Not for Use in Navigation

by Iona Datt Sharma

  ___

  “Ned," Grace said, because when she finally stopped running Ned was on the doorstep, as though he had been waiting for her. “Ned – Kira…"

  “Thanet’s got her," Ned said. He took Grace in on his arm as though escorting her to a ball – which he had done often, in those ridiculous pre-war days – and sat her in the consulting room with her feet on an ottoman. Thanet took over after that, knitting the wound in Grace’s scalp with magic as strong and light as gossamer. Ned was talking to Kira, asking her short, simple questions, and Grace was grateful that she would not have to tell the story, not tonight.

  “Kira," Ned said, finally, standing up. “Would you like anything? Mrs Throckley can get you a cup of hot milk, if you’d like."

  Dumbly, Kira shook her head. She looked so scared, Grace thought, dimly: this girl who had lived through a war, just as much as any of them.

  “Then to bed with you." Ned’s tone was still gentle, and Grace remembered.

  “I forgot," she said, dismayed. “I thought…"

  She trailed off, too tired to articulate the thought. She had planned to take Kira back to her mother’s this evening, for one last night at home before apprenticeship – and, in the way of the Temple folk, adulthood – and to make arrangements for her here tomorrow.

  But Mrs Throckley was at the door holding the tin cup of hot milk, apparently set upon on someone drinking it, even if not Kira; the look on her face rested halfway between kindness and defiance. “I hope you’ll forgive me," she said, “but it’s been so quiet since you all came home. I did hope as the little one was staying… come with me, both of you."

  She pointed up the stairs, so Grace had no choice but to follow, with Kira trailing behind. Mrs Throckley went round several turns of the staircase, holding up a kerosene lamp and opened the door on the attic room beneath the eaves, with the porthole light. It had been shut up since the war, accumulating dust. Grace looked around at the room, aired and cleaned, now with a little truckle bed and a lamp beside it, with a pretty bedspread and neat frilled curtains. Despite everything, Kira looked delighted.

  “Mrs Throckley," Grace said. “It’s perfect. Thank you."

  Strangely, it was that act of kindness that did her in. She waited to make sure Kira got to bed safely, thanked Mrs Throckley again, and meant to pour a cup of water in the kitchen before retreating to her own bed, but somehow she burst into tears between there and the staircase.

  “Come," Ned said, taking her arm again. “Let’s take a moment."

  Out on their front step, the air was still and heated, carrying the distant sounds of shouting across the river toward them and then away again. Ned lit a cigarette and offered it to Grace, blowing smoke. She took a drag and passed it back. They sat in silence for some time, the glowing tip of the lit cigarette the only light other than the City’s lamps and the waxing moon. Neither she nor Ned had smoked before the war.

  Finally, Ned threw the cigarette end onto the cobbles and watched it smoulder. “Tell me," he said.

  “We’re falling apart," she said.

  Ned glanced at her, then away. “Grace…"

  “What are we here for?" she said, suddenly angry. “We’re Salt, Ned. We’re here to serve. When people ask for our help, we give it."

  “With contributions to our minor expenses," Ned murmured. “Such as the holding together of body and soul."

  Grace didn’t smile. “Those men in the alley came for me because of the bar in my ear. They thought I could save them."

  “And you did," Ned said, mildly. “Didn’t you?"

  “I went out into that alleyway yelling and throwing shields and fireballs about," Grace said. “But I didn’t even look back. I picked up Kira and ran. They could have been knocked over where they stood right behind me and I wouldn’t know."

  “Getting yourself killed wouldn’t have helped anyone," Ned said, with an edge to his voice. “Least of all Kira, and she’s your first responsibility. You did exactly the right thing."

  “Did I?" Grace asked, bleakly. “I told Kira’s mother – today, even, it was only this morning – that we could give her the training she needs and deserves. That we could, you and me and Thanet. But Thanet’s being drummed out of practice and you’re – oh, God, Ned, I don’t know what they did to you, but you know what I mean by it – and now Kira and I are being chased down the streets by a howling mob."

