'In The Bleak Midwinter'
or
'The London I Love'
Early January 1944
Aldbourne, Wiltshire
"Louise, are you out of bed yet?"
Eleanor's patient voice came faintly from the hall, floating up the stairs and along the landing. Louise, burrowed under the bedclothes with her face buried in the pillow, woke with a start and her eyes shot open.
"Yeah, I'm up!" she called back, and flung back the covers, hissing as the cold air met her skin. "Just coming!"
There was no time to wash; she lunged for the wardrobe, flinging her pyjamas behind her, and grabbed her Class A uniform. She hopped around the room as she tried to button up her trousers and pull on her socks at the same time.
"Breakfast's ready!"
Louise rummaged through the chest of drawers for her necktie, turfing out her shirts and jumpers. Her tie was nowhere to be found. "Oh, shit—"
"Louise, are you coming down?"
"Yeah, give me two seconds!"
She buckled her belt after tucking in her shirt, giving the brass a quick polish on her sleeve, and pulled on her jacket. Then, darting around the bedroom, she attempted to locate her tie—it was found a moment later, looped through one of the hangers in the wardrobe. Louise glanced in the mirror and fastened her tie around her neck, running a hand through her hair and hoping it would do as she pinned it back. She took the stairs two at a time and hurled herself into the kitchen, where Eleanor was waiting with a saucepan and bowl.
"It's porridge today," she announced.
"Oh, lovely," Louise said, sliding into a seat beside George, dressed in his Sunday best. "How are you both this morning?"
"Very well, thanks, love," Eleanor said, putting a bowl of porridge in front of Louise. "And you? Did you sleep well?"
Louise attempted to speak through a mouthful of porridge, but desisted when the older woman fixed her with a stern look. "Sorry," she mumbled, swallowing. "Uh, yeah, I slept well. Thanks."
"Good," Eleanor said. "Now, could I ask you to hurry a little, please? We're running late."
"Sorry," Louise said thickly, and made haste with her breakfast.
George winked at Louise as she finished her breakfast and screeched the chair back over the tiles, taking her bowl to the sink. She had just enough time to go upstairs and brush her teeth, which she did, and splash her face with water as well.
"Louise!" Eleanor called, exasperated by now.
She hurried downstairs, pulling her cap out of her pocket. "What's the rush?" she asked innocently, rubbing the toes of her boots on the back of her trousers to shine them up.
George offered Eleanor his arm, and Louise fell into step beside them as they walked out of the cottage into a dull winter morning. A bitter wind whipped around them; Louise stuck her hands under her arms—not daring to put them in pockets, just in case an officer or N.C.O. spotted her and put her on report. There was a light layer of frost on the village green, sparkling even in the absence of a pale sun, and the air was fresh and cold. The three of them headed for the church: they pushed open the gate, and walked up the path lined with ancient gravestones and in through the old wooden door. There were a few pews already occupied by villagers, but they were not late, as Eleanor had feared.
Louise, George, and Eleanor went to their usual pew, murmuring a quiet greeting to Mrs Marshall and her daughter, Mary—Louise stopped to ruffle Mary's son's hair, and ask after her husband, who was on naval destroyers somewhere—as they sat next to them. She felt the cold wood of the pew through her uniform and shuffled uncomfortably, as George nudged her arm.
"Look," he said quietly, pointing over to the door, where a particularly portly woman named Mrs Miller had just come in. "'Tis a wonder she didn't take the hinges off."
Louise snorted, and looked down at her hands, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably with suppressed laughter.
"What is it, dear?" Eleanor asked, leaning past George who was looking innocently at the ceiling.
"Nothing," the younger woman replied, hitching a neutral expression onto her face, and looking away to smile blithely at the walls.
Louise inhaled deeply to steady herself, and smelled the watery scent of cold stone and the seasonal flowers in a stone trough near the altar at the front of the church. The translucent stained-glass windows set colour pooling over the tiled floor and catching on the sculpted embellishments on the arches; she glanced about her surroundings and calmed.
