by Bodie Thoene
“David. RAF is it? But you’re a Yank, aren’t you?”
He looked up at the leafless trees on St. James as if the answer were in the sky. “Guilty.” He grinned down at her. She was beautiful. She had an oval face, wide eyes, and a pert nose. Her skin was fair and creamy smooth, and there was a hint of color in her cheeks. David thought how wonderful it would be to wake up to someone who could look this good with so little effort. “Has Duffy had breakfast?”
“No. I had just stepped out to bring in the milk when—”
“Bet he’s hungry.” Duffy wagged appreciatively as David patted his head. “Have you had breakfast, Miss Galway?”
“Not yet. This brute has kept me from it.”
No wedding ring. Whose coat was she wearing? A large man, whoever he was.
“Neither have I. I know a little deli in the East End. All the cabdrivers eat there. The only place in London where a guy can get lox and bagels. My dad told me about it.”
Still clucking over the paw prints, she seemed to be missing the point. “You must let me take care of your tunic. It’ll need a good cleanin’, I’m afraid.”
“Live far from here?”
“The Wairakei. Victoria Embankment. Do you know of it?”
He did not, but he made an attempt at it. “Near the river?”
“Well done.”
“I’ll walk Duffy home for you if you’d like.”
She surrendered the leash gratefully. “If you don’t mind. He’s Trevor’s dog. Minds a man, but he has nothin’ but contempt for me. I just stepped out for the milk . . . did I say that already?” They cut across the wide, leaf-covered lawn.
“And away he went.”
“Exactly. I knew where to find him. Trevor always walked him here. St. James Park. Every mornin’. I just sort of flutter along behind on the end of his lead, and he tears about waterin’ the king’s shrubbery. I think he comes lookin’ for Trevor.”
“Trevor?”
“M’ brother. He’s in the Royal Navy.”
Very good. The brother’s dog. Annie must still live under the same roof with the family pet.
“Is that Trevor’s coat?”
“My dad’s. I just grabbed it off the hook and out I went. And I’d best be gettin’ it back to him.” She smiled as an idea penetrated her brain. “Did I hear you say you’d not eaten breakfast?”
“Not yet. But I know this deli where we could go.”
“The Wairakei. That’s the ticket. We’ve got milk and we’ve saved some eggs. Would you like to eat with me and Da, then? It’s the least I can do. And I do mean the least. I’m a terrible cook, but Da is a regular miracle worker when it comes to stretchin’ eggs. Learned every trick in the navy. You can put on Trevor’s things, and we’ll get your uniform set right. Unless you have somethin’ to do? What do y’ say?”
“It’s dinnertime back home. This is the best offer I’ve had since I left the States.” David let her think it was all her idea. He glanced down at the lumbering dog. “Thank you, Duffy.”
Duffy led the way out of the park along Birdcage Walk, through Parliament Square, beyond Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, before turning left along the riverbank at Westminster Bridge. The course of the River Thames was marked by barrage balloons that hovered over the river like a school of great silverfish, preventing the German Luftwaffe from mining the waterway.
By the time they reached Victoria Embankment, Annie knew all about the Newfoundland retriever David had owned as a child and that he had spent his tenth summer as a cabin boy on a rumrunner named Jazz Baby off the coast of New York. Then he told her about the convoy crossing the North Atlantic and the U-boat attack and how there was more war going on at sea than in all of England, France, and Germany put together.
In that same time, David learned that Annie had been born in Ulster, Northern Ireland, and had lived there until her father moved to Scotland to go into the shipbuilding business with his brother-in-law. The Wairakei was not an apartment block or a hotel, but a boat moored in the shadow of the Egyptian obelisque known as Cleopatra’s Needle. Duffy had made his mark even on that distinguished relic, Annie told him.
A handsome, forty-two-foot, ketch-rigged motor sailor of the Brown Owl class, the Wairakei had been built by Annie’s father and an uncle at Rosneath, on the River Clyde in Scotland.
“As a lad, Da sailed round the globe. Said he never saw a place as fine as Waikiki and when he built his own ship, he’d name ’er Waikiki. Well, the painter, who was a drunken Irishman, got it all wrong.”
