The Way to London

by Alix Rickloff

  “They’ll come after you.”

  “Nah, they won’t bother. Mr. and Mrs. Sayres don’t like me, and I don’t have any friends to notice if I’m gone.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true, but who wants to be friends with a bunch of namby-pamby mama’s boys anyway? They can rot for all I care.”

  “Hear hear. To hell with the world of goody-goodies. Damn them all!” She downed the last of the brandy.

  “Damn Mr. Sayres and his stinky pipe!” Bill echoed.

  “Damn Aunt Cynthia and her lists of rules!”

  “And Mrs. Sayres’s wooden spoon!”

  “And Sister Murphy’s sympathy!”

  By now they were shouting at the top of their lungs. Bill rocked up on his heels, dimples flashing. Lucy took a last drag on her cigarette and tossed the butt away.

  “. . . teachers who yell . . .”

  “. . . cheeky soldiers . . .”

  “. . . boiled parsnips . . .”

  “. . . cabbage and potato pie . . .”

  “. . . mean sheep . . .”

  “Mean sheep?” Lucy fell into a fit of giggles. Bill joined her until they were both rolling in the grass laughing hysterically. But what goes down must come up, and with a retch, Lucy threw up all over the grass, her stomach spasming until there was nothing left. She collapsed on her side, wrung like a sponge.

  “Better now, miss?”

  “Much,” she answered, though her head still swam and the world continued to tip and fall. “Are you really set on getting back to London, Bill?”

  “I been away too long. My mam needs me. She don’t like to be alone.”

  Was that what sent Amelia hurtling from man to man and marriage to marriage? She didn’t like to be alone? Would things have been different if she’d kept Lucy with her instead of packing her off to boarding school? Would they have been different if Lucy had remained in Singapore? Or would she have died in the torpedoing of the Diamond Star like the rest?

  A wild, crazy thought struck her. “What if I went with you to London?”

  “You’re soft in the head. You can’t leave, miss.”

  “Why not? If we take the train, we could be there by tonight.” Now that she said it, it sounded perfectly reasonable. And as with Bill, who would care if she left? Certainly not anyone at Nanreath Hall. They had made their feelings perfectly clear. In London, she could finally do as she wished. London, a proper city with proper shops and fancy clubs, and—her thoughts slid into place—Mr. Oliver. Hollywood’s very own King Midas was staying in London. The man with the golden touch who could make a star out of anyone. The man who had once offered her his card and an invitation to look him up.

  All she needed to do was get there, and she could be one of those fashionable women on his arm, staying at the Dorchester, being wined and dined, and—if she was lucky—being whisked away to California and away from her aunt. It was a long shot, but one couldn’t hit the barn without first taking aim. “What do you say, Bill? You and me? Traveling buddies?”

  “A train does sound better than hiking all that long way, and these shoes the Sayres found me crunch my toes something fierce. But I don’t know . . .”

  “Try to make the journey on your own, you’ll be noticed for sure. The police will be on the lookout for a boy traveling by himself. But a sister and brother won’t be remarked on at all.”

  “That is clever, but I still think you’re soused, miss.”

  “Really?” She stood, dusting off her grass-stained dress. Picking up the empty brandy decanter, she heaved it as far as she could out over the cliff. It made a satisfying smash as it shattered against the rocks below. She lifted her face to the wind and drew a deep fortifying breath. “For the first time in a long time, I feel I can finally see clearly.”

  She snapped her suitcase closed, plumped up the bank of pillows she’d hidden beneath her coverlet so they more closely resembled a sleeping body, and gave a final glance around her cluttered, musty bedchamber. She fit right in. One more unwanted item no one knew what to do with but didn’t quite have the heart to toss out.

  “Cheers, lads. I’d say it’s been fun but I’d be lying.” She saluted the menagerie as she lugged the heavy case out the door.

  She had at least until dinner before she’d be missed. Aunt Cynthia would more than likely have a plateful of meetings and appointments that would keep her busy all day. By the time she realized anything was amiss, Lucy would be long gone. But she couldn’t turn up at the Dorchester dressed in the sensible tweeds and cheap Woolworth’s outfits she’d been reduced to.

