It occurred to her as she was finagling the comb through her frizz that this was a date. Her first date. How the heck did a woman get to be almost thirty and never have a date? Because there was Mona to worry about, and then the war, and then work to get, she reminded herself. So this wasn’t a date, really, because she still had to focus on work, had to focus on Mona. This was just a break, a story to please her sister. So no dressing up, no effort, only a bit of lipstick to maintain standards.
Reg was leaning on the post outside number seven. He smiled that funny crooked smile as she emerged. Again, she felt her heart give a little leap and she spoke more loudly than usual, because she didn’t want to encourage him. Or herself.
“You oughta watch yourself, hanging around like this. You look like you’re casing the joint.”
“Thank goodness I’ve seen American films,” he said. “I’m not sure I’d understand you otherwise.”
“I never understand half of what I hear around here! And I can’t say anything, it being your country and all.”
“Plus we invented the language,” he pointed out.
“But we made it fun,” she countered.
“Ha! We can match you slang for slang.”
“A likely story.”
All the way to the Underground station at Tottenham Court Road and then the ride to Bishopsgate, they compared their respective lingos. Phoebe, though she’d eavesdropped on conversations when traveling to work, and on the set, realized she hadn’t learned much of the language that was both so familiar and so foreign. Reg explained that he’d grown up in North London (“Not the nicest part, but we kept things up well”) and that the language there was as different from the Cockney rhymes that were considered the common tongue of London as English was from French.
“As kids, we were fascinated when we heard it, of course, not that we often did,” he said. “My parents had notions, wanting us to go to university and make something of ourselves. If I ever called the stairs ‘the old apples and pears,’ I’d get my ears boxed.”
Which, Phoebe learned, had nothing to do with boxing.
“It’s a great step down, my being in Soho,” Reg said in mock sorrow, shaking his head for emphasis as they ascended the stairs at the Bank stop. “Such a disappointment to my family. A veritable black sheep, I am.” Then he reverted to earnestness. “But the war changed all our plans. First I was too young and then too asthmatic to serve, so I took up my place at Oxford after all. They liked to assure us we were doing our own sort of duty by carrying on the tradition of fine education. Guilt, a wonderful motivator. There were more starred first degrees in my year than the place ever saw before or since, I should think.”
“‘Starred first’?” Phoebe asked. “We stopped getting stars after kindergarten.”
Reg laughed. “In a British university, it’s a top degree. Good luck ever meeting a chap who got one and doesn’t work it into the conversation.”
“I notice you haven’t actually said you got one,” Phoebe observed.
“Well, my people might have notions, but they still uphold modesty as a valuable trait,” Reg said, and winked. “And if you’ll look to your left, Miss Adler, you’ll see a fine example of medieval London.” He gestured like a museum docent.
“It’s a church,” Phoebe said. “I thought we were going to that Seven Stars pub.”
“I thought you’d enjoy the detour,” he said simply.
Mild annoyance swirled up Phoebe’s spine, but Reg’s smile was very sweet, and the small stone church very handsome. The annoyance dissipated by the time her gaze landed on the spire.
“It doesn’t look that old,” she said at last.
“Like many buildings, St. Helen’s has received some tweaks over the years,” Reg conceded, guiding her inside. “But give the old girl some credit, she’s survived the Great Fire and the Blitz and still puts on a fine face, doesn’t she?”
“Probably uses Elizabeth Arden,” Phoebe said. She fell silent, though, on seeing the mostly Gothic interior, with arches far more majestic than the small exterior would have suggested. It felt like a place Robin Hood might have gone to worship. It must have offered such peace, in the midst of so much fear. She lay a hand on a plastered wall. It was cool. Calm rolled over her, reminding her how very not calm she had been for such a long time.
“How many people must have sat in here over the centuries,” she said, surprising herself by whispering. “The clothes changed, but the prayers stayed the same, didn’t they? Asking for health, for comfort, for a better day tomorrow.”
“It’s all most of us ever want,” Reg agreed.
She looked at him then, and felt like she was looking at this man for the first time. The huge brown eyes behind the glasses were warm and intelligent, and had a snap that made her smile. Her smile encouraged his own crooked smile, and he ran a hand through his mop of brown curls.
“Actually, most of us want a heck of a lot more,” Phoebe said. “They’ll say all the right things in church, even think them, but given half the chance, plenty of New Yorkers would pray for a penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park.”
“And what about you, Miss Adler? What would you pray for?”
“Well now, that’s a personal question,” she said, grinning. “And it presumes I’m a praying sort of gal, besides.”
“How perfect, then, for me to ask forgiveness inside a church,” Reg said.
“Aw, that’s swell of you. And tell you what, just for being an all right fella, you can call me Phoebe.”
“I’m honored.”
“I should hope so.”
Something in his smile unnerved her and made her sweep her eyes back up to the ceiling, admiring the dark beams, so stark against the white paint.