Annie paused, leaned against the stone railing of the embankment, and pointed down to the double masts of the well-kept ketch that was moored behind a row of deserted water taxis. The tide was up and the wind was up. The metal fittings on the rigging clanked a melody against the masts.
“Why didn’t your dad have the painter put the proper name on her?”
“Oooooh! That’s bad luck, doncha know that, Yank?” Those words were exclaimed in thick Irish brogue, as though they needed extra attention. “You never can change the name of a ship and have a thimble of good luck ever after. Would be like changin’ . . . like changin’ your own name! Someone would call you by the new thing, and you’d not be able t’ answer!”
He looked at her there in the soft morning light and thought that if he had a ship he’d name it Annie. He’d paint it on the stern in flaming red letters trimmed in gold.
And then the words blurted out. “If I had a ship, I’d name her Annie.”
She cocked an eye at him in amused disbelief. “Are all you Yanks so bold? Or is it all pilot officers?” She shrugged.
He was blushing.
She seemed not to notice. “Dad, Trevor, Duffy, and me sailed ’er down from Scotland through the Forth and Clyde Canal, down the East coast to Chelsea, on the Thames. Dad’s just got a contract refitting motor launches for the Admiralty. Patrol duty. Small, wood-hulled ladies are less likely to blow up in a brush with those magnetic mines the Nazis have been seeding in the estuary. We’ll be moving down to Dover when I finish school.”
She turned and glanced back toward Parliament. “I’ll miss this. London, I mean. She’s a grand city even with the blackout and the air-raid wardens and such. At night I lie in my bunk and feel the tide coming in and going out. The lady rocks a bit as the riggin’ rings like little bells. Through the porthole I can just make out Big Ben there. And I think what it must’ve been like in the old days. Before electric lamps. Charles Dickens and the like. It’s quite nice, I think, unless you get run over by a taxi in the dark.”
David recovered enough to tame his brain into thinking of suitable questions. “What do you do while your father is refitting patrol boats?”
“I’m studying to join the CNR—Civil Nursing Reserve. Last year I was at University of Edinburgh. Trevor was to have been Da’s assistant, but he joined the Royal Navy. Just what I would have done if I were a man. Lucky Trevor. He’s on HMS Fortitude. I love the sea. It’s in the blood I suppose.” She smiled at Duffy. “I wanted to see the world. At least I’ve seen London. And what about you, David Meyer? Yank. What are you doin’ in a war that’s none of your business? Come to see the world, did you?”
He wanted to tell her that he would have traveled the world just to meet someone like her, but the impression of impetuous American had already been received with amusement on her part.
“I was barnstorming between terms at UCLA.”
“Speak English, if you please,” she warned him as an enormous man with a bald head stepped out on the deck of the Wairakei. She gave him a playful wave, which he returned. He did not seem surprised that his daughter was having a conversation with a soldier.
She called to her father, “We’ll be havin’ a guest for breakfast, Da!” The big man nodded and grinned up at her. She leaned closer to David. “Da doesn’t think much of Yanks. Says they speak gibberish and drink too much.”
“Winston Churchill is half American.”
“E
xactly. Da cannot understand why they’ve made him First Lord of the Admiralty. He says a man who talks so much ought to be prime minister.”
David tried again. “I was a student at the University of California in Los Angeles. Summer term I performed in a flying circus. The war started. I heard they’d be flying Spitfires and Hurricanes, so I went north to visit family in Montreal and I joined up. The RAF seemed pleased to have me.”
Annie stared at him in astonishment. “You mean you’ve come all this way . . . put your life in danger . . . just so you could fly a particular aeroplane?”
He shrugged. “That was my original motivation, yes.”
“And now?”
“Now it doesn’t look real promising. So far, the only reason the RAF is flying over Germany is to drop pamphlets. BUMF, we call it. Bum fodder, toilet paper. Warning the Germans to be good little Nazis and stop this nasty quarrel. I think the war may be over before I get to France.”
“What would you do then?”
“I don’t know. What about you?”