A few moments later, the Reverend walked up the aisle to the altar, clutching his leather-bound prayer book to his chest. Louise settled back in her seat as he welcomed the villagers, and got stuck into the service. He was on top form that morning, she thought: within a matter of minutes his sermon had rendered several members of the congregation practically comatose. She let her mind wander and tried not to feel too guilty about it.
There was a noticeable and suspicious absence of her fellow paratroopers in the church, she realised with a frown. Louise glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder to check the pews behind her: there were a few Americans sat in their Class A uniforms, but none of her friends. She frowned again, wondering if she had missed a special parade—but no, if there was something on, the soldiers behind her wouldn't have been there.
Growing more confused by the second, she tried to turn her attention back to the droning sermon. Exactly fifty-seven seconds later, she was distracted by a spider's web glistening in the apex of one of the arches. She repressed a groan. There was just something about trying to focus on Thwaites' customary fire-and-brimstone sermon—lacking in the necessary vigour to make it effective—that she simply found impossible.
Next to her, George sneezed rather loudly, and she felt, rather than saw, several heads turning in their direction. He patted his pockets for a handkerchief, and then got up and squeezed past her. As he opened the church door to let himself out, a shaft of blank sunlight stretched across the tiles. Louise glanced at Eleanor, who shrugged a trifle too nonchalantly and quickly turned back to the front.
What on earth is going on? she thought.
At the sound of the organ wheezing out of the first bar of a hymn and pews creaking, she got to her feet and rifled through the pages of the hymn book. The voices of the village women rose tremulously, unbalanced due to the lack of men in the congregation. Louise once again wondered where the other paratroopers had got to, a thought that kept her occupied through the remainder of the service—and, with this thought, she completely forgot about George.
After it was all over, and they had said goodbye to Reverend Thwaites at the door along with the other members of the congregation, Louise looped her arm through Eleanor's and the two women walked back down the path. Eleanor paused to look at a gravestone, taking her time, and Louise raised an eyebrow.
"Anyone special?" she asked, blowing on her hands.
"Hmm?" Eleanor said. "Oh, no. I was just looking at the date." She smiled at Louise, and linked arms again, checking her watch as she did so. "It was a lovely service."
"Was it?" Louise muttered before she could censor herself, and coughed awkwardly. "I mean—yes. Yes, it was."
The two women passed through the rusty gate and walked along the row of cottages that bordered one side of the green. In summertime, they were quintessentially English: gleaming whitewash, iridescent green shrubbery in the garden, and roses trailing up by the front door. Now, however, in the dull winter light, they looked rather forlorn. As if to accentuate the point, a lone bird sang somewhere, its voice the only sound in the freezing air.
"After you, love," Eleanor said as they reached the cottage door, smiling widely.
Louise returned the smile, somewhat bemusedly, and said: "Thanks."
She stepped onto the front path of the cottage and reached for the cold metal latch, which burned her already-icy fingers. The door creaked a little as she pushed it open and took a step inside.
Then, several things happened at once.
As Louise moved down the hall, Eleanor came in behind her and shut the door. Louise pulled off her cap and flung it onto the side table. There was a muffled sound from the living room, and a quiet hushing noise.
One particular gesture outweighed all others, however, in importance and spectacle. All of a sudden, a group of paratroopers, bright-eyed and clean-shaven and dressed in their best uniforms, jumped out of the living room and kitchen doorways, and, in one loud, joyful, and utterly unexpected voice, said:
"Surprise!"
Stunned, Louise took a step backwards, and the house fell silent for several seconds. At length, Louise remarked, "Well, now I know why you weren't at church."
And then Don Malarkey practically skipped forward to hug her, and the voices started up again, launching into a chorus of 'Happy Birthday'.
Louise clapped her hands to her mouth, beaming so widely that her cheeks began to hurt, and gazed around at all the familiar faces. Eleanor and George were there, of course, looking remarkably pleased with themselves. Her best friends: the inseparable trio of Don, Skip, and Alex; Bill Guarnere, a wide grin on his face, Joe Toye, and Chuck, too; George, who swooped down on her to demand a hug, followed by Floyd, who lifted her into the air. Joe came forward to kiss her on the cheek. She spotted Shifty standing at the back, and she waved at him, laughing.