“Funny, isn’t it?” she murmured. “The outlaws and their pursuers would both have come to church, looking for what amounts to the same thing, and certain they were both right. Both sides always think they’re right. Hoover and HUAC think they’re right, and there isn’t a single person on the blacklist or in prison who doesn’t think they’re the ones who are right.”
She caught herself then, realizing she shouldn’t have said that out loud. Not yet. Because who really knew who could be trusted? And yet, she wanted to trust this man. She wasn’t sure Joan was the best judge, but Freddie thought Reg was all right, and she felt confident in the boy’s assessment.
Reg looked like he wanted to ask a question. Instead, he joined her in staring at the ceiling.
“I thought I’d become a professor, something to land me properly in the middle class. Make a name for myself writing a new sort of history, about the real people. Bring the excitement of history to life so everyone can discover it, not just the lucky ones who get the chance to look for it. I’m quite sure, you know, that the more people know about the past, the better we can all be. Though I wonder now if I shouldn’t focus on being an ordinary teacher, working on the ground with the sort of kids I was. Things are changing here, you know, and in ways we couldn’t have imagined before the war. I even fancy the idea of getting involved in politics a bit. It’s worth dodging any mud that might be slung to help make better things keep on happening, don’t you reckon?”
He was younger than herself, she realized, and full of an idealism she didn’t remember ever having. It made her nostalgic for someone she’d never had the luxury to be. Even Hannah had once been that person, as a fiery young journalist. Heck, she still was, and she was more than ten years older than Phoebe.
“Do you really think better things are happening?” she asked him.
He extended an arm to her, an extravagant, Victorian sort of gesture that nonetheless felt exactly right, and she looped her arm in his. He escorted her out of the church and on a crawl through London.
“Loads of us missed the war soon after it finished, if you can believe that, because the peace wasn�
��t much fun. Rationing’s only finally finished, and I expect you’ve seen what remains of a lot of people’s homes. But I’m a Londoner, and I know who we are. We are on the rise again, and in a way that will do far more for the real people.”
“Oh, those real people. They get so many promises,” Phoebe said.
“They were promised National Health and got it. More is coming, you’ll see.”
She wondered vaguely if she would see. How long would she be here? She had to get a Christmas present for Mona, and all she wanted was to be there in person to give her a hug. And some oil to slick her wheels so she could embarrass Tommy Morton in the corridor races.
“Phoebe?”
“Except she might crash into a wall,” Phoebe said.
“Sorry?”
She looked at Reg. His expression was bemused, but interested.
“I have a sister,” she began. All along Holborn (where, it pleased her to learn, criminals used to pass on their way to be hanged), she told him about Mona, the airfield, the parents who’d kept so much from her and died so soon, leaving her to make her way and eventually become a television writer.
“And yet you left it all behind to come here and write a novel,” he said.
“It’s the obvious trajectory,” she said bitterly.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or perhaps you had to get away?”
“You make it sound so nefarious,” she said. “Careful. If I’m someone who committed one crime, I might commit another.”
“But you didn’t commit a crime, did you?” he pressed. “Quite the opposite.”
His eyes were too intense. She backed away from him.
“I don’t like where this is going. It’s not your business, none of this.”
“Pax, pax,” he said, reaching for her arm again. She jerked it away from him. “Phoebe, do you really think I’m not on your side?”
“Right now you’re in front and at an angle,” she pointed out.
“Clown all you like, but good luck finding anyone in Britain who thinks the blacklist is sensible.” At the word “blacklist,” she jumped and glanced around. He moved closer and took her hand. “I’m an historian, Phoebe, and haven’t we just had a war that shows the madness of persecuting people for their beliefs? I can show you my Labour Party card, if you like. I promise, I’m for you.”
She stared at her hand, wrapped in his. His thumb stroked hers.
“I should scram,” she said quickly. “I need to work, I need the money. Mona needs the best Christmas I can give her.”
“She’ll get it,” Reg promised. “She’ll also want you to have a cup of tea.” He gestured to the pretty black-and-white exterior of the Seven Stars.
Phoebe wasn’t sure she wanted to go in with him now. Those eyes were a little too magnetic. The sort of eyes a person could get lost in. Phoebe didn’t want to get lost. What guarantee was there of ever being found again?
“Think of how many centuries of tavern fights have been in here,” he said.
His powers of persuasion were strong. “I hope people were killed,” she warned.
The pub was dark and poky, and Phoebe couldn’t help smiling, because it definitely felt like a place Robin and the other outlaws would go for clandestine meetings. If she squinted, she could sweep away the leather and shine, turning it all into rough wood and barrels of ale, served in pewter tankards. She let Reg order them tea from the unimpressed publican, imagining the shouts of a brawl, the drawing of daggers, the serving boy in the corner gearing up for another evening of scrubbing blood off the floor.
“Rather bloodthirsty, aren’t you?” Reg marveled as she shared her thoughts.
“Thirsty, anyway,” she conceded, reaching for a cup.
“Not yet!” he remonstrated. “It’s not ready.”
“It’s tea,” Phoebe protested. “What do you add, parsley?”