“I suppose I’ll go back to Edinburgh to university.”
“Nice place, Edinburgh?”
“I suppose so. If you like old castles, bagpipes, and the history of John Knox.”
“I’d like to see it. Maybe have a look at your school.”
Annie shook her head. “All of this because my dog ran over the top of you?”
By the time breakfast was over David was convinced that if he never saw action in a Hurricane, he had come to England for one reason. And she was sitting directly across from him in the teak-paneled salon of the Wairakei. Annie Galway was burned into his mind in bright red letters trimmed in gold.
5
Visitors’ Day
Today was visitors’ day. Jerome and Marie waited patiently for Uncle Jambonneau beside the arched stone gateway that led to the inner courtyard of Hotel des Invalides.
The Invalides was an enormous building that housed the old soldiers of the French Republic. Napoleon himself had walked upon these very cobblestones to review his troops, Uncle Jambonneau had explained. It was a very proud and historical place.
The golden dome of Napoleon’s mausoleum shone above the rooftops of the buildings. Last month Jerome and Marie had gone with their uncle to visit the emperor’s burial place. It was a wondrous monument of green and black marble towering up two stories from a huge, round, polished-stone pit. Jerome thought that Napoleon Bonaparte must have been a very large man to need such a big tomb.
The building had been quiet and solemn. Jerome had been suitably impressed. Uncle Jambonneau had spoken about the great Napoleon and how the present honor of France was threatened by Hitler and his Boche, and Jerome had almost wept.
It had been a very good day until Papillon leaped from Uncle Jambonneau’s shoulder onto the hat of an Englishwoman. Who could blame a rat for wanting to taste grapes and strawberries? Even Jerome could see that the chapeau looked like a basket of fruit.
Unfortunately the woman was one of those who did not know that the rat was Uncle Jambonneau’s pet dog. Her ill-mannered English husband had tried to kill poor Papillon with an umbrella. It was a very noisy and unpleasant scene. After the woman was carried off, Uncle Jambonneau, Marie, Jerome, and Papillon were escorted out and asked never to return. It did not matter. They had seen everything there was to see and a good deal more.
The incident gave Uncle Jambonneau many hours of pleasure as he angrily talked with the other soldiers in his ward about the stupid and arrogant race known as “The English.” It was the English, said the old soldiers, who got France into this present war with the Boche.
“Now here we are. We have already made the great sacrifice, but we French must fight and die for England once again. They have no self-respect!”
Jerome could not think how Papillon jumping on the Englishwoman’s hat had brought about such prolonged discussion about war with the Nazis, but Uncle Jambonneau seemed extremely lively when it came time for Marie and Jerome to go home. Uncle Jambonneau had not been by to visit them at the Garlic since then, perhaps because of the colder autumn weather. Jerome had missed him and Papillon, too.
These once-a-month visits were perhaps the most wonderful thing about des Invalides. On this day the pensioners were allowed to have two guests for the noon meal. Some of the soldiers had no guest to invite, so Uncle Jambonneau shared Jerome and Marie with them. Some had no legs or were missing a hand or an arm. All of them had smiles, however, when Jerome and Marie came to visit. This was perhaps the only place in Paris where they were welcomed without suspicion.
In the enormous dining room, they sat at long tables and ate delicious hot food and all the bread they wanted. Jerome usually stuffed his pockets full of rolls so they had enough to last for several days after.
They were also given free admission to the museums and even the Eiffel Tower. Of course, Uncle Jambonneau could not actually see anything, but he still had a good deal to say about everything. Papa called the monthly occasion with Uncle “an educational outing.” Papa also thought that it was very good that it did not cost anything. This was an event Jerome and Marie never missed.
Last night they had bathed in the big copper washtub belowdecks on the Garlic. Papa had boiled their clothes clean and hung them to dry near the kerosene stove. The thin cotton of Marie’s dress dried quickly. The waist of Jerome’s trousers was still damp, but he wore them without complaint. He had not wanted to miss even a minute of the day.
But it was Uncle Jambonneau who was late today. Most of the other guests had already been admitted into the courtyard and led beneath the columned porticos to the reception halls. It was cold out here. Marie was already shivering, and soon it would be time for the meal to begin. Where was Uncle Jambonneau?
