by James R Benn
Memories made me feel lonely, so I looked around for a distraction, and saw the Coach & Horses Pub, the front painted in a deep, dark red and a hand-lettered sign in the window that said ALWAYS SOMETHING READY TO EAT and DRAUGHT GUINNESS. Now it felt more like Boston, and this was a memory I didn’t mind. I went in.
Inside the pub, dark wood paneling, the color of brown shoe polish, lined the walls. Small lamps every few feet provided the only illumination. Cigarette smoke dulled the air while loud voices and laughter from the rear floated up to lighten the atmosphere. Couples sat at tables in the back and two silent older civilians occupied stools at the bar, pints before them in various stages of consumption. I took an empty seat at the end, and then realized I still didn’t have any English money. I would trade dollars for pounds tomorrow, but I wanted a Guinness today.
“What’ll it be, Yank?”
“A pint of Guinness, if you’ll take American money.”
“You’ve got no pounds nor pence then?”
“I just got here this morning. I haven’t had time to exchange my money.”
“I don’t know. ...” The barman had an uneasy look, as if he thought I was pulling a fast one.
“Oh come on, Bert,” one of the guys at the bar said. “Give the lad a break and take his money. He’s come all the way from America just today!”
He smiled and winked at me, his grin showing gaps in his teeth. He wore blue coveralls, like I had seen on the workmen at the bombed-out building earlier that morning. His hands were rough and callused and his gray hair stuck out in wisps above his ears. He had an easy laugh that broke down into a smoker’s wheeze that he treated with a pull on his pint.
“A pint of Guinness costs a quarter back in Boston,” I said, trying to be helpful.
“A quarter of wot?” Bert’s face scrunched up as he tried to figure out what I meant.
“Quarter of a dollar. Twenty-five cents. How about I give you a dollar and that should be more than enough for a pint for me and one each for my friends here?” I nodded in the direction of my bar mates.
“Wot I’ll do with a Yank dollar I don’t know, but all right. I hope the rest of your lot don’t expect the same.”
Pretty soon we all ended up shaking hands—Bert, the barman; George and Henry at the bar, both deliverymen for the markets at Covent Garden, which is where I had gotten myself to. I ended up trading that dollar for a five-spot, and hearing stories of the Great War, London during the worst of the Blitz, and where their sons were serving. Bert had a kid in Burma with the army, and was worried since he hadn’t gotten a letter in a month. George had two boys, both of whom had signed up with the Royal Navy, one on a destroyer out in the Atlantic and the other a mechanic at Scapa Flow. Henry had a daughter in the WRENs, just like Daphne, and a boy who had been in France with the BEF but made it out at Dunkirk.
“Lucky we are they’re all in one piece still,” George said, and Bert made himself busy with the glasses.
“Aye,” said Henry quietly, nodding his head as if in prayer. The war was still young.
I told them about Boston and entertained them with stories of all the murders I had solved. If I overstated my contribution, well, it was the Guinness talking. Sometime after dark they led me out to Piccadilly Circus, steered me down Piccadilly, and told me to walk straight until I came to Hyde Park.
“Big bloody green thing, in the daylight anyway, filled with potatoes, it is! Can’t miss it,” George said. “And good luck, lad.”
We all shook hands, and Henry slapped me on the back like an old pal. It was as if I was standing in for all of their kids, and the act of befriending me would spread out all over the world and bring acts of kindness to their children. I thought about Dad, and realized it was the kind of thing he’d do, too.
I walked until I came to Hyde Park Corner again. I thought about everything I had seen today and everything I had been taught all my life about the English. I knew two things for sure: first, that Ireland had to be free and united, and second, that Bert, George, and Henry and the woman on the stretcher with her hand raised in a V sign weren’t people I had an argument with.
