The Way to London

by Alix Rickloff

  Sadly, she’d yet to come across any fresh-faced young men loitering beside stone walls. More’s the pity. What she had found was the tower, and since that discovery, her hikes had always led her back here. She started thinking of it as hers, a place she could come to be alone with her thoughts—and her dreams. Or what was left of them anyway.

  She climbed the last distance to the ruins, taking a seat on a comfortably eroded boulder out of the wind, lit a cigarette between cupped hands, and inhaled the soothing tobacco deeply into her lungs.

  Low cloud and drizzle kept the German bombers at home, though it sounded as if the ack-ack gunners farther south weren’t taking any chances. The boom bounced over the water, mingling with the growl of the surf and the lonesome almost-human moan of the wind through the rocks.

  No wonder Amelia had left as soon as she could. The place was like something out of a Brontë novel.

  She took another drag before tossing the butt away to hug her arms to her body in a vain attempt to conserve heat. Singapore might be just as soggy as England, but at least it was warm. She hadn’t properly appreciated that steamy equatorial humidity when she had it.

  She hadn’t properly appreciated a lot of things.

  Lucy pulled Amelia’s last letter from her pocket. A hasty scrawl dated the end of January, it was taken up almost completely with Government House rumors and the latest complaints about shortages and inconveniences brought on by the war. Only in the postscript had she imparted anything of interest—a comment regarding the Yoon family’s cowardly escape to Chunking. Like treacherous rats from a sinking ship was her caustic turn of phrase.

  Good for them.

  Lucy could only hope Amelia and her stepfather had decided to be as gutless. But there had been no word since this last letter. No way to know whether they were dead, imprisoned by the Japanese, or still trying to make their way to the relative safety of Australia.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes, lifting her cheeks to the pinching wind.

  How many of those polished young officers she’d danced with at the Tanglin Club had died in the jungles north of the city fending off Yamashita as he marched south? How many of those preening self-satisfied tuans and their mems sipping cocktails at Raffles Hotel had lost everything they owned in the disastrous retreat south across the Straits of Johore? She would have been one of them had her affair with Yoon Hai not come to light. He had wanted her out of Singapore, and she had been banished. Funny how it had all turned out.

  There were moments, usually when she lay sleepless in bed at night, when she questioned their last meeting. Had Hai chosen the department store knowing that in such a public place there was a good chance someone would spot them and report the affair to his uncle or her stepfather?

  Or was she attributing selfless devotion where there had only been unthinking carelessness?

  Either way, she prayed Hai and his bride were living happily ever after in Chunking. Though was there really such a thing in the face of the unstoppable might of the Japanese?

  The cry of a seabird pulled her from her reverie.

  An odd, almost yelping sound like a macaw with its foot caught in a snare. Nails on a slate made a more dulcet tone than this aggravating bird.

  It came again.

  She sat up listening. The soft moan of the wind. The sharper almost-shout of the bird.

  Both a bit odd now that she was paying attention.

  “Hello?” she called, a prickling shiver rippling up her spine.

  The moaning snared-macaw yelp turned to a hiccup of gasped breath. “I’m down here.”

  The boy clung to a small outcropping of rock about six feet below the edge of the cliff. His face was smudged with dirt, his sweater was torn and muddy, and his hair—an indeterminate shade of brown—stuck up around his thin pale face like a rooster’s comb. All elbows and knees, he looked to be about twelve, though he was skin and bones, with the same hunger-pinched look possessed by most of his countrymen.

  “What on earth are you doing down there?” Lucy asked.

  “Mostly holding on for dear life, miss.”

  “I meant how . . . oh, never mind. Wait a tick.” She looked around for help, but there was nothing but open meadow and moorland. The closest habitation was an old cottage on the far side of the spinney. She hadn’t seen anyone at home when she’d passed, but there might be a telephone she could use. In a pinch, perhaps they kept a ladder or rope in their shed.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t leave. Please. I”—his voice broke—“I can’t hold on much longer. My arms are awful tired, miss.”

  “But I have to get help.”