  She weighed the coins in her purse. Not exactly a pirate’s fortune. Barely enough to conjure a pair of silk stockings and a bottle of Arpège from the black marketeers. If she were to succeed, she needed to look the part. Oliver wouldn’t glance at her twice otherwise.

  Lucy followed the threadbare runner to her aunt’s apartments. Her stomach jumped, and she found herself starting at every creaky floorboard as if Aunt Cynthia would pop out from behind a curtain with a big “gotcha,” but the maid-of-all-work from the village had finished her cleaning hours ago. The hospital staff was prohibited from entering this part of the house. No one would catch her.

  Lifting the latch, she stepped into Lady Boxley’s rooms. Her aunt’s lilac perfume hung heavy in the air, and dust motes danced in the golden spring sunlight streaming through a set of tall windows. For a moment, Lucy imagined Amelia living here, pictured her dressing for a party or curled on the bed with a magazine. Laughing with her sister. Getting teased by her elder brother. Those images shifted and blurred until it was Lucy enveloped by brothers and sisters, Lucy dressing in a frilly bedchamber peppered with cherished photos and childhood souvenirs. Lucy coming home to a warm embrace and a cozy chat over cocoa.

  A horn sounded outside followed by the shouts and rushing feet that meant an influx of new patients. The images popped like soap bubbles almost as soon as they formed. Amelia wouldn’t have recognized her home as the luxurious country house of her youth. Nanreath Hall was no longer a serene bastion of the idle rich. It hummed with efficiency and hard-nosed management. Even Aunt Cynthia, staunch defender of the status quo, had begun to fall under the power of work schedules, production charts, and timetables.

  And Lucy hated cocoa.

  Crossing to the enormous wardrobe, she pushed aside her aunt’s daily wear, the scent of old roses and cedar chips heavy among the tidy folds of jackets and skirts, silken blouses and matronly frocks. Shoes lined up like soldiers along the wardrobe’s floor. At the very end of the rack hung two elegant evening gowns wrapped in linen bags to keep away the moths and the mildew until they might emerge in happier times.

  Lucy passed these by, hunting the recesses of the wardrobe for forgotten treasures. Every woman had them: clothing too out of fashion or made for a younger, slimmer version of herself and thus no longer wearable. Aunt Cynthia was no exception. Long flat dress boxes—dented, worn, and dust covered from years tucked away and forgotten.

  The first one Lucy opened revealed a sleeveless dress in chiffon with a floral silk underslip. The second was a green taffeta, jet beading at the collar and cuffs. There was a steel-blue satin evening gown she could just imagine being worn to a Downing Street dinner party, and a rather frisky cream-colored frock perfect for kicking up one’s heels at a Soho jazz club.

  All of them leftovers from Aunt Cynthia’s glittering youth, some frayed, others with torn stitching, or rips where the fabric had grown fragile and thin with age. Here the odor of neglect was almost eye watering. They would all need a proper airing. Oliver was hardly likely to be seduced by the smell of camphor.

  A pang of conscience twisted beneath her breast, but Lucy shoved it aside. Too chic to wear them in public, but too frugal to toss them out, her aunt would never miss a few old clothes.

  In Lucy’s hands, they’d be perfect.

  Let me go. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  Lucy emerged into the
yard just as a sentry dragged Bill by the collar of his sweater out from behind a stack of petrol barrels. So much for an inconspicuous exit.

  “What’s going on here, Private”—she fished her memory for his name—“Banks, isn’t it?”

  His eyes brightened. “That’s right, miss. You and me met last month in the cellar during the last air raid when . . .” He blushed a refreshing shade of pink.

  Lucy did not.

  Bill looked from one to the other with a calculating expression.

  Private Banks cleared his throat and resumed his official bearing. “I caught this lad snooping about by the mechanic’s sheds. Up to no good, I reckon.”

  “I was just looking, guv. No law against that, is there?”

  “There is in wartime, lad. Looking where you shouldn’t can get you shot.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm,” Lucy said, casting Bill a grim look.

  “I didn’t see nothing anyway. Just a lot of tools, and a bloke taking a piss.”

