SHE SENT HIM POSTCARDS on her journey - postcards from Singapore and Bombay and Cairo with nothing but 'still alive' scrawled on the back; a telegram from Marseille saying 'Bonjour.' When she arrived in rain-soaked Devon with only her infuriating father and a jar of sand collected from the foot of the Pyramids as cargo, she wasn't quite sure what true purpose of her journey had been. She hadn't broken any aviation records, and she could have guarded her father just as well in Melbourne and escorted him onto the next ship to England.
Ever since she was a small child, she had found comfort in leaving and then returning months after a departure to the grateful faces of those who'd pleaded with her to stay. Friends and lovers waved at her from ports and railway stations, greeting her with open arms and hugs and kisses and promise-you'll-never-do-that-agains. She usually said she wouldn't, but she always did.
England was not as she remembered it. The fields were still green, but the windswept coastline in autumn was bitter and cruel, so she took a house in London for the winter, and wore scarves and boots and swore when a gust of wind coming up Marylebone Road ruined her umbrella. She mingled with scientists and aristocrats, and gossiped with silent film stars in the Kit Cat Restaurant. Her dance card was never empty, and her roster of clients grew.
One day, a giant Zeppelin flew over the city, and she thought about going home.
That evening she tried to write him a letter to tell him about the beautiful spectacle she had witnessed, but she started with 'I think I miss you,' and it all went hideously downhill from there. When she accidentally spilled her drink on the paper, she drew an arrow pointing to it, writing, 'Are you ever coming after me?'
SIX WEEKS LATER, he appeared on her doorstep, and her first thought was that she'd not had the chance to wave at his ship at the docks in Southampton, or embrace him on the platform at Paddington station with the smoke from the steam train filling the air.
She kissed his cheek and she pulled off his coat and asked, "Did you receive my letter?" because she wanted to know.
He touched her face and the collar of her blouse and said, "No, but I left the summer for you."
They walked through Hyde Park, arm in arm. She told him about the crimes she'd solved without his help, the lovers she'd had while he was away. He dodged puddles and tried not to show her that he minded.
He asked, "Does it always rain this much?" and she said, "Only this year. Perhaps we should be leaving soon."
They rang in 1930 from their balcony, beneath a full moon. The soot-covered rooftops of London were spread out before them, and couples danced in the street.
A few days later, he found her lazing in the bathtub reading A Room of One's Own.
"What do you think Sherlock Holmes would have been like if he'd been a woman?" she asked as she flicked bubbles from her toes.
"Infuriating," he said, and handed her a towel.
"What have you got against heroines, Jack?"
"They're always running away."
Her head was always filled with crimes and potential suspects, while Jack enjoyed his indefinite holiday. At home, they played gramophone records in the parlour and drank expensive China tea, but London was a playground for criminals, and she loved saving the day. She wore sparkling frocks and ran through the backstreets, trying not to trip on the cobblestones. When she returned to the house limping one evening, he bandaged her ankle and told her she'd been brave. It almost sounded genuine, the way he'd said it.
Laid up from chasing criminals, they went to see Anna Christie at the pictures. As they were leaving the cinema, he said, "I think I prefer silent films."
She laughed. "I quite liked hearing Garbo's voice."
He shook his head and said, "But now the mystery's gone."
"You've always been a sucker for a mystery," she giggled, resting her head on his shoulder.
He ruffled her hair with his fingers. "I should like to solve another case in Melbourne, before I'm old and grey."
Her ankle healed in time, and it finally stopped raining. London was draped in a thick covering of fog, and she found herself having an increasingly hard time remembering the sun. Sometimes when she left their house at dawn with a revolver in her pocket, she contemplated asking him to join her. The two of them worked well here, but not as well as they had before. She knew he was staying here for her, staying up late waiting for her in case she bolted.
ON THE FIRST DAY IN MARCH, when the tulips started to bloom, she stumbled in at gone midnight with blood on her arm. Jack was there waiting for her in the parlour, reading yesterday's copy of The Times. He looked at the stained sleeve of her coat, and she could tell he was wondering what to say.
"Did you catch him?" he eventually asked as he stood up from his chair. He handed her a half-eaten biscuit and said, "Dot sent a letter. She says she and Hugo are expecting a child."
She wiped the biscuit crumbs from her mouth. "How delightful. The suspect fled the scene."
He placed his hand on the small of her back and pulled her towards him. She was startled by the unexpected gesture, and stared into his eyes. He was good at this, she thought, good at holding her close, at stopping her from running away.
"I sold the aeroplane," she said between kisses. "I thought you might be afraid of flying. Shall we take the ship home?"
~* fin.