Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  The door to the street opened, allowing a beam of light to spill across a floor scattered with metal shavings and bits of ash. Idly, Susan watched until the visitor stepped into view.

  RueAnn?

  Susan smiled. RueAnn must have sensed her near panic over the phone and had come to reassure her that Phillip had gone on his way without a hitch. Reaching for another mug, Susan began gathering supplies for a second cup of tea. Her hand froze in the air. RueAnn looked so serious as she took the stairs to the office. So somber.

  Bit by bit, Susan felt an ominous tingling begin in her extremities. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

  The door opened, letting in a blast of noise from the shop. She saw RueAnn’s lips move, felt her hand on her arm, drawing her toward the small settee opposite her desk. She must have sat, because she watched as RueAnn reached into her purse, withdrawing a flimsy envelope.

  Swallowing, she managed to push the words, “Open it” from her lips.

  After tearing the flap and removing the telegram, RueAnn held it out to Susan. The paper crackled as Susan held it too tightly in nerveless fingers. She read it once, uncomprehending, then briefly squeezed her eyes shut and began again. But her mind stuttered like the needle of a phonograph skipping over a scratch in a record.

  …Matthew Blunt…believed dead…

  The paper fell from her bloodless fingers, fluttering like a wounded bird onto the floor.

  Then RueAnn was there to hold her, to keep her from collapsing as the sobs came, threatening to tear her asunder.

  • • •

  Rouen, France

  With each day that passed, Charlie felt himself growing stronger and more impatient to be on the move. The longer he stayed with Elizabeth, the more dangerous it became for both of them, and after everything she’d done for him, he didn’t want to repay her kindness with carelessness.

  So, unbeknownst to Elizabeth, when she left for work in the morning, he dressed in his peasant clothing and slipped out of the house to explore the surrounding area.

  He was careful to keep to crowds where he could blend in, hunching his shoulders and walking with a pronounced limp—one that was not entirely feigned—as he began to put more and more weight on his injured hip. He feared that as a man of military age, he would attract too much attention, but people doggedly went about their business, heads down, eyes averted, lest they catch the eyes of the soldiers who prowled the sidewalks.

  Within the first few jaunts, he had located several avenues of escape should he need them. One led into the woods, another to a nearby river, another led straight into the heart of the city where a twisted series of avenues might allow him to evade pursuit.

  But what he was most intent upon, was retracing the path that Rex had taken after Charlie had been injured. Somehow, he needed to find his way back to the spot where they’d camped the night before entering the city and making that fateful visit to the railway station.

  So each day he went a little farther, explored a little more, trying to rely on the snatches of memory he had of that long-ago night.

  At first, he was sure his search was fruitless. But then he found the spot where Rex had been killed. The stains of his blood still dark in the packed earth. From there, he began to circle, finding the bushes where they’d hidden part of a day, then a series of farms with corrals and pigstys, one of which was probably where Rex had hidden him in the mud.

  It was growing dark by the time he returned to Elizabeth’s house. He’d been out too long. The patrols were growing more numerous. But he’d pushed himself a little farther, until, finally, he’d been able to recognize the landmarks he’d tried so hard to memorize.

  Another few days. Maybe a week. Then it would be time to go.

  A truck suddenly screeched to a halt a few feet away. Even before it had completely stopped, several soldiers jumped from the back and ran toward him.

  Charlie reacted instinctively, flattening himself against the wall, already prepared to make his capture as difficult as possible. But the men ran past him to the door of an apartment house.

  Knowing he had to get away—now!—Charlie backed toward one of the alleys, even as the soldiers dragged a pair of men from the building, forcing them into the truck. Ignoring the pain in his hip, he pushed himself harder and faster, weaving in and out of the alleyways, sticking to the shadows as much as he could.

  By the time he reached the outskirts of town and could see Elizabeth’s house in the distance, he was winded and hobbling. Bloody hell, just let him get the last few yards undetected.

