No trouble with infection in your stump? No fever? Healed faster than anyone else?”

  “Yea
h!” Another slip of a smile there. “Didn’t want them wondering too much. Used to joke and say we Welsh were made of stone from our mountains.”

  Not too far off the truth when it came to Dragons. “Alright, then. I’ll clear the table, you go and spruce yourself up. Best put on a tie. Show everyone you made an effort.”

  He actually had made a pretty good effort. Put on a clean shirt and was brushing his jacket when Alice walked in the back door. Howell smiled and restrained a sigh. He’d had hopes for her and Gryffyth. The lad needed a wife who was Other, and Alice’s Pixie blood certainly would have fitted the bill, but she was well and truly married to young Peter Watson now. And already fielding the inevitable jokes about Dr. Watson. Gryffyth would have to look elsewhere.

  Once he found peace with himself.

  “Good evening, Sergeant, Gryffyth. Everyone ready?”

  “Evening, Alice.” The boy even managed a smile. “Thanks for coming.”

  “My pleasure. It’s good to see you back. Besides, it’s not every day we get to throw a party. Ready?”

  “Give me couple of ticks.” Gryffyth shrugged on his jacket, Howell fisting his hands to resist the urge to help. The lad had to do it for himself, and wanted to. And managed, even throwing on his top coat. “Cold outside?” he asked.

  “Not too bad,” Alice replied, “given it’s December. But the village hall is like a tomb. I think they’re counting on body heat to warm the place.”

  And a room full of sweaty dancers, but that Howell kept to himself. “All set, son?”

  Howell hoped the Jerries hadn’t invented a system to measure noise. Of course if they had, they’d be on them already. The music greeted them long before they pulled up in front of the darkened village hall. There was a flicker of light from the door. Someone watching for them, no doubt, but Gryffyth missed that in the effort of getting out of the car.

  But no one could miss the opening bars of “Men of Harlech” as they stepped into the hall. Nice touch, that. Howell blinked back a tear or two even if it was a trifle off-key. Best one could expect among the English, after all.