There was a knock at the door, and Eleanor went to answer it, letting in Carwood Lipton and Gene Roe, bright drops of rain clinging to their shoulders.
"Sorry we're late," Lipton said, wiping his feet on the mat and removing his cap. "Good morning, Mrs Reid. Happy birthday, Lou!"
"Thank you," she said, grinning at them both.
Eleanor clasped her hands together. "Come into the living room, all of you," she urged, ushering the paratroopers through.
The men stood back for Louise to go first, and followed eagerly as she took in the sight in the living room. A large banner with 'Happy Birthday Louise' on hung above and across the fireplace. On the kitchen table which had been moved into the room for the occasion stood an assortment of food that the troopers had donated—plates of cakes and sandwiches—and in the centre was a large ornate cardboard cake, underneath which was a small fruit cake made with well-wisher's fruit and egg rations. A candle had been stuck into the top.
Louise looked quite moved as she was led to the cake and told to blow out the candle.
"Have a wish!" someone said, and Louise screwed up her eyes and wished. Everyone applauded, and Eleanor removed the cardboard top so that Louise could cut it.
Chuck, Luz, and Tab sat on the low cupboard by the door; the rest of them squeezed themselves onto the four chairs, a stool that George Reid produced from somewhere, and the arm of the sofa. Eleanor put the wireless on, and they began to eat, passing the plates around. Louise smiled at the men seated around the table.
"So whose idea was this?" she asked.
Lipton glanced up at Eleanor and returned the older woman's smile. "It was a collaboration," he told her.
"Oh, I see," Louise replied, her smile widening. "Thank you, so much. This is lovely."
"Do you wanna open your presents?" Skip Muck asked.
Her eyes widened. "You didn't have to get me anything! I—"
"Yeah, yeah," George interrupted, revealing a fair-sized package from behind his back. "Here you go, sweetheart. Happy birthday, from all of us."
Louise took it from him and balanced it on her knees, and unwrapped it carefully, revealing a few more individually wrapped items. "Oh, boys," she said fondly, picking up one of the little presents. She removed the paper and took out a small blue bottle of perfume, and gasped. "Soir de Paris?" she exclaimed. "How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"I ran out of this perfume back in the States—and it's my favourite, I've been trying to find a new bottle for ages," she explained. "I love it." She dabbed a little on her wrist and raised it to her nose. "Mmm. Gorgeous. Oh, thank you so much!"
Chuck slid one of the other packages to her next. "This was actually Doc's idea," he told her.
Louise took it from him and unwrapped it: a small box of tea fell out into her hands. "Tea!" she said, bringing it up to her nose. "Oh, I've missed this smell." The group of Americans laughed at her, and she shrugged, smiling. "Hey, where did you even get this?"
The Californian tapped his nose. "We have our ways."
She grimaced, knowing exactly where they had found such a precious commodity, but then laughed. "Thank you," she said, clasping Gene's hand. "I'm going to really enjoy this."
"You're welcome," the medic said, a rare smile flitting over his features.
Louise reached for a square-shaped present next, and took the paper off. "Soap," she laughed, and fixed them all with a look. "Perfume, now this—are you trying to tell me something?" They all laughed as her fingers settled on a soft parcel in the centre of the paper.
"That is from Lieutenants Winters, Nixon, and Welsh," Lipton explained.
She went quiet as she unwrapped a pair of silk stockings. "Good Lord," she whispered, sliding them through her fingers and delighting in the feel of them, magnificently smooth and delicate. She glanced up at Lipton, and grinned. "Bit wild for Lieutenant Winters, isn't it?"
"I think it was probably the others' idea."
"Oh, I'm sure." Louise carefully rolled them up again and replaced them in the paper, and said, "I'll go and thank them as soon as I can. Oh my."
Eleanor got up from her seat and came over to Louise's seat, and kissed her on the cheek. "Here's a little something from the old man and I," she said, pressing a large rectangular present into her hands.
Louise took the paper off to reveal a book—'Pied Piper', by Nevil Shute. She made a small sound of delight and put her arms around the other woman's shoulders. "Nell, you're the best," she said. "Thank you."