  Once he was across the street from the ramshackle shack, he waited, knowing that he’d been gone too long. Getting inside undetected would be more difficult as the tram disgorged the last of its passengers before curfew.

  Leaning against the trunk of a tree, he remained in the shadows, damning himself for stupidly thinking that he was well enough to go so far. Dragging air into his lungs, he waited and waited, praying that darkness would come, that the street would grow quiet before his muscles completely cramped up or he collapsed where he stood.

  Nearly an hour later, he saw his first opportunity, and knowing that he couldn’t afford to hesitate much longer, he hurried across the street to the bushes and trees that bordered the property, ignoring the front door and skirting around to the back. Then, after a quick glance around him, he grasped the latch and let himself in, swiftly shutting the door behind him.

  There was no mistaking the click of a pistol hammer being eased into position. A light flared.

  Charlie blinked, then focused on Elizabeth who pinned him down with his own revolver.

  “Shit!” he gasped, then sagged against the door.

  As if sensing he’d reached his goal, his muscles suddenly gave way and he collapsed, sliding down the length of the door, his legs splaying out in front of him.

  “Merde, Charlie! What have you been doing?”

  He couldn’t speak. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes closing beneath the pounding thrum of his hip and shoulder.

  “Are you trying to kill yourself?” she demanded with a harsh whisper. Rushing to his side, she hooked his arm around her shoulders.

  “No,” he gasped. “I can’t…give me a minute…”

  “Now. Now before you aren’t able to stand at all.”

  He groaned, planting his feet against the floor, pushing, pushing, until he managed to struggle to his feet.

  “Into the bedroom.”

  “No. Cellar.”

  She looked as if she were about to argue, then obviously thought better about it because she helped him to the hinged panels, bent for a moment, and flung the door open.

  “Careful,” she warned as they took the steep, narrow steps.

  Charlie tried to lean as much as possible against the wall rather than on Elizabeth’s slender frame. Half-walking, half-stumbling to the pallet on the floor, he collapsed, panting.

  “I need to see if you’ve re-injured yourself,” she said, reaching for the buttons of his shirt, but he pushed her hand away. “No…just tired…went too far.”

  “Mon dieu! What were you doing out there!”

  “I—”

  “You didn’t just endanger your own welfare, you endangered mine!”

  “Eli—”

  “Do you think that I would do all this—” she waved her arms wildly “—shelter you, tend you, feed you, simply to have you waste all my efforts in a moment of thoughtlessness?”

  “I—”

  “What if someone had seen you? What if my neighbors had seen you? The Germans are offering rewards for escaped soldiers.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right. And I’m sorry. I had no business endangering you or drawing you into my own private battles.”

  Her chin tilted proudly. “You are not the only one battling the Germans, mon ami.”

  • • •

  London, England

  When the all-clear sounded, a thin strip of pink was just ting
eing the horizon. RueAnn slipped through the canvas flap, chaffing her arms against the morning chill.

  After September and October had been so warm, RueAnn had begun to believe that autumn would never arrive in England. But the past few nights had heralded a bite to the air—and a new concern. Once winter came, they would need a better door on the Anderson as well as a means to heat the shelter.

  She was so intent on her thoughts that she nearly didn’t see the figure sitting hunched at the kitchen table.

  “Richard?”

  She hardly recognized her new boarder, Richard Carr. Blood and grime covered his face and hands; his clothes were torn and sooty, revealing more lacerations beneath.

  He stared at her blankly, clearly in shock.

  “Richard, what happened?”

  He shook his head numbly. “Bomb…exploded.” He held up his hands, not recognizing them as they trembled violently. “I’d gone back to the lorry for a spanner…when the whole thing went up.”

  “And the rest of your men didn’t take you to the hospital?” she asked in disbelief as she hurriedly gathered a basin and went to the sink for water. But when she twisted the spigot, nothing happened.