  His bottom lip quivered.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll stay. Just let me think a moment.” She knelt at the edge of the cliff, mud seeping cold through her stockings as she reached as far as she could. “Can you take my hand?”

  The boy stretched his arm toward hers, his fingers still a foot or two away. “It’s too far.”

  Soggy clumps of brown grass stuck out of the otherwise rocky ground. Patches of thick mud oozed like chocolate.

  “Right.” She grimaced as she lowered herself down until she lay flat, a stone jutting into her hip, another scraping her side. Dirt smeared her borrowed mackintosh as she reached again. “Any better?”

  Even now, he was too far below her. “I can’t, miss.”

  “Of course you can. Jump if you have to. I’m not asking you to vault ten feet. It’s barely a few inches. If I can cover myself head to toe in filth, the least you can do is try a little harder.”

  He bent his knees and gave a little spring in the air. His fingers grazed hers. He tried again as she fumbled to catch him, but once more he slipped through her grip. He was crouching for one last attempt when a small landslide of rock and dirt peeled away to fall the hundreds of feet to the shale below.

  He screamed and dug his hands into the side of the cliff, his face white as bone beneath the mud and the tears accentuating the brightness of his wide brown eyes. Lucy blinked and swallowed back an unconscious cry of alarm, clenching her jaw with renewed determination.

  “Come on. One more jump will do it.”

  “Please, miss. I’m scared. I can’t.”

  Lucy rolled over and up onto her knees. This wasn’t going to work. She needed a rope or a vine, something to drop down to him. She didn’t have anything like that—her hand paused as she brushed the dirt from her laddered stockings. Or did she?

  “I’ve got an idea. Give me a minute.”

  “I ain’t going nowhere, miss.”

  She scrambled to her feet and kicked off her boots. Then with a quick glance around, she hiked her skirt to her waist. “My name’s Lucy by the way, not Miss.”

  “I’m Bill.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bill.” She unclipped her right garter and rolled off her stocking. Did the same with her other leg. Gooseflesh prickled her skin, and she lamented losing a perfectly serviceable pair of stockings, but she was all out of ideas. Tying the two of them together, she stretched them out and tested her knots. Hardly Royal Navy approved, but they’d have to do. “I’m going to drop you a rope. Tie it around your waist and I’ll pull you up.”

  She tossed the end of the stocking over the edge. A smothered giggle floated up to her. “This ain’t no rope, miss. It’s your unmentionables.”

  “It’s all I’ve got. Now do it. I’m freezing up here and it’s starting to rain.”

  “Right, miss . . . I mean Lucy. Just a tick.” A moment later, he tugged on the end. “All set.”

  “Hold on, and whatever you do, don’t look down.” She looped her end of the stockings around and around her hand, braced herself against an outcropping of rock at the edge of the cliff, and heaved. The stockings stretched, but the knots held. She pulled again, hand over hand, inch by inch. “Almost there.”

  A hand appeared over the edge, grabbing into the soil. Another hand. Then a head. She made one last lung-burning effort, and the boy sl
ithered up and over onto the turf at her feet. Eyes squeezed shut, he rolled over onto his back, gasping as if he’d run a marathon.

  “Are you all right?” Lucy asked.

  His eyes popped open, and he tossed her an impish grin. “Ta. You wouldn’t have a fag, would you? I’m dying.”

  Chapter 6

  Look who’s taking London by storm—Hollywood’s own version of King Midas. Mason Oliver, renowned producer of such well-known pictures as Blood and Passion, The Taming of Tammy, and last year’s Oscar nominee Thistledown Manor is in England until the end of this month as part of a morale-lifting goodwill tour. But don’t despair, stars and starlets to be. He’s also on the hunt for fresh faces and fresh talent for an upcoming cinematic production rumored to begin filming this very summer in sunny California. Looking to be the next Clark Gable or Greer Garson? He’s your man. Just one touch could turn your future golden.