Reg ignored this, swirling the pot in a steady rhythm. At last, he poured it out, adding milk with the exactitude of a chemist measuring arsenic doses.
Phoebe took a sip. The tea was strong enough to peel paint. Reg grinned.
“I’m a North Londoner by way of the true north, in York. If you want a proper cup of tea, it’s got to be done by a northerner. Also fish and chips.”
“I should go north sometime,” Phoebe said.
“You should.” He smiled again, and it wasn’t just the tea that warmed her through.
He walked her back to Meard Street, where Freddie and the other boys were kicking a ball about under the streetlights.
“Kids never get cold, do they?” Phoebe said. “It’s like it’s a job manifest.”
“Can I see you again next weekend?” Reg asked. He suddenly seemed not much older than Freddie.
“I . . . I don’t know,” Phoebe said. “I have to write, I need more work.”
“I know,” he said. “But there’s a lot of London out there, and I’d love to show you more of it.”
“I’ll let you know,” she promised.
He kissed her hand so quickly, he was nearly to the corner when she realized it. She shouted after him, “Hey! So did you get a starred first?”
He called back, “An ordinary first. But I got the star today.”
Phoebe had to laugh, both at the line and the chorus of “ewwwwwws” the street boys harmonized. She beckoned Freddie to her.
“You’re still sure about that one?” she asked.
“Yes indeed, miss. Only there was another man I saw a few days ago, miss, and I didn’t cotton to his look at all.”
“Who? What? Why haven’t you said?” Phoebe yelped.
“I’ve not seen you, miss, and Mum’s most particular about me not knocking on the tenants’ doors. He was tall, dressed like a toff, not one of us at all.”
Phoebe chilled. That sounded like Nigel.
“Looked down his big nose at all of us, but didn’t say nothing,” Freddie continued, his voice heavy with scorn. “Walked with a swagger, just like in them American copper films. Tilted that big green hat of his, like he thought he was so posh and swank.”
On Meard Street, a man’s thinking he was “posh and swank” was a great sin, and Phoebe cradled that tiny bit of comfort in her clenched fist, the sure knowledge that her pursuer had made the denizens scoff. Because it was him, of course it was. The man in the green hat. The FBI Hound who had handed her a subpoena. There was no chance he was just coincidentally in London on vacation and had taken a wrong turn.
“Look at me, suddenly inspiring all these men to follow me about. Ain’t I the vixen, though?” Phoebe rolled her eyes. Freddie, perhaps understanding adult sarcasm for the first time in his life, was emboldened to pat her arm. Phoebe thought of something. “He didn’t drop off a letter or anything, did he?”
“No, miss, only walked about slowly, and asked me if I’d seen any Americans. I told him certainly I had, aren’t they in all the films?”
Phoebe could have kissed the boy. Instead, she gave him a sixpence, and he looked at her with deep adoration.
“A letter did come for you today, though, miss. Mrs. Morrison was a-cooing over it because it was engraved, she said.”
Engraved? The FBI might waste money chasing political leftists, but they wouldn’t bother with fancy stationery.
The envelope was a heavy vellum, sent by someone who didn’t even know the cost of postage, let alone care. Nigel’s handwriting was a florid calligraphy that seemed more suited to the previous century, along with his language. He was delighted, et cetera, and would she join him for a spot of something at his club?
Nigel. In league with the FBI, or a man who might be a friend? Maybe she would find out. She hoped, if the man in the green hat was following her, he’d see her going to a posh club in her Bonwit Teller dress. If her peace was going to be shattered, she might as well look fabulous.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
* * *
“A kiss on the hand?” Mona shrieked. “The song says that’s Continental. I expect something else from an Englishman.”
“A tip of the hat, maybe?” Phoebe asked. “A polite wave?”
“I’m thinking something way more impolite. What did it feel like?”
“Mostly just lips on my hand,” Phoebe admitted. “But, um . . .”
“Speak up!” Mona boomed.
“I don’t know. It was . . . nice.”
“There’s the power with words that makes you a writer of such note.”
Phoebe had no retort. She wanted to describe the little twirl of her spirits when Reg touched her, but it all felt like a cliché, not anything real. Mona deserved better than that.
“You’re quiet,” Mona accused. “You must like him.”
“I do,” Phoebe admitted. “But it’s so hard to know who to trust.”
“Very few people are really double agents,” Mona said. “If I were you, I’d assume he sees you’re one swell cookie. So go ahead and toss him a crumb or two.”
“I’ll have to ask if that’s legal here.”
She wished she could tell Mona how scared she felt. Scared that Mona was going to die soon, scared that she would live on and Phoebe couldn’t send her enough money for good care. Scared that Reg would be a distraction from the work she needed to do to keep her and Mona comfortable. Scared she might think he was someone to trust, and then be wrong. Scared she wasn’t as safe as she thought she was. But she couldn’t upset Mona. She owed Mona a life well lived. So long as Mona believed she was thriving, even happy, pesky details like the truth didn’t matter. Mona didn’t even have to believe it. Pretending was good enough.
Red Letter Days Page 22