I was pretty tired now, the flight, the long day, and the Guinness making the slight slope up Hyde Park feel steeper than it should have. I stuck my hands in my pockets and hunched forward, thinking of bed and sleep. The image that came to me was of my room at home and the bed I had slept in every night of my life, until this war came along. The bed I woke up in every Christmas morning, the “socks” Christmas, and the ones after that with toys, jewelry, and sweets for all.
One of those years, Dad converted a small room upstairs into his den. It had been full of boxes and junk, but one day he cleaned it out and the next day a leather sofa and chair showed up. Real leather, with brass nail heads showing. He got himself a used rolltop desk and announced it was a den. I had never heard of a den, except as caves for foxes in stories, and it sounded great to me. But it wasn’t for kids. His buddies would come over after work, or to drop off groceries or some special present. Uncle Dan too, and sometimes he’d bring his friends, who were nearly all IRA men. They carried guns, but they weren’t all cops. Not gangsters either, but something in between.
Dad carried the key to the room on his watch chain, and the key to his desk, too. No one was allowed in there, except Mom when she cleaned. It smelled of smoke, and she’d empty the ashtrays, open the window, and mop down the woodwork. She always did it after school, and I’d stand outside the door and look in, curious, wondering what the men did in there. I wanted my dad to pull out that key and unlock the door, put his hand on my shoulder, and invite me in. But he never did. Not even when I joined the force.
“Stay away from here,” he said. “And don’t bother the men.”
The men. I was standing there, in my new blue uniform, home from the first day on the job. Two of his pals were clumping up the stairs in their heavy cop shoes, the first guy a sergeant from the Back Bay station, carrying a gym bag.
“How’s the rookie doin’?” he said, to my father, not to me.
“Come on in, Basher. The rookie’s none of your concern now. Billy, begone with you.”
So what? Big deal. Who cares about a bunch of old guys drinking Jameson and smoking cigars anyway? But it was funny. Dad would spend hours with me at a crime scene, calling me down when I was off duty, to show me how he did things, how he looked for evidence, looked at how a body lay. He had worked Homicide for ten years and had one of the best solve rates in the city. He’d tell me anything about a case. But never in his den.
I realized I’d almost passed the Dorchester. Thinking about home, I almost forgot where I was. It was like I’d slipped back to Boston for a few minutes, and the sidewalk under my feet was leading from the station to my house. I was ready to fall asleep on my feet, and if I did, maybe I’d wake up and see my house, climb the steps, and turn the key in the lock on the front door, inhale the smells of supper, and walk up to my room, past the den and the muffled sounds of talk and harsh laughter.
I spent the next day reading about Norway, drinking coffee, and watching for Daphne to pass by my desk. I was better at the last two, but I did manage to absorb a few things. The Norwegians had gotten beaten pretty bad in 1940 when the Germans invaded. Even though the British, French, and Poles sent troops to help them, they’d all ended up with their tails between their legs. King Haakon escaped to England, where he set up a government in exile. The Norwegians had managed to pull a good one over on the Germans. Just as the Nazis were about to march into Oslo, the Norwegians made a little withdrawal from their treasury, about eight tons of gold. They took it by train, trucks, and even small boats along the coast, until they met up with British warships that carried the king and the gold to England. In the past two years they had used this money to build up an underground network of civilians back home. They called it the Underground Army, but it hadn’t done much yet. There was also the Norwegian Brigade here in England, made up of men who had escaped from Norwa
y. They were about three thousand strong and growing, and they were itching to be the spearhead of an invasion to liberate their country. The Norwegians had their own commando units that worked with the British Special Operations Executive. Together with SOE units, they were conducting hit-and-run raids along the Norwegian coast, blowing up fisheries and fish-oil-processing plants. That sounded pointless until I read that fish oil was a key ingredient in making nitroglycerin. War certainly is educational.
I hadn’t gotten much farther when I saw Daphne approaching my desk. I sat up straight and tried to look important, so I could pretend to be too busy to speak to her for a minute. My plan fell apart when I saw that she was with another guy and seemed to be stealing sideways glances at him and whispering as they walked toward me. A quick look told me he was an unlikely guy for me to be jealous of, but that didn’t really matter at the moment. My heart was broken.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” Daphne said, as if she were introducing two generals, “this is Lieutenant Piotr Augustus Kazimierz. He will be going to Beardsley Hall with you and Major Harding.”