"Well, you like that other book of his so much," Eleanor explained. "George found this in the bookshop in Swindon." She put a hand to Louise's forehead and smoothed back a curl of hair. "Happy birthday, love."
"Thanks, Nell."
Eleanor pushed herself to her feet again. "Now, has everyone finished eating?" she asked. The paratroopers nodded, and she went around to clear the plates away.
"I'll help you," Louise said, putting her presents carefully on the seat next to her and jumping up. She gathered a few empty plates in her hand and followed Eleanor out to the kitchen.
The older woman turned to her, and smiled. "Are you having fun?"
"I really am," Louise replied. "This is the best birthday I've ever had."
"Well, you're only twenty-five once," Eleanor laughed, depositing the plates on the worktop. "It's good to see you smiling."
The two women walked back to the doorway of the living room, arms around each other's waists, and stood watching the men inside. Soft music filtered from the wireless, over which Skip, Don, and Alex were squabbling good-naturedly; winter sunlight was streaming in through the curtains. By the table, Luz was recounting a story that had Floyd and Chuck in stitches—next to them stood Gene Roe and Lipton, talking quietly. Shifty was chatting shyly with George Reid; Joe was listening in and occasionally offering a remark that made the older man chuckle with delight. And in the corner were Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye, discussing something in low tones.
Eleanor said: "Will you remind me of your friends' names? They did introduce themselves, but I'm afraid I've forgotten."
"That's fine," Louise replied, "of course." She nodded over to the side of the room. "Malarkey, Muck, and Penkala—the mortar squad—are inseparable. Don Malarkey—he's the one with red hair—is from Oregon, which is over on the west coast; Skip's from the state of New York on the east coast. Born three thousand miles apart and now they're attached at the hip."
"Skip?"
"Skip Muck. His real name's Warren, after President Harding. So, understandably," she added, "he doesn't want to be called that." She pointed to the third member of the group. "That's Alex Penkala. He's fairly new to the company, but he fitted in with the other two right away. They're like The Three Stooges—only funnier."
Eleanor laughed. "I see."
Louise turned a little. "Another funny man is George Luz, just there."
"Oh, yes, I remember him. And the boy with is Floyd—oh, Floyd Talbert, yes?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"He's a handsome boy."
Louise snorted. "Yeah. He likes to think so, too. Bit of a flirt, is our Floyd Talbert. But he's a good soldier, one of the best in the company," she added. "He's my best friend." Looking over at the three men, she missed the glance that Eleanor gave her. "The other soldier is Chuck Grant," she went on. "He's also a fine soldier."
"He's rather easy on the eyes, too."
"Nell," Louise laughed, bumping her hip against Eleanor's, "you're scandalous." Smiling, Louise continued. "That's Doc Roe—Gene Roe—who is from Louisiana, down in the south. He's our medic. He knows his stuff, but his real gift is calming people and soothing them. And Carwood Lipton is with him. Lip's sort of the mother hen of the company."
"How do you mean?"
"He looks after everyone," she explained, and Eleanor nodded. She gestured to Shifty. "There's Darrell Powers—we all call him Shifty. He's a marksman, a real sharpshooter: he could take the wings off a fly at a hundred yards," she said. "Thank goodness he's on our side. And standing next to him is Joe Liebgott. He's sort of the translator of the company, and is a good shot, too—he's no Shifty, but he's good. And finally, Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye."
"I remember Sergeant Guarnere. He's from—Philadelphia, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is."
"And what about those officers that gave you the stockings?" Eleanor asked.
"Lieutenant Dick Winters is my platoon leader; Lieutenant Lewis Nixon is the intelligence officer," Louise explained. "And Lieutenant Welsh, Harry Welsh, commands First Platoon."
"It was very kind of them to give you a birthday present."
Louise nodded. "It was, yes. But that's the type of men they are—the type of men they all are."
Over on the other side of the room, George Reid wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and said: "Louise. Come over here a moment, lass—did your old commanding officer really let all those cows loose?"
She nodded and laughed, making her way over to him. "I see Luz is filling you in," she said amusedly, standing next to Talbert. "Yes, Captain Sobel did. We all said we should just let him loose with a pair of wire-cutters and see how the Germans fare against an army of livestock."