  “My crew…were working on the bomb.”

  RueAnn whirled to look at Richard in horror, then, seeing the pallor beneath the filth, she hurried to the stove where a teakettle should—yes! It was half-filled.

  Since the coals in the stove still smoldered, the water was only slightly warm, but it would do for now. Grasping a clean dishcloth, she hurried back to the table and began to dab at Richard’s face.

  “What about Mr. Rigdon? Gerald.”

  Richard shook his head. “Don’t know. He was at a different site.”

  A part of her sagged in relief.

  “Do I need to take you somewhere, notify someone?”

  Richard’s brow creased. “I-I…don’t know.”

  RueAnn paused, cupping his face in her hands and gently lifting it so he looked at her. “Richard? Richard, I think you’re suffering from shock. Richard!”

  He blinked at her uncomprehendingly.

  For a moment, she was at a loss of what to do. But then, as an icy calm washed over her, she closed her eyes and drew upon the information she’d gleaned from the first-aid spotlights that regularly aired on the radio. Wrapping Richard’s arm around her shoulder, she said, “Come with me. We’ve got to get you lying down.”

  He rose unsteadily to his feet.

  Knowing she could never navigate the stairs, she led him into the parlor and helped Richard to lie down on the couch. Rushing to Edna’s room, she gathered all the linens she could find. Then she returned, stacking pillows and folded blankets beneath his feet, until she’d propped them as high as she could. Working quickly, she untied the laces on his boots and tugged them off. After layering him more blankets from upstairs, she hurried back to the Anderson and slipped inside. Creeping to the bunk where Susan slept, she softly shook her shoulder.

  Susan awoke with a start.

  “Richard Carr has been injured and I need your help.”

  Between the pair of them, they managed to remove his tattered clothing down to his underwear. Then, while Susan began to sponge his face and arms clean, RueAnn went in search of water.

  Unsure where or how far she would have to go, RueAnn paused at the front gate, two metal pails held securely in each hand. Seeing more smoke toward the south and east, toward the Thames, she headed in the opposite direction.

  It never ceased to amaze her how London came alive as soon as the all-clear sounded. Since air losses had forced the Germans to change their tactics and focus primarily on nightly bombing raids, the inhabitants of the city had quickly adapted to their dual lives. Nights were spent trying to sleep in the crowded shelters. But the days…

  The days were precious nuggets of normalcy.

  Even as weary mothers began to shepherd their sleepy children toward home, the work force began to appear—businessmen in suits, office girls in their smart dresses and heels, and the myriad branches of military. Bus stops and Tube entrances were soon crowded, neat queues forming without a word.

  RueAnn joined the tide flowing in the opposite direction, housewives and youngsters with pails seeking water for washing and cooking.

  • • •

  Richard Carr was sleeping peacefully on the couch. The color had returned to his face and his skin had lost its waxy sheen.

  “He looks better than before,” RueAnn whispered.

  Susan nodded. “I gave him some sweet tea.” She grimaced. “I used the last of your sugar. Sorry.”

  RueAnn waved away the apology. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Gerald came by. He was truly relieved to find Richard alive and well. He’ll get in touch with Richard’s superiors and let them know he wasn’t…in the middle of the blast. He’s gone out again. Evidently, the Germans are purposely setting some of the timers to explode long after the bomb has landed and the UXB boys are flooded with calls. He’ll try to check on Richard later in the day.”

  RueAnn nodded.

  Susan adjusted the blanket around Richard’s shoulders, then sighed. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  Susan was nearly to the door when RueAnn called out. “Do you need a pot or a frying pan?”

  “A what?”

  RueAnn grinned when Susan looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “According to tattle at the line of women waiting for water, Mr. Marbury, the grocer off Tottenham, found some cookware when he cleaned out his storeroom.”

  “Found?” Susan said, one brow arching.

  “Quite miraculously, yes. I thought I’d go get us a new pot in the morning. Do you want one as well?”