  “Watch your tongue in front of a lady, lad,” the sentry growled before turning a mild face to Lucy and smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “He might be all right, miss, but I’m to report all intruders to the duty officer.”

  Lucy fought back the urge to huff and instead smiled indulgently. “Look at him. He’s no Nazi spy. He’s a mischievous little boy, and if you report him to the duty officer, you’ll be laughed right out of his office.”

  That struck a chord, as she knew it would. Banks’s gaze grew cautious. “I don’t know, miss . . .”

  “Well, I do. Why don’t you hand him over to me? I’ll see he gets home. I’m heading into the village now.”

  “Well, if you think it’ll be all right.”

  “Of course it will. I know the couple he’s living with—he’ll not dare sneak onto the property again once they’re done with him. And if the duty officer cuts up stiff about it, you tell him to come see me.”

  Private Banks tipped his hat. “I do appreciate it. I’m not in the sergeant’s good graces right now. Won five quid off him last night at backgammon. I’d rather not show my face if I don’t have to.”

  “There. Problem solved all around.”

  “Not to be bold, miss, but . . . that is . . . I’d be honored if you . . .” Banks stumbled over his words, his eyes somewhere near his boots.

  Lucy gave him no chance to stammer out his invitation. “Must run if I’m to get him out of here before your sergeant finds him. Ta, Private.” She took hold of Bill and, with one last icy glare for the benefit of the sentry, frog-marched him toward the old buttery.

  “Here now,” he whinged. “That hurts.”

  “Good.” Once in the buttery and away from prying eyes, she released him. “Are you trying to get caught before you even get a mile from home?”

  “You was taking too long, and I got bored.” He pulled his knapsack out from behind a stack of old barrels. It clanked as he slung it over his shoulder.

  “What on earth have you got in there?”

  “A box of matches, my ration book, three fags I swiped from Mrs. Sayres, a deck of cards, a map I traced on a page out of my composition book, a torch, and four apples . . . well, three now. I ate one while I was waiting for you.”

  “Not exactly Boy Scout approved.” She took hold of a corner of a heavy canvas tarpaulin. “Help me with this.”

  He grabbed another corner and together they pulled it back, revealing a cherry-red roadster. “Crikey. That’s a beauty. What is she?”

  “I’ve no bloody idea in the world. It belongs to my cousin.”

  “Does he know we’re—”

  “Of course he doesn’t, but the keys are in the desk in the study. While my aunt’s away, no one will question if I take his car.”

  “We could drive it all the way to London.”

  “Afraid not.” She pushed open the heavy wooden shed door. “There’s barely enough petrol to get us to the train station. And I’ve no coupons for more.”

  She took the wheel as Bill slid in. He stroked the leather seats, pushing every button, opening and closing the glove box. She smacked his hand away from the gear lever. “Sit still. Don’t touch anything. And hold on. I might be a bit rusty.” With a growl and a puff of black smoke, the car sprang to life. She shoved it into reverse and inched her way backward out of the shed, praying she didn’t scrape the paint.

  Under the painful scrutiny of two orderlies, a group of up-patients out for a stroll, and a VAD taking a smoke, she lurched and jolted her way out of the yard and onto the tree-lined avenue that would take them to the main road. Rifle slung over his shoulder, a sentry tipped his cap as he waved her off. She raised a hand in response, her heart lifting as the house grew smaller in her mirrors.

  “And we’re off. I feel better already, don’t you?”

  “No,” Bill groaned, holding his stomach. “I think I ate too many of Mr. Sayres’s apples.”

  “You said you only had one.”

  “It was more like four, but they was small and kinda wrinkled.”

  “Don’t you dare get sick in this car, Bill Smedley.”

  “No, miss. I won’t.” He pursed his lips tight and cradled his stomach. “Isn’t the station that way?”

  “Yes, but we’re headed to Newquay.”

  “That’s miles from here.”

  “It’s also crowded with soldiers. No one will notice us among so many. If we leave from the village, we’re bound to be seen or remarked upon. I can park the car somewhere in town and when we get to London, I’ll ring and tell them where to pick it up.”

  “I’d never have thought of that. You’re right clever.”