Eleanor Reid looked on as her husband collapsed into fresh laughter, watched by the four grinning paratroopers. Louise looked up at Talbert and said something: Eleanor could not hear their conversation, but she noticed the way their bodies turned inwards, attuned to one another. She smiled to herself and stepped inside the room.
It was late afternoon by the time the party came to an end. They'd spent an enjoyable few hours talking and laughing, dancing to the music from the wireless, drinking tea, and regaling Eleanor and George with tales of their training. Eleanor in particular found Luz's impressions of Captain Sobel hilarious, and couldn't quite believe the stories were true. The paratroopers all assured her, hands on hearts, that they were. George, in turn, told the Americans about a sergeant that he'd known during his time in the Army who sounded suspiciously similar to their Sergeant Evans.
At around four o'clock, the paratroopers buttoned up their jackets and gathered up their garrison caps, and said their farewells to the Reids, thanking them for a wonderful afternoon. Louise showed them all out to the door, embracing them and thanking them once again for their presents. She watched as, one by one, the troopers stepped out into the fading light, their figures blurring into the gloaming.
Floyd Talbert was the last to leave. He turned to Louise at the door and waited for the other men to walk off across the green. Pulling something out of his pocket, he said: "I know the other fellas have given their presents to you already, but this one's just from me."
"Oh, Floyd…" Louise said quietly, taking the small paper box from him. "You really didn't have to."
He shrugged. "Twenty-five years is a special birthday," he said.
"Don't," Louise groaned. "I feel old."
Floyd grinned. "Are you going to open it or what?"
Louise nodded, and smiled, and couldn't help but gasp as something gold on a long, fine chain slid out of the box and into her palm, the chain coiling around it. She took it in her now-trembling fingers and turned it over: the face of the pendant was intricately engraved with spiralling vines, and flowers that she recognised as roses.
"Oh," she breathed. "The flowers—"
"English roses," he said, "just like you." His fingers brushed against hers as he leant forwards and said, "There's a little catch, there—if you push that in…"
She did so, and the lid clicked open to reveal an ornate compass, engraved around the outside with more vines, and with an elaborate compass rose in the centre.
"Floyd, this is gorgeous…"
"You probably don't remember… but on our last leave to London, we passed a little shop and you saw it in the window," he explained.
"No, no, I do remember," she said, looking up at him. "You said you'd left your wallet in the café and went back."
Floyd grinned at her. "Yeah."
Louise glanced back down at the compass again. "Thank you," she said, "so very much. It's exquisite."
"You're welcome," he said, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. "Happy birthday, Lou," he said into her ear.
Louise watched as he smiled once more, opened the door and disappeared after the other men into the blurry grey light of early dusk. She stood until she could no longer see his figure in the mist, and then she shut the front door, turning back into the house. Eleanor, who had just come out of the living room, came over to her.
"What's that, Louise?" she asked.
"It's a compass," Louise replied, holding it up for the other woman to see. It caught the light as it spun round slowly on the chain. "Floyd gave it to me."
Eleanor turned it over in her fingers. "It's beautiful, love."
"Yeah, it is." Louise gave her head a little shake and said: "Can I do anything to help you? Clearing up, or—"
"No, don't be silly," Eleanor said, "I'll do it. I'll get the old man to help me. You just relax and enjoy the rest of your birthday."
Louise's smile grew broader as she kissed Eleanor on the cheek and went upstairs, holding her presents to her chest and humming to herself. As she walked into her bedroom and laid the gifts on the dressing table, arranging them neatly, she began to sing.
"Heaven can wait, this is paradise…"
February 1944
London, England
The band in the dim, noisy, smoke-filled club launched into an upbeat jazz song, and the dancers on the floor swung into a jive, spinning and jumping across the crowded floor. The men threw their girlfriends onto their hips and over their shoulders, sending faded floral dresses flaring and carefully-curled hair bobbing. Sitting to the side, Louise tapped her foot to the rhythm and waggled her shoulders a little as the music rose and rang in her ears.
A poke to her shoulder told her that George Luz had returned with the plates of food for himself and the other troopers. She moved over, making space for him as he slid into the booth and set down a couple of plates on the scratched table.