  “Yes." Ned sighed. “Grace – she’s a sweet enough girl and she deserves training. But does it have to be by us?" He paused. “By you?"

  Looking at his familiar face, his grey eyes reflecting the light of the cigarette still smouldering on the cobbles, Grace was reminded of what she had said to Kira’s mother about Kira, and about Ned and herself: a sister, a brother, a daughter.

  “Yes," she said helplessly. “Yes, it had to be us. I’m not sure I can make you understand."

  “All right." Ned shrugged, taking it philosophically. “I’ll accept that. But you’re not to blame for fools and animals," he added. “And we’ll clear Thanet’s name."

  “What if we can’t?" Grace asked. “What if Thanet’s right, and it’s really about the people she helps? What if it’s really about what she is?"

  “Thanet is part of an honourable tradition among Birds-in-Flight practitioners," Ned said. “It’s a magical practice built on organic fluidity, for heaven’s sake! They’ll come to their senses."

  “What if they don’t?" Grace asked.

  Ned shook his head. “This is Temple, Grace. That’s not how things are here."

  “Even if that’s so," Grace said, sadly, “we have to leave it sometimes. It can’t be the only place in the world for people like us." She paused and shook her head. “Listen to me, talking as though we’re the ones who need protecting. When did we become such sorry shadows of ourselves, Ned? When were we so bowed and so – broken?"

  Ned shook his head again, and she knew there was no answer.

  “Arma virumque cano," he said lightly, and Grace was glad that he still found such comfort in his books. “We came away from Troy, and into greater exile."

  “Speaking of exile," Grace said. “Your mother is planning to pay us a visit."

  “She’ll have heard," Ned said. “She won’t come, not now."

  “Not yet," Grace corrected. “But once all this blows over, there’s the spectre of the rent. Ned, how much longer can we go on? I don’t intend to be melodramatic. I really mean it."

  “It would be," Ned said, with some difficulty, “grievous, for us to have fought so hard for what is ours. And then, after everything—"

  Grace nodded, allowing him the time to finish that sentence, or choose not to. Ned lit another cigarette, and she waited, thinking of how she had kept the practice running even when the windows were blacked-up with crepe and Salt magic was as strictly regulated as sugar and petrol. She had written letters to Ned about it, and had them returned with “Not known" written on the envelopes, by order of the War Office, but in Ned’s own familiar hand. They had laughed about it, afterwards.

  “We go on," Ned said, breathing out smoke. “Like we did before. We just go on."

  “Go on," Grace echoed, and then fell silent, watching Ned’s hands move to his mouth, and the cigarette tip glowing in the darkness.

  ___

  (iv) Michaelmas

  The Temple gardens were turning over into autumn by the time the coroner set the date for the full inquest, and perhaps by then, Ned thought, the revolutionary fervour would have dimmed a little in the streets.

  “November," Grace said, looking up from her letters.

  “We’ll know by then, one way or the other," Thanet remarked. He had taken up needlework, to fill the time, and when that palled, carried tea to the workers on strike.

  “Oh, Ned," Grace added. “Mrs Ferguson was by, earlier. She said that the fireman on the train – not the fireman, the other man in the cab, anyway – he’s come around. He’s still at Bart’s, but he’s well enough to speak to someone. I can
go with Kira this afternoon."

  “No," Ned said, quietly. “If you can spare Kira, she can come with me."

  Grace looked at him for a long moment, and then smiled. “It’s good," she said. “To see you out and about again."

  Ned returned a tentative smile. “Don’t count your chickens. Wait and see if I make it back alive."

  She didn’t castigate him for being overly dramatic, which Ned was pleased about. In the months since the Armistice, he had begun to wonder if his mental condition were infirmity or melodrama, but he was shamefully grateful for Kira’s presence through the noisy, crowded streets, and then for the clean antiseptic quiet of the hospital corridors.

  The railwayman’s name was Jack Roberts, he explained, although the nurses called him John, which put him in mind of school and childhood visits from elderly relatives. “But who’re you?" he asked after a moment, belatedly surprised at a visit from a stranger.