  Was she? She was even now driving a stolen car in company with a runaway boy to meet with a man who might not even remember her. Not exactly signs of intelligence by any normal measure. She clenched her hands tighter on the wheel as she fought back the urge to turn the car around and forget this folly.

  “Miss?”

  “What now, Bill?”

  “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

  She smiled and took a deep breath. “I am too.”

  Chapter 8

  You’re a liar,’ said the third one, ‘for mine’s as big as the moon. A man went up in October, and didn’t come out until June,’” Lucy and Bill sang at the top of their lungs, their voices carried off by a salty sea wind that buffeted the little roadster.

  Bill waved at a man walking with his dogs.

  The man waved back—or was he gesturing angrily? Difficult to tell at this speed.

  Lucy shoved the car down into second and took the bend, praying she’d not meet a military convoy headed the opposite direction. She’d already squeezed over into a hedge once to let an ambulance pass, and that had ended in the veriest teensiest of scrapes along the passenger door. Barely noticeable—she hoped.

  Bill leaned back against the seat, a flush of pink in his cheeks and his eyes alive with excitement. “That’s a ripping good song, Lucy.”

  “I thought you might like it.”

  The seaside town of Newquay had transitioned from a holiday destination to a military bivouac with barely a blink. Beachfront hotels now acted as billets for thousands of RAF cadets. Palm-lined streets were crowded with khaki, and dance halls, cinemas, pubs, even the tea shops all did a spanking business from the influx of staff and personnel. Surely, no one would notice them among such a crush.

  Lucy followed Cliff Road to the station, parking the car on a side street away from traffic. The railway station was just across the road.

  She checked her watch. “We have an hour until the next train.”

  “I’m hungry.” Bill looked with longing toward the ABC tea shop across the street. “Can we get a sandwich?”

  “I thought you said your stomach hurt.”

  “It doesn’t hurt for a sandwich.”

  “All right, but this has got to hold you until we reach London tonight.”

  She purchased two cups of steaming ho
t tea and two ham sandwiches—refusing to look too closely at the meat involved—which they devoured out on the sidewalk. A group of soldiers strolled past, their corn-fed faces and broad flat accents marking them as fellow Americans. Since the bombing of Pearl Harbor last December, troops had begun flooding into the country. Most of the locals welcomed them with open arms, though some resented their generous salaries and the women those generous salaries enticed. Lucy didn’t hold it against the poor girls seduced by promises of Coca-Cola and chocolate bars. She’d done a lot worse for a lot less.

  Bill hopped off the wall to follow the group, shoulders hunched, features slack, and glassy eyed. She’d not be surprised if he feigned a limp. “Got any gum, chum?” he said with a woeful tremor in his voice. The ridiculous boy could go on the stage with that Oliver Twist act.

  “Sure, kid.” A skinny redhead with freckle-sprinkled cheeks dug in his pocket.

  A young man with a crooked nose and slick dark hair caught sight of Lucy, finishing up her sandwich. “Well now, does the young lady want a piece of gum too?”

  “I’ll leave chewing cud to the cows, thank you. But a light would be divine.” She held out her Sobranie.

  “My pleasure, doll.” His eyes drank her in from head to foot with a look universal to all men on the make and one that instantly set her teeth on edge. “The name’s Roger.”

  “I’ll bet it is,” she said, blowing out a thin stream of smoke.

  “Me and the boys just arrived a few weeks ago. Sure is different from back home, I can tell you. Kinda dingy, you know?”

  For some reason his criticisms struck a nerve. “Two years of bombing will do that to a country. I’d like to see how the good people of New York or Boston would fare under the same circumstances.”

  “Calm down. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Then keep it to yourself.”

  “Hey, Lucy,” Bill called out. “Look what I got. A stick of Juicy Fruit.”

  Roger’s smirk was back and smarmier than ever. “Lucy, is it? That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl. You from around here? You don’t sound like the other girls.”

  “Not much gets past you, does it?” She remained unmoved by his aw-shucks routine. She’d seen too many variations on the same theme to be taken in by such a rank amateur. She rose from the wall, crumpling her paper wrapper and dusting crumbs from her skirt. “It’s been lovely meeting you boys, but we have to go.”