The uniformed poilu in the small guardhouse peered through his window at Jerome and Marie. He was a new fellow, young, with a pointed face and a thin mustache. He leaned partially out the door because it was too cold to come out entirely. “What are you urchins waiting for?”
He was an unpleasant man, Jerome decided. “My uncle Jambonneau is coming. He is a resident here. My sister and I are invited to lunch.”
At the mention of lunch the poilu ran his tongue over his teeth and ducked back inside. He opened a tin lunch box and pulled out three kinds of cheese, a thick sandwich piled with ham and chicken, two oranges, and a bottle of milk.
“I wish Uncle would come soon,” Marie said through chattering teeth.
Jerome watched the poilu grasp the sandwich with both hands and maneuver his mouth around the bread and meat. Jerome’s stomach was growling. If Uncle Jambonneau did not come soon, they might miss lunch altogether.
The poilu finished off the sandwich and licked mustard from his fingers. He guzzled down the milk. He ate the cheeses and then peeled his oranges one at a time.
Beyond the gate the courtyard was quiet and deserted. No visitors were walking about looking at old cannons or discussing Napoleon or the old wars.
Where was Uncle Jambonneau?
The guard finished his lunch and wiped his hands on a napkin.
Jerome approached the guardhouse and tapped on the window.
The poilu considered him with some irritation, then shouted through the glass. “What is it? Can’t you see I am busy?”
Jerome called back, “My uncle is a resident here. My sister and I—”
The poilu held up his hand in impatience. He opened the door a crack. Jerome could feel the warmth of the little guardroom as heat escaped.
“Now, what do you want?”
“My uncle Jambonneau is a pensioner here. We were invited to come for the luncheon.”
“Well, you have missed that, to be sure. They have eaten everything and picked the bones clean by now, little beggar.”
“I am no beggar,” Jerome flared. “My uncle lives here. My sister and I have been waiting, and he has not come for us.”
“What am I supposed to do about it?”
�
�He is a patriot blinded by poison gas in the Great War. Perhaps he has fallen or become lost.” Jerome doubted this, because little Papillon forever whispered to Uncle Jambonneau which way to go and where he should walk.
“Well.” The poilu was humbled a bit by the fact that Uncle was an old soldier and blind. “I will telephone the reception. His name and yours, if you please.”
“Corporal Jambonneau Jardin. And I am his nephew, Jerome, and my sister, who is shivering there as you see, is Marie.”
The poilu nodded and closed the door. With Jerome’s wary eye upon him, he telephoned reception and in a muffled voice repeated the names of all parties and the situation. He studied his nails as he waited for the reply.
“Oui. I shall tell them.” Down went the receiver. The door slid open a crack. “No free lunch today. Your Uncle Jambonneau Jardin is gravely ill. Pneumonia.” This he announced as if he were telling Jerome when the next bus would come. “He is in quarantine. Since you are enfants, you will not be allowed to see him. Run along home now and tell whoever might be concerned that the old man may die very soon.”
“How do I look, Jerome?” Papa adjusted his blue beret in the dim mirror that hung beneath the hatch of the Stinking Garlic.
“Well.” Jerome scratched his chin in wonder.
“Very well!” Marie piped. She had not witnessed the transformation and so did not know who the stranger was who examined himself in their mirror. “Now, who are you, Monsieur?”
“Papa,” replied the fellow. He had the voice of Papa but looked entirely like someone else. It was an amazing thing to see. Papa was clean. Not only had he washed his hands and face, but he had washed himself all over in the copper washtub. Also he had shaved his scruffy beard until only a pointed black goatee spiked his chin. He had Jerome trim his hair in the back. He smelled like soap and mothballs. The frayed white cuffs of his shirt hung out from the too-short sleeves of his old blue suit, and there was a gap between the hem of his trousers and the tops of his shoes.
All the same, it had been a long time since Jerome and Marie had seen Papa looking so good. Perhaps it had even been since the funeral of Mama. A very long time indeed.
