Doing the Rounds

It had been one of the quieter nights, a small mercy in the wake of the previous months of the Blitz. A vicious northerly wind had pushed the bombers back towards their own country near to midnight, leaving England to snatch a precious few more hours of sleep before his aide William came in to inform him that France was on the phone and needed help. After that, the aching in his chest hadn't subsided enough to let him fall back into unconsciousness, so he'd busied himself doing something that probably wasn't important, but felt like it was something that needed doing, until the sun peeped over the horizon.

"Will!"

"Yes, sir?" His aide's blonde head popped around the door.

"I'm going out for a walk. You may accompany me if you wish." He winced. That sounded far too much like a formal order. Obviously the nights of little sleep – not to mention the days of paperwork, meetings, and helping to clear up London - were catching up with him.

"Yes, sir." William seemed to deal with it just fine, though. Maybe this was just how England – how Britain - had been acting these past few months? England couldn't remember. "I'll get your coat."

"Don't bother," the older man answered, standing up from his desk and attempting to stretch without dislodging any of the bandages carefully wrapped across his chest. "It's not that cold now."

"As you wish, sir."

.

In fact, it was quite cold; the northerly wind hadn't completely died from the night before, and there was a bleakness to the sky that chilled the heart. England's house was near the edge of London, where the bombers had yet to reach – they were more interested in taking down the docks along the Thames – but the two men didn't have to walk far before they saw the first new victims of the airborne wreckers. In the dim dawn light, it was all too easy to see the damage that had been wrought by the large fire bombs that had landed along the street, gutting houses and factories alike, and paving the road with a layer of rubble. England stopped in front of what had once been a row of eighteenth-century townhouses and stared at the remains, as if trying to imprint the ruin and downfall of his heart into his mind, to never forget what he was fighting for.

"Sir, are you sure this is a good idea?" William began, then saw the expression on his master's face. This was England in a towering rage, and keeping it under control only through the depths of his love for his people and his cities.

"Is it not enough to kill my people on the battlefield?" he said softly. "Must they also attack my women and children?"

"That's... that's the price of war, sir." William said, equally quietly.

"I know. And... I suppose we did bomb them first. Just... not like this." England tore his eyes away from the wreckage of the houses and focused instead on the people who were slowly emerging onto the streets, many yawning in the early air. A couple of them came up the road towards the nation and his servant, eyes sad and resigned at the sight of the flattened homes.

"Those Boche have really done it for us this time," one woman commented to William, who looked slightly surprised to be addressed. "At least the kiddies were out."

"You knew the people living here?" England asked.

"Aye, and good neighbours they were too. Our young 'uns were always out playing with the Ashford lads from number 46, and the Salways from number 50 were wonderful generous with the tea invites, even with rationing as it is. Wonder what'll happen to the little 'uns now?"

"It'll be alright in the end," England sighed, but William could see that he didn't believe a word he was saying.

"How 'bout you two?" the second woman asked, her voice suddenly sharp with suspicion. "Not signed up yet, strapping young lads like you?"

England gave a harsh bark of laughter. "My dear lady, I signed up long, long ago, and trust me, I've seen my share of fighting. I've seen more than I ever wish to see again."

The first woman looked sympathetic. "Got sent home wounded, did you, dearie?"

"Something like that." William interrupted, hedging before England could say something too nation-ish, which he had a habit of doing when reminded of the horrors of twenty-five years previous. England still referred to himself in the collective when he spoke of that – it was his way of dealing with it. It was still too much for him to say I fought, I killed. Always it was we. Spreading the cost, the blame, the pain.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

There was a sudden bell ringing from the end of the street closest to them, and the little group looked around to see a large cart with a number of metal containers on the back, pulled by a very bored-looking brown horse. The driver drew to a halt at the turn of the street and jumped out of the cart, walking over to join the four opposite the demolished houses.

"So it was you who got hit, then?" he asked, with the slightest hint of a burr in his voice. "Me and the missus were wonderin' last night what with 'em hittin' so close. Salways, was it?"

"And the Ashfords," the first woman answered.

"Well, if that isn't a cryin' shame," the driver sighed. "There's four crates of milk needin' deliverin' along this street and if Ashford's gone I don't know who'll do it. Me hoss can't make it down 'ere, not with that there rubble, and I've fifteen more crates to deliver before nine..."

"I'll do it." The quiet voice of England cut across the man's tirade with more clarity than if the great bell in the clock tower above the House of Parliament had started ringing again. "Just tell me what to do."

The milk delivery man – for who else could he be? - blinked, then glanced at William, whose eyes were round and wide with surprise. "If... if you say so," the delivery man began.