I didn’t know what a Beardsley Hall was, but I did know my dear Daphne was smiling warmly at this Peter whatever-his-name-was. He was a slight guy, a few inches shorter than me, with thick glasses and a faint smile on his face. His hair was sandy and his eyes a grey-blue. He wore a British uniform with “Poland” stitched on the upper sleeve. He was half the kid you wanted to beat up in school and half Leslie Howard. I could tell which half Daphne saw. But my mother had taught me my manners. I stood.
“Glad to meet you, Lieutenant. . . .”
“Kazimierz. Call me Kaz if it’s easier. It is for most Americans.”
“OK, Kaz. I’m Billy. What’s Beardsley Hall?”
Daphne held up a hand. “Before you answer, Baron, Lieutenant Boyle has to sign something.” She fished through a file folder marked TOP SECRET.
“Baron? Like the Red Baron?”
Kaz looked embarrassed; his pale skin showed a red flush easily. I had almost said I didn’t know Polacks had barons, but was saved by Daphne.
“Piotr is a baron of the Augustus clan in Poland, not that I would expect you to know that,” Daphne said, as if I were the original colonial clod. “Now sign this.”
Polish barons, Norwegian royalty, and top-secret documents. Not my normal day, but I tried to hold my own.
“Sign what?” I asked.
“The Official Secrets Act. It means they can shoot one if one reveals any military secrets. We’ve all signed it,” she added casually, handing me a pen. Almost a little eagerly, I thought. I wrote my name, trying to keep my hand steady and look nonchalant.
“Don’t worry, Billy, they haven’t shot anyone yet,” Kaz offered helpfully. “But I hear there’s one chap who drew ten years’ hard labor.” He spoke the King’s English with a slight trace of an accent that was nothing like the heavily accented Polish I was used to hearing in a few Boston neighborhoods. I laughed to show him I knew he was joking. I hoped he was.
“I better be careful. I hate any kind of labor,” I said as I handed the pen back to Daphne.
“Do tell,” she said, snapping up the form as she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving me with the little Polish guy she’d been flirting with. Kaz smiled, barely able to suppress a laugh at my expense.
“What did I say?” I wondered.
“Daphne works very hard, and expects everyone to do so as well.”
“One must do one’s duty, right?”
“Well, well, Lieutenant . . . I mean Billy. I think it will be fun to watch you and Daphne work together. A real test of the Allied alliance.”
Behind those glasses I could see his eyes twinkle and one eyebrow raise. Most guys would get steamed at a crack about their girl, or at least jealous. Kaz seemed confident, like he knew Daphne could hold her own with me. Maybe even mop the floor with me.
“Have a seat,” I said, offering the chair next to my desk as I sat down. “Don’t pay me any mind, Kaz, I just like to ruffle feathers.”
“You like to pet birds?” Kaz asked, looking at me like I was nuts.
“No, no, it’s just an expression. Meaning that I like to stir things up, rile people up.”
“Ah,” he said, tapping his finger against his cheek as he looked up at the ceiling, as if committing the phrase to memory. “I am a student of languages, but there is always so much to learn, so many idioms that are not in the textbooks. Ruffling feathers, yes. So, where were we?”
“Beardsley Hall. What and where is it?”
“It is where the Norwegian government in exile holds court, and where we are going tomorrow. North of the city, on the coast. If you will be so kind as to join me for dinner tonight, I will explain everything to you, in more comfortable surroundings. We must enjoy a good meal before we dine with the Norwegians. They are sure to feed us pickled herring and other arctic delicacies. Okropny.” He made a face like a kid who was made to eat boiled spinach.
“Lousy?” I guessed.