  “My name is Ned Devlin," said Ned, putting a hand to his ear and dipping his head. The man’s eyes widened with recognition. Salt practitioners were usually called to layings-out, and Ned couldn’t blame him for being apprehensive. “I’ve been retained by the wife of your driver – your friend, Mr Ferguson."

  That the men had been friends was a shot in the dark, but it paid off; Roberts smiled a little, and something eased in his face. “You’re in the pay of Mistress Ferguson?" he said, rubbing at his eyes; Ned suspected that in ordinary life he wore spectacles. “Better you than me, mate."

  Ned laughed a little and sat down in the hard wooden chair closest to the bed, waving to Kira to keep close to him. The man in the bed blinked at the movement, trying to follow it with his head. “That your kid?"

  “My apprentice."

  “Tell her to have a grape, everyone’s been that kind, but I’ve no hope of eating them all. So she’s got you to find out the truth of what happened, has she?"

  Ned nodded. “Something of that order. I’m wondering, Mr Roberts, if you can tell me exactly what happened in the cab, before the accident. If we can get to the bottom of this, your friend’s wife may take her widow’s pension from the Southwestern, after all."

  “If I can help I will," Roberts said. “Alf was a good mate. They told me he went straight off – didn’t feel any pain?"

  It wasn’t the first time that a young man had asked Ned that question. “I’m told that’s so. You had known each other some time, then?"

  “Oh, yeah. I’d been a lampman on the railway before the war, and since I got back I’d taken a fancy to driving. Alf said he’d take me along, show me how it was done, so I went down to Moorgate in a ‘bus bright and early. Alf was telling me something about his sister up north somewhere. Getting married in a month and it was going to be quite a do. His wife was sending him out for a present, straight after his shift."

  “When was that?" Ned asked. “Towards the beginning of the journey, or closer to the bridge?"

  Roberts paused. “Later – oh, towards the bridge, I recall seeing the lights up across the river. We were at the signal. I said to him, it’ll be a fine morning, no doubt, and he said, if we only could get this train into depot a little quicker! And I said something about how fast they’d let you go, what with the freight trains ploughing out at night, and he said I’d have to sit down and study it all in a book before they’d let me train to be a driver. And then…" Roberts paused again. “The train moved. I said to him, Alf, should we be – and that’s when the other train came out of the dark. I thought the end of the world had come."

  Ned nodded. “I see. Thank you, Mr Roberts, you’ve been very helpful."

  “Don’t see how, but I suppose you folk are a rule to yourselves," Roberts said. “You’ll do your best for Mrs Ferguson, won’t you?"

  “I will," Ned promised. “Kira, come along. Thank you again for your time, Mr Roberts."

  “Wasn’t any bother. Take some more grapes."

  Kira did, and was eating them industriously as she followed Ned out of the ward and through the long hallways, into the brilliant sunshine outside. “Well," he said. “What did we learn from that?"

  Kira inclined her head. “I don’t know."

  “Me neither, little one. Do you feel up to another errand before we return?"

  Kira looked at him with all the perspicacity of twelve years old, and all the kindness: she did not turn the question back around on him.

  “Come, then," Ned said. “Let’s go and take a look at the railway line. Besides, I could do with someone to help me up if I fall flat on my face in the undergrowth."

  It wasn’t quite a joke, but Kira smiled, and they went on past Temple towards Blackfriars.

  “Can’t take you across the picket lines," Ned remarked. “Your principal would have my head."

  “Really?" Kira asked, seemingly more intrigued than anything else by the prospect of Ned’s possible decapitation.

  “Really," Ned said, and true to his word, took Kira around the back of the station, away from the strikers, and through the rusted gates. In another life, he would have been able to break any lock. As it was, he was grateful for some railwayman’s carelessness. With a crack, the fencing shifted to allow them through.

  “Watch yourself," he warned Kira, motioning to the thick layers of scrub and weeds where it would be easy to catch a foot. “I thought we might take a look alongside the track where the crash happened, while the strike’s on."

  “So no trains are going to come through," Kira said, sounding rather disappointed, and Ned smiled to himself; he suspected that aged twelve, he too would have liked to see a train go past from a foot away. “What are you looking for?"