  Susan’s smile was broad. “What for? Lately, we’ve been eating here more than at home.” She laughed. “I’m thinking of breaking through one of the walls so I won’t have to brave the bad weather between our two gardens once the snow begins to fly.”

  • • •

  The following morning, RueAnn wasn’t the only woman to begin the day long before the all-clear sounded. When she arrived at Marbury’s shop, a line had already formed at the door and was snaking around the corner. Hurrying into position, RueAnn patted her purse to make sure her ration cards and pocket money were still safe.

  “It’s a bit nippy out, isn’t it?” the woman ahead of her remarked, clutching her knitted sweater tightly against her throat.

  No, not a sweater, RueAnn corrected herself. They called them jumpers here in England, a fact which had caused her a bit of confusion when she’d first arrived.

  “Are you here for a pot, dearie?”

  “Yes. Mine is so badly dented, it tends to roll from the burner.”

  “I’m hoping for one of the frying pans, myself,” she said, sniffing. The cold had turned the tip of her nose a bright pink. “I’ve heard some say that it’s unpatriotic the way Mr. Marbury’s selling the cookware rather than donating it to the metal drive or the Spitfire fund.” She stamped her feet. “But I says it’s equally unpatriotic to send the men folk off hungry every morning without a proper breakfast in their stomachs. I surrendered most of my cookery at the beginning of the war and I’m livin’ to regret a bit of it now. How about you?”

  “I-I wasn’t here when war broke out. But judging by the supply at hand, I’d wager my motherin-law did the same.”

  “Where you from? Canada?”

  RueAnn shook her head. “America.”

  “America!” Her eyes widened. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  “I came to be with my husband.”

  “He’s here? In London?”

  “No. He’s…he’s missing in action.”

  The woman clucked sympathetically. Ahead of them, the sign in the window suddenly flipped to “open” and the crowd surged forward a few feet in anticipation. As soon as the door opened, a dozen women crowded inside. A few minutes later, an excited murmur rose as the firs
t group of women emerged again, triumphantly holding their cast iron skillets.

  “Your husband should have kept you with your own people, nice and safe,” the woman said after a moment. Mr. Marbury must have been hurrying to distribute his booty before the authorities caught wind of it because the line was moving quite quickly now.

  People? RueAnn felt a moment of confusion. She had no people. There were her sisters, but her father had poisoned them against her.

  Startled, she realized that, however it had happened, these had become her “people.” Her family. Fellow Londoners, the women of her neighborhood, the Blunts. Edna.

  The realization brought an incomprehensible wonder along with a bittersweet sadness.

  This remarkable sharing of their lives and their resources had brought her closer to these folk than she’d ever been with anyone else, including her own kin. Yet, she also worried that this same sense of…community could be stripped away as quickly as it had come. If Charlie were to return, if he demanded that they divorce and lead separate lives…

  She would be alone again.

  Without warning, the fierce roar of a plane overhead sent the women pushing into the shop and flattening themselves against the wall, shielding themselves as much as possible. Bullets smacked the streets and bits of cobblestone peppered them like nails. Then, within a heartbeat, the German Messerschmitt climbed up, up, as a Spitfire roared in pursuit, its guns firing from behind.

  Suddenly, a blossom of black appeared at the base of the Messerschmitt’s wing, then a lick of flame which dissolved into an explosion. The canopy opened, a figure emerging as the plane broke in two, the wing plummeting one way while the rest of the wreckage cartwheeled into a building somewhere blocks away. The crash was deafening—a screech of metal and broken glass. Within moments, a puff of smoke began to rise up above the rooftops, while high above, a parachute opened and the pilot floated silently down, down, like a dandelion seed seeking purchase.

  At the last minute, the wind changed direction, sending him back in the direction of the women waiting outside Mr. Marbury’s shop.

  A murmur rippled through the group, becoming louder, more frenzied.