“Terrible. Stusznie okropny.” Kaz had a pleasant smile, the kind that said he found just about everything amusing, including himself. Since I couldn’t see the advantage in taking things too seriously myself, I admired this attitude.
“Dinner sounds good, best offer so far today, Kaz. Where?”
“In my rooms at the Dorchester. At seven o’clock.” He got up, tossed off a mock salute, and left.
Rooms? Maybe his command of the English language wasn’t so great after all. I got his room number and went back to my pile of files. I finished the stack of papers on my desk and very carefully put them back in a filing cabinet and locked it tight, thinking about the Official Secrets Act and wondering if Daphne had been kidding about getting shot. I visited the HQ company clerk and exchanged my dollars for British pounds before calling it a day and heading back to the Dorchester.
I had no idea what the dress code was, but I had only one uniform jacket, so I brushed it and tried to shake out the wrinkles. Kaz had worn the standard-issue British wool battle-dress jacket, but it seemed to have been tailored just for him. For a little guy, he wore a uniform well. I put on a clean khaki shirt and knotted my tie—scarf—neatly. I thought I looked good. At seven I went down the stairs to the tenth floor. I walked down the hall, which was nicely carpeted and well lit. The doors were very far apart. I wonder if Kaz had his own private bathroom.
When I gave his door a sharp rap, I got two big surprises. Daphne opened the door. She wore a smile and the kind of evening gown I had only seen in movies, like the dresses Ginger Rogers wore when she danced with Fred Astaire. And her light brown hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, setting off a necklace that sparkled with more diamonds than I had ever seen, except for the time I caught Tommy Fortunato after that jewelry-store heist.
Three surprises, actually. Daphne and her attire counted as two. Stretching behind her was a wide wood-paneled hallway lit by a crystal chandelier. The triple surprise must have shown on my face. Daphne took my arm in hers and led me in with a smile.
“So glad you could join us, Lieutenant. I take it your clothes haven’t arrived yet?”
I almost told her I had all my socks and underwear with me. I almost said, “Yessir,” but that only worked with Harding. Was she was needling me or on the level? I had to say something and was stunned to hear myself ask, “Are you needling me or are you on the level?”
She giggled, covering her lips with two delicate fingers, and I got my answer. We finally reached the end of that long hallway. It opened into a wood-paneled sitting room with an even larger chandelier hanging from a domed ceiling. Kaz stood at the window, closing the blackout curtains. I caught a glimpse of Hyde Park across the street, visible in the lengthening evening shadows. My room came with a windowpane the size of my hat that looked out at the next building.
He turned and extended his hand. “Welcome, Billy, to my humble home.” He was dressed in a tuxedo that didn’t look like a rental. There was a table set for three
and champagne on ice.
“Nice place, Kaz. Sure your roommates won’t mind us eating without them?” I always thought a wiseass remark was a good substitute for self-confidence.
“Very good, Billy. Roommates. Wspótlokatorzy. I like that.” Kaz laughed as he opened the champagne. That pissed me off and at the same time made me like him even more.
“Let us drink to the Dorchester Hotel, an oasis of civility within a world in chaos. Do you know they never closed the kitchens, even during the Blitz?” He poured three tall, narrow glasses, and I decided not to tell him I preferred Guinness on tap.
We clinked glasses, and this champagne tasted a lot better than anything I ever drank at a Boston wedding. I felt a little nervous, like I’d been invited to a swanky party in Beacon Hill by mistake, and had to fig-ure out how to act with the swells. I looked around, trying to think of something to say.
“OK, Kaz, I gotta admit it. This place is really something. How do you rate this while I’m stuck in the attic?”
“Listen, Lieutenant Boyle,” Daphne spoke sharply, “you—”
“Call me Billy, please. It will make me feel so much better when you yell at me.”
Daphne smiled a little, and I noticed she was wearing makeup and lipstick. She looked really beautiful all dolled up. The real trick was that she’d also looked beautiful in that WREN uniform with no makeup.
