saw it in the two wooden high chairs, still slightly askew, at the far end of the table, in the five empty milk bottles lined neatly on the metal drying board, the scattered children’s books and crayons and paper airplanes on the window seat at the far end of the room. You smelled it in
the pleasant odor of dishwashing soap and coffee and the lingering scent of some kind of roast.
Eva sat at the near end of the table, her back to them, and as she turned at their entrance they saw she had Sally, the five-year-old, on her lap. Eva, too, wore a dress. It had capped sleeves and a rounded neck and there was nothing more beautiful than the way she turned in her chair and smiled up at them over the little girl’s head. There was a glass of milk and a half-eaten cookie on the table before them.
“All in bed but this one,” Mary said.
“Oh, but she’s going now, isn’t she?” Eva whispered, leaning around to see the little girl’s face. “Now that the boys are here.”
She was a bony little angel in her thin cotton nightgown and her braid. A sprite. And too small, Dennis thought, to be at home in a house this huge. But she nodded and said yes, clearly exhausted, and put her feet to the familiar linoleum.
“‘Down by the salley gardens,’” Billy said in a light brogue as Eva stood and took the little girl’s hand, “‘my love and I did meet …’”
The child smiled up at him, recognizing the poem he had recited to her before, on the beach. “‘She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.’” He put his hand to his heart, emoting. “‘She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.’” He winked at Eva over the little girl’s head. “‘She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears …’”
“Say good night to the gentlemen,” Mary told her, and Sally whispered good night and waved shyly.
“Good night, dear,” they both said, and then watched as Eva led her down a darkened hallway, lit at its far end by the lights in other rooms, and then up the back staircase.
Had he been a poet or a scholar, Billy might have remarked how, in any house, children asleep in far rooms add a sweetness to the air. But he would save the remark for Eva alone, when the children and the house were theirs.
Since it was too late for supper, they went into Southampton, to a place Dennis remembered Bridie mentioning—a bartender there the brother of a friend from Woodside. But the bartender this night was a stranger, although an amiable one—another GI who’d been lucky enough to watch the war from an air base in England. He’d seen Glenn Miller there, just before he boarded the plane he disappeared on. And married a girl from Cornwall, who hadn’t joined him yet but was already saying in her letters how much she was going to miss bloody England.
Mary and Eva clucked their tongues. Poor girl.
The bar was cool and dark and it gleamed in sundry places like a jewel; like a jewel it caught light along its polished surfaces, in its brass rail, in the mirror that ran its length and the various glasses and bottles that lined the heavy, stately counter across its back. There was only another couple at a table in the corner and the four of them, until the door opened and a single young man walked in. He sat opposite them, at the far end of the bar, and because the bartender was in the middle of a funny story about a crazed airman and one unloaded bomb, the man sat unserved for a good while, until Dennis, when the story was finished, pointed and nodded.
The bartender wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, threw the bar rag over his shoulder, and turned toward the new man, and then, just as abruptly, pulled the rag down and began slowly to polish an empty foot of bar.
“But I was sorry to miss seeing Paris,” he said. “That’s my
one big regret about the war.” He
the pleasant odor of dishwashing soap and coffee and the lingering scent of some kind of roast.
Eva sat at the near end of the table, her back to them, and as she turned at their entrance they saw she had Sally, the five-year-old, on her lap. Eva, too, wore a dress. It had capped sleeves and a rounded neck and there was nothing more beautiful than the way she turned in her chair and smiled up at them over the little girl’s head. There was a glass of milk and a half-eaten cookie on the table before them.
“All in bed but this one,” Mary said.
“Oh, but she’s going now, isn’t she?” Eva whispered, leaning around to see the little girl’s face. “Now that the boys are here.”
She was a bony little angel in her thin cotton nightgown and her braid. A sprite. And too small, Dennis thought, to be at home in a house this huge. But she nodded and said yes, clearly exhausted, and put her feet to the familiar linoleum.
“‘Down by the salley gardens,’” Billy said in a light brogue as Eva stood and took the little girl’s hand, “‘my love and I did meet …’”
The child smiled up at him, recognizing the poem he had recited to her before, on the beach. “‘She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.’” He put his hand to his heart, emoting. “‘She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.’” He winked at Eva over the little girl’s head. “‘She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears …’”
“Say good night to the gentlemen,” Mary told her, and Sally whispered good night and waved shyly.
“Good night, dear,” they both said, and then watched as Eva led her down a darkened hallway, lit at its far end by the lights in other rooms, and then up the back staircase.
Had he been a poet or a scholar, Billy might have remarked how, in any house, children asleep in far rooms add a sweetness to the air. But he would save the remark for Eva alone, when the children and the house were theirs.
Since it was too late for supper, they went into Southampton, to a place Dennis remembered Bridie mentioning—a bartender there the brother of a friend from Woodside. But the bartender this night was a stranger, although an amiable one—another GI who’d been lucky enough to watch the war from an air base in England. He’d seen Glenn Miller there, just before he boarded the plane he disappeared on. And married a girl from Cornwall, who hadn’t joined him yet but was already saying in her letters how much she was going to miss bloody England.
Mary and Eva clucked their tongues. Poor girl.
The bar was cool and dark and it gleamed in sundry places like a jewel; like a jewel it caught light along its polished surfaces, in its brass rail, in the mirror that ran its length and the various glasses and bottles that lined the heavy, stately counter across its back. There was only another couple at a table in the corner and the four of them, until the door opened and a single young man walked in. He sat opposite them, at the far end of the bar, and because the bartender was in the middle of a funny story about a crazed airman and one unloaded bomb, the man sat unserved for a good while, until Dennis, when the story was finished, pointed and nodded.
The bartender wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, threw the bar rag over his shoulder, and turned toward the new man, and then, just as abruptly, pulled the rag down and began slowly to polish an empty foot of bar.
“But I was sorry to miss seeing Paris,” he said. “That’s my
one big regret about the war.” He
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