"I do say so." Now England's voice was sharp with the strength of thousands of years of command and obedience expected. All in the vicinity automatically straightened their spines at his tone.

"Well... it's just this street – all up an' down to those poplars at the other end, see?" The milkman managed to explain. "One milk bottle at every front door, or as close as you can get to it, but two fer even numbers twenty to thirty, and fer twenty-seven too. Oh, and you... um... might want to cover up your suit."

England glanced down at himself. He hadn't realised upon leaving the house that he was wearing one of the smarter suits he owned, and now he frowned at William, who gave him the signal they had organised for important meeting later and then grinned sheepishly when England rolled his eyes.

"I've got a spare coat in the cart that'll stop the dust getting on it," the man began, then suddenly did a double-take and stared. His face lost all colour and, very quietly, he added, "Sir."

William was confused for a moment, glancing between the milkman and England. Then all at once he noticed it. Of course. It wasn't that England looked like a gentleman (though he did). It wasn't even that he looked like he was one of the gentry offering to do the job of the working-class (though he was). England was a nation, and without realising it he had let his true age bleed into his eyes as he saw his people still refusing to give up on him. And if the eyes are the windows to the soul, the soul of England was something terrifying indeed. It demanded the utmost respect, and the utmost love, because for nothing less than that would his armies be marching once more across Europe to defend against yet another world-wide threat when England himself wanted it so little.

No wonder the milkman was staring.

Ignoring the chaos he had inadvertently caused, England strode over to the cart and pulled out the white coat. It fastened snugly over his suit, though it was clear that he wasn't really a milkman. With brisk efficiency he picked up a wire crate of milk bottles and turned back to the delivery man.

"One bottle to each door, except in the twenties?" he asked, just to make sure.

"Yes," the other confirmed. "Thanks fer helpin', sir. You've saved me bacon, sir, an' that's a fact. Saved me hoss a good long journey too, if I know anythin'."

"Sir, are you sure about this?" William began, finally managing to voice what he'd been thinking ever since England volunteered. But England just looked him straight in the face, and didn't say anything. After so many years, he knew that William would be able to read the answer in his expression. When William finally dropped his eyes, England turned smartly and set off down the street, crate of precious milk swinging carefully from one hand.

"And sir?" the milkman called after him. "It's good to see you're still goin' strong, sir."

If he hadn't been English – if he hadn't been England – he would have allowed the smile he could feel under the surface to light up his face and the street. But as it was, the stiff upper lip applied to every emotion, good or bad, and he remained in control.

He picked his way over the rubble, crate of milk balancing him over the most difficult parts. From inside bomb-shelters and houses (sometimes under houses) his people were emerging onto the street.

It wasn't just his Londoners, those loyal souls at the heart of him. Plymouth was waking up now, people gathering together their broken and scattered possessions in order to mend them. Southampton, his tiny little port town – alright, his big port town – was following, dazed but very much alive, workers already heading down to the workshops to make sure that the precious Spitfire parts were still intact. Liverpool, Bristol, Birmingham... all of the cities and towns were just getting on with it, sorting things out, offering tea to whoever looked like they needed it, and even those who didn't.

Keeping calm, carrying on, doing him proud.

And he was right there in their midst, doing everything in his power to help and protect the people he was proud to call his.

.

He didn't realise that there had been a man with a camera there until the following day, when William placed the morning newspaper next to him at breakfast, and England saw his own picture taking up the front cover, wearing the coat, hair smoothed down (for once) with exertion from clambering over those countless piles of rubble, and swinging that crate of milk bottles in one hand.

William was giving him a strange look, almost as if he was afraid of what England's response was going to be. After all, it was the first time that anyone had succeeded in taking a photograph of the nation – of any nation, actually – and get it published in a national newspaper. "Sir? Is... will it be alright?"

But England just gave him his customary nod and went back to his breakfast. "That will be all, William, thank you."

Not even William was allowed to see that tiniest hint of a smile in his eyes.

Missus – Mrs, meaning wife.

hoss – horse. Vaguely Cockney, but not really.

Based on the famous photograph of the wartime milkman, which makes up the cover for this fic.

Link to full-sized picture: www. museumsyndicate item. php?item=56933

The story goes that the "milkman" in the photo isn't actually a milkman, but for years and years no-one knew who he really was. So why shouldn't England be out helping to keep his cities running as normally as possible in the middle of such destruction? There is no way on earth that he would allow himself to submit to whatever pain the bombs put him through at night and remain helpless at home whilst his people were up and about, keeping everything running smoothly when half the city was in ruins.