  Lucy nearly choked on her popcorn as the Pathé newsreel reported the latest entertainment news. There he was, flickering up on the screen of the Victoria cinema: a handsome man, wearing a young woman on each arm, being helped from his limousine by an umbrella-carrying Dorchester hotel doorman. He gave a nod to the camera as he flashed his best world-premiere smile before hurrying out of the rain and into the lobby.

  The announcer moved on to extolling the virtues of the British transport system, but Lucy had lost interest in the sweet story of a London railway porter and his best gal. Mason Oliver—a name she’d forgotten until now—brought Singapore back with startling clarity: the relentless midday sun, the chatter of battling languages, the sleepy ennui broken by spurts of frenzied rebellion. Her affair with Yoon Hai fell into that category. She imagined it had been the same way for him, an attempt to break free of stifling expectations, a diversion from the scripted content of their monotonous lives.

  They should have known to be careful what they wished for.

  Snatching up her raincoat, she left the cinema for the pub on the corner. The bus for Melcombe didn’t arrive for another hour. She would have a drink while she digested the bittersweet taste of memory.

  The pub was Saturday-night crowded. At the long polished bar, where a balding man with furry brows and a bellowing laugh polished glasses and pulled pints, flyboys from the airfields at St. Eval and Malvern flirted with Land Girls from Whitecross Halt and the farms around Portnance. Seated at the crush of tables surrounding a tiny dance floor or hovering by the dartboard, staff and the occasional up-patient from Nanreath Hall rubbed shoulders and traded stories with boys working the harbor’s fishing boats and shopgirls from the village.

  She shucked free of her raincoat, enjoying the approving glances tossed her way. Her dress had started life as a rubbish-bin castoff at the last Women’s Institute village jumble. Alter the sleeves, place some tucks along the side seams to cinch the waist, and add a matching belt discarded by Aunt Cynthia, and no one would ever know it hadn’t been hand stitched in a Paris fashion house.

  As she found a table, ordered a pink gin, and lit a Sobranie, she eyed a delicious young flying officer on the other side of the room. He possessed the RAF’s prerequisite cocksure posture and aristocratic good looks, his wavy brown hair just begging to have fingers running through it.

  Lucy leaned forward to crush out her cigarette in the ashtray, letting her figure speak for itself. Immediately, she felt attention focus her way. The handsome officer even glanced over with his dark bedroom eyes. She offered him a careless smile in passing.

  “You still owe me a fag, you know.”

  Lucy stiffened, her gaze flicking to the boy sliding into the seat across from her. With his face scrubbed clean and his hair combed, he almost looked presentable, though a devil’s gleam remained in his eyes. She sympathized with his poor parents. “You’re too young to smoke.”

  “So are you.” He pulled a cigarette from the pack lying on the table. Started to reach for her lighter. “Let me stand you a drink, miss. What’s your poison?”

  She snatched the lighter back. “A bit too short to play Humphrey Bogart, don’t you think?” She glanced around to see who might be watching. “What are you doing here, Bill?”

  “I got tired of hearing nothing but wind and frogs so I hitched a lift into town for a spot of fun.”

  “Do your parents know you’re haunting the pub?”

  “Ain’t got parents. Got me mam, though.”

  “Look, I’m flattered, Bill, but you need to go home.”

  “I would if I could, miss, but the blighters won’t let me.”

  “If you spend your evenings at the pub chatting up older women, I’m not surprised, you little delinquent.”

  “It’s not that . . .”

  “Here, boy. Haven’t I told you before not to come in here?” The barman stood over their table, his thick wiry brows drawn into a scowl. “Shove off before I call a constable to toss you in stir.”

  Bill’s jaw jutted in defiance. “Bus-nappers don’t scare me. Naught but a bunch of thick-headed chubs.”

  “None of your sass, brat. Out you go before I take the strap to you myself. And don’t think I won’t. You city brats might swagger round big as brass at home in London, but down here we know how to handle young’uns that don’t mind their elders.” The barman grabbed Bill’s left ear in a tight pincer hold and dragged him to his feet. “You should be happy you’ve got a nice place to stay ’stead of causing trouble.”