  “I might know it when I see it." Ned paused, tapping the rail with his cane, then leaning forwards to investigate it more closely. “Onwards."

  Kira nodded and they pushed on for a while, boots kicking up dead grass and gravel. “Were you in France in the war?" she asked, suddenly looking straight at him. “If he’d come back, would my dad have come back like you?"

  Given some experience of it, Ned had come to find Kira’s directness refreshing: rather like the cool, pleasant autumn air, after so long spent inside. “I can’t say as to your father, little one," he said, “but yes, I was. Now, what do we have here?"

  With some difficulty, he got down to his knees, laying the cane beside him. The track was sun-warmed and smooth under his hands, then metallic and chilled in the shadows.

  “See, Kira," he said. “What do you think this is?"

  Kira investigated it, lip curling. “It’s like icing on a cake," she said, after a minute, and Ned was pleased with the analogy; the metallic layer on top of the track surface had spread just like melted chocolate, weatherbeaten in places but mostly smooth. “It’s – yellow? Under the dirt I mean."

  “Yellow," Ned said, pushing his thumbnail into the battered surface, unsurprised to find it left a mark. “Gold, in fact. A splash of gold on the railway track, just where the accident happened. Now isn’t that interesting?"

  “Why is it there?" Kira asked.

  “I don’t know." Ned glanced up along the track, then down. “I think we’ll have to find out. Shall we?"

  Kira helped him up, and kept pace with him back to the gap in the railings. She didn’t speak, but Ned thought something of the tension had gone from her, and from him, too, here in the mid-afternoon sun and birdsong. As they emerged from the trackside behind the station, Ned caught himself looking up and down to avoid railwaymen or the local constabulary and any associated difficult questions. The ridiculous furtiveness lifted his mood, as though he were Kira’s age, on an adventure.

  “Off you go, Kira," he said, once steady on his feet again, rummaging in his pocket for tuppence. “Go down to the station and get yourself a chocolate bar or a comic or something else you’d like. Don’t cross the line," he added, firmly. “Quickly now."

  Ned took the few minutes she was gone to catch his breath and collect himself. The walk had been long enough for him to be in pain,
though still appreciative of the sunlight and clear air. He expected Kira to come back with a comic – sweets were still rationed for the most part – but it was bright Cadbury’s purple in her hands when she returned. They walked down the Embankment in comfortable silence, Kira munching happily. To Ned’s surprise, she broke off a piece and gave it to him without comment, and he ate it in the spirit given.

  “You know," he said hesitantly. “Chocolate was in my rations, when I was in France. But they never sent it all in the right place and time, so you’d get it all at once or not at all. I used to give it all away to the men."

  Kira turned. “You used to give it all away?" she asked, aghast, and Ned chuckled.

  “Yes," he said, still laughing. “That was the great sacrifice I made in the war."

  But Kira was looking up at him as he spoke, her eyes serious. Ned knew even before she said it that this was the question she had been gathering the courage to ask.

  “Do you think you might have met my dad?" she said. “In the war I mean."

  “I didn’t always ask men their names," Ned said, very gently. “Sometimes there wasn’t time even for that."

  “So you might have? And not known it?"

  “I might have," Ned said, still gently, “yes."

  Kira seemed contented, unwrapping another piece of chocolate and handing it over. She’d learned the habit from Grace of keeping in step with him, and Ned walked along thinking over the puzzle on the railway, breathing in his own contentment in between the taps of his cane.

  ___

  That evening there was a knock at the door, just before nightfall; Grace was the one who set down her tea to answer it.

  “You’re the chaps who did the work," said the man on the other side, pulling off a London Underground hat to reveal a forehead slick with sweat. He turned around and charged across the cobbles as though expecting Grace to immediately follow.

  “Excuse me?" she called, and he shook his head impatiently and gestured for her to hurry up.

  “Come on, you’re needed." He was looking over her shoulder at Ned, Grace realised. “Signal failures on the bridge and at St Paul’s. Everything’s at a standstill. Come on!"