cycled out the supply of drinking water to keep it fresh. There were sleeping cots, the personalized pegs with hanging gas masks, and a typed list of all persons in the area assigned to this particular Anderson hut.
“Captain John?”
A rustle, and a moment later, Captain John appeared in the doorway of the Anderson shelter. He was holding a framed photograph, gazing at it. “Lizzie had it done when he was sixteen. Thought it proper. Always looking after her little brother.”
His lovely thick white hair was uncombed. Looked as if he’d slept in his clothing. She’d never seen him this way.
“Captain John . . . is everything all right?”
He looked up. “Hmm? Oh, yes. All is well.” He looked at the picture. “Only, I thought it was nonsense, having his photograph done. Seemed vain. A waste of money. Likely said as much. Wish I hadn’t —he’s a good boy. He has a stout heart. He’s very kind, you see. Some mistake that for . . . Well, I’m just finding a spot for it in the shelter.” He gave a smile, swift to disappear. “You never know —Mrs. Shrewsbury may be right. Perhaps they all are. Old Calhoun at Evelyn’s. Churchill. Eden. Only, you don’t want to believe it, you can’t believe it, that Herr Hitler is upon us at last. But he is.”
“What’s happened? Your son —is he all right?” She went to him, and discovered that he smelled as though he’d spent the night in a pub.
He polished the glass of the photograph with the cuff of his sleeve,and angled it so she could see. “That’s my Jamie,” he said proudly. “Handsome lad, don’t you think? Took after his mum.”
Jamie Elliott was handsome. Well —perhaps not physically . But his features were arresting. Expectant, challenging eyes, looking just off the eye of the photographer; it made you feel as though his eyes wanted to go straight to yours. A lifted chin, a confident smile. His carriage made him handsome. It was very interesting to finally have a look at this boy of whom she’d heard so much.
“Oh, I think he takes after you,” Clare said warmly. “Looks to be a very clever, confident lad.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” Captain John said, rousing from his reverie with a spark of enthusiasm. “That’s my Jamie. Very engaging boy. Very good with people. Liked to work with customers. Never took to the water, not like Nigel, but not everyone does. I hope he knows I don’t care about that. I wish I’d told him. Wish I’d said it out loud.”
What wasn’t he telling her?
“Mrs. Shrew wondered where you were for tea.”
Any mention of the Shrew usually made him stand at attention. He couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph. It was as if Clare weren’t in the room.
“I should tell you we have another guest,” she said brightly. “Don’t know how long he’ll be staying. Mrs. Shrew will have to add another name to the Anderson list. I’m sure she’ll fill you in. His name is Murray Vance. An American. It appears his father owned the Maggie Bright . Isn’t that interesting?”
But Captain John didn’t answer, and Clare was suddenly quite alarmed. What had happened? Was it a letter? Did he hear some news? Was the war going badly? She’d never seen him like this. All felt as wrong and askew as the appearance of his hair.
“Well, then —I’m off to see the BV on a matter of diplomatic importance. Need anything from the grocer?”
“Quite right. All is well,” he said, eyes on the photograph. “Only, I didn’t want him to go. Didn’t want a war to change him. But it will.”
He turned into the shelter and Clare fled not for the Teddington bus stop but for Mrs. Shrew.
Mrs. Shrew pledged to get to the bottom of it. When she added a very brisk and determined, “Leave it to me,” Clare felt enormous relief, and raced with a lighter heart to catch the next bus.
“Yes, this is Blake. Westminster Station. William Percy, please. Thank you very much.” He hummed a few bars of
“Captain John?”
A rustle, and a moment later, Captain John appeared in the doorway of the Anderson shelter. He was holding a framed photograph, gazing at it. “Lizzie had it done when he was sixteen. Thought it proper. Always looking after her little brother.”
His lovely thick white hair was uncombed. Looked as if he’d slept in his clothing. She’d never seen him this way.
“Captain John . . . is everything all right?”
He looked up. “Hmm? Oh, yes. All is well.” He looked at the picture. “Only, I thought it was nonsense, having his photograph done. Seemed vain. A waste of money. Likely said as much. Wish I hadn’t —he’s a good boy. He has a stout heart. He’s very kind, you see. Some mistake that for . . . Well, I’m just finding a spot for it in the shelter.” He gave a smile, swift to disappear. “You never know —Mrs. Shrewsbury may be right. Perhaps they all are. Old Calhoun at Evelyn’s. Churchill. Eden. Only, you don’t want to believe it, you can’t believe it, that Herr Hitler is upon us at last. But he is.”
“What’s happened? Your son —is he all right?” She went to him, and discovered that he smelled as though he’d spent the night in a pub.
He polished the glass of the photograph with the cuff of his sleeve,and angled it so she could see. “That’s my Jamie,” he said proudly. “Handsome lad, don’t you think? Took after his mum.”
Jamie Elliott was handsome. Well —perhaps not physically . But his features were arresting. Expectant, challenging eyes, looking just off the eye of the photographer; it made you feel as though his eyes wanted to go straight to yours. A lifted chin, a confident smile. His carriage made him handsome. It was very interesting to finally have a look at this boy of whom she’d heard so much.
“Oh, I think he takes after you,” Clare said warmly. “Looks to be a very clever, confident lad.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” Captain John said, rousing from his reverie with a spark of enthusiasm. “That’s my Jamie. Very engaging boy. Very good with people. Liked to work with customers. Never took to the water, not like Nigel, but not everyone does. I hope he knows I don’t care about that. I wish I’d told him. Wish I’d said it out loud.”
What wasn’t he telling her?
“Mrs. Shrew wondered where you were for tea.”
Any mention of the Shrew usually made him stand at attention. He couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph. It was as if Clare weren’t in the room.
“I should tell you we have another guest,” she said brightly. “Don’t know how long he’ll be staying. Mrs. Shrew will have to add another name to the Anderson list. I’m sure she’ll fill you in. His name is Murray Vance. An American. It appears his father owned the Maggie Bright . Isn’t that interesting?”
But Captain John didn’t answer, and Clare was suddenly quite alarmed. What had happened? Was it a letter? Did he hear some news? Was the war going badly? She’d never seen him like this. All felt as wrong and askew as the appearance of his hair.
“Well, then —I’m off to see the BV on a matter of diplomatic importance. Need anything from the grocer?”
“Quite right. All is well,” he said, eyes on the photograph. “Only, I didn’t want him to go. Didn’t want a war to change him. But it will.”
He turned into the shelter and Clare fled not for the Teddington bus stop but for Mrs. Shrew.
Mrs. Shrew pledged to get to the bottom of it. When she added a very brisk and determined, “Leave it to me,” Clare felt enormous relief, and raced with a lighter heart to catch the next bus.
“Yes, this is Blake. Westminster Station. William Percy, please. Thank you very much.” He hummed a few bars of
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