  “Lay off, mate. I ain’t doing nobody no harm,” Bill shouted.

  “You can do the same somewhere else, cheeky bugger.”

  Trapped in the man’s grip, Bill was dragged away shouting curses and threats, much to the delight of the pub. The flying officer leaned over to whisper to a tableful of his friends.

  A group of RAF gunners began an obscene chorus of “Hitler Has Only Got One Ball.” The pub relaxed back into its groove, the night’s entertainment over.

  No doubt about it. Jasmine-scented Singapore and the company of Yoon Hai were a lost dream. Her reality was this provincial corner of England, where the highlight of her week was being hit on by a twelve-year-old. Yet up there on that movie screen for a brief moment, those two worlds touched.

  Perhaps—just perhaps—she wasn’t as trapped as she thought she was.

  On that unexpectedly cheerful note, Lucy moved to the bar to order another gin.

  “Allow me.” A hand reached past with the shilling for payment.

  “I can buy my own drink, thank you very much,” she said, pulling another cigarette from her case.

  “I’d wager you can bathe and dress yourself too.” He lit her cigarette with a monogrammed lighter. “But isn’t it so much nicer when someone else is there to help?” Up close, that electric smile was about a million watts, dazzling after months of blackout restrictions. His hair shone soft in the light and he smelled of sandalwood and bay rum. “Flying Officer Samuel Parsonhurst at your service. What brings a pretty American pigeon to our little corner of the world?”

  Oh dear. Normally, an opening line like that wouldn’t even merit a response, but she was feeling unexpectedly generous. Perhaps a result of the tantalizing glimpse of a possible future beyond cold baths and warm beer. She relaxed her face into a slow sultry smile. “If you fly as poorly as you flirt, Mr. Parsonhurst, the Jerries don’t have a thing to worry about.”

  He shrugged. “A chap can try, can’t he?”

  She inhaled the tang of the cigarette. “In war, you don’t get a medal for trying, though, do you?”

  His smile widened, and he ducked his head sheepishly. “Look, I know you must think me an awful cad, but you see, the boys over there . . .” He gestured to a corner by the dartboard where RAF blue congregated. “They bet me I couldn’t get you to give me the time of day.”

  “How much?”

  “A half crown off each of them for every minute you don’t toss your drink in my face.”

  “I’ll take that wager and that drink.”

  He ordered her another gin. By n
ow, her body tingled with a honeyed warmth and the world had softened to a fuzzy glow. Even the singers seemed to have improved. The airmen’s amateur fervor had been replaced by a coin-operated phonograph whose rendition of “Stardust” had her swaying gently to the beat.

  “Let’s dance,” Mr. Parsonhurst said.

  He took her in his arms and they moved onto the crowded floor, the couples jostling for space, her feet fumbling to keep up. His gaze seemed to suck her in, the scent of him drowning out the harsher odors of sweat, wool, and stale beer. Memories seemed to hover close tonight. She was unexpectedly reminded of another dance and another soldier.

  Then the tempo slowed, and Parsonhurst pulled her close. His buttons bit into her stomach. His breath was hot against her neck. She stepped wrong. An elbow caught her in the ribs. A woman’s laughter made her wince and stumble. The image faded, and with it, her optimism.

  She drew away. “You’re a lovely dancer, but if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll head home. This evening has fallen rather flat.”

  “One last drink for the road. I mean”—he shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of forbearance—“I could be dead by tomorrow. Shot down in my prime.”

  “Continue in that vein and I may be the one to do it. Good evening, Mr. Parsonhurst.”

  Lucy grabbed an abandoned newspaper off the end of the bar, held it over her head, and with a final pause like a diver before she leaves the blocks, she dashed out of the pub into the rain in a race for the bus stop. A soldier whistled. A car splashed mud all over her legs and coat. A trio of WAAF offered smug—dry—smiles from under their regulation umbrellas.

  Lucy reached the stop just as the paper disintegrated, smearing a county-wide scrap-metal drive and a hospital damaged by bombs in black newsprint over her hands.