Louise gave the thing on her plate a dubious look. The question, she thought, was whether it was looking back.
"What the hell is that?" Malarkey asked.
"Fish and chips, apparently," George said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the music. He turned to Louise. "It looks fucking disgusting."
"I know," she replied. "Luz, this is the first time we've had leave in months," she said after a moment, "and I don't want to be writhing in culinary agony all weekend."
Skip Muck leant over the table. "I'm starving," he announced, "but not enough for this."
Louise pushed her plate away. "I've got an idea," she announced. Five pairs of eyes fixed on hers, and she grinned.
Twenty minutes later, the group of paratroopers—Luz, Talbert, Liebgott, Malarkey, and Muck, with Louise ahead of them—found themselves ambling down a street of expensive-looking townhouses in Mayfair, which was separated from the next by a stretch of grass bordered with wrought-iron railings. They followed Louise, who was striding on purposefully and looking from left to right, her heels tapping on the asphalt.
"So where is this club?" Floyd asked.
In sudden realisation, Louise spun around to face them. "Well," she said. "It's actually… over there." She pointed across the grass to a large white building. "The thing is," she went on, grimacing a little guiltily, "this street is a dead-end. So I'm afraid we're going to have to turn around and take the next street along."
"Oh, for crying out loud," Luz muttered.
"Sorry—"
"No, it's OK," Joe Liebgott said, coming forward and patting her shoulder. "We can find another way."
He turned to the railings and tested their strength, and began to launch himself over.
"No!" Louise hissed. "That's private property; what are you doing?"
Joe grinned wickedly. "Using my initiative," he said. Following his example, the other troopers jumped over and gathered on the grass. Joe swung his legs over the railings in one fluid motion, turned to her, and said: "See? Easy."
"Oh, look at you, G.I. Joe," Louise muttered sarcastically.
"Come on, Lou."
Louise gestured vaguely. "Joe, I'm wearing a dress," she said desperately.
"Ah, we won't look, Lou," Floyd said, grinning.
She opened her mouth to retort, but then closed it, and sighed. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, I guess," she said, gripping the railings and clambering over. Being much shorter than the men, and restricted in her movements by her clothes, the action was rather clumsy, but she straightened up with as much dignity as she could manage and walked briskly across the private grass.
The paratroopers repeated the action the other side, and walked up the street to cross over in front of the club's door. An elderly doorman, standing outside, puffed up his chest as they approached.
"I'm afraid I won't be able to let you in, lads," he said.
Louise stepped forward, tucking her purse under her arm. "Not even me?" she asked, and beamed. "Hello, Albert."
"My goodness! Miss Louise Johnson." The doorman looked her up and down, a grin lighting up his wrinkled face. "Where have you been?"
"Ah, you wouldn't believe me even if I told you. Are we allowed in?"
"For you, Miss Johnson, anything."
"Oh, thank you," she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek, "you're a darling. Have a good evening, won't you?"
"You too, Miss."
Louise turned and beckoned to her friends, and the crowd of them walked through the blacked-out doors into a sensually lit lobby. As an attendant took her coat, faint swing music came from down the spiral staircase, and it was in this direction that the troopers headed, their hands sliding down the smooth banister as they descended. The music grew louder and the lights more dazzling, reflecting off the glittering mirrors and the polished dancefloor.
She smiled at them all as a waiter came across to them. "Hello," she said. "Would you possibly have a table for—uh—six?"
The waiter nodded graciously. "Follow me, madam."
George and Tab came up on either side of her. "Madam," they drawled in unison, and she elbowed them.
Louise followed the man around the dancefloor to a large round table. He pulled out chairs for them and they sat down, the Americans looking somewhat overwhelmed and Louise regarding them amusedly as she smoothed out the skirt of her grey dress. The waiter took their drinks orders and swept away to fetch them.
"What is this joint?" Joe asked her as soon as the waiter had walked out of earshot.
"Goddamn Buckingham Palace, probably," Skip Muck muttered, taking in the potted plants and sparkling chandelier.
She laughed. "I used to come here a lot when I was stationed at Biggin Hill," she told them. "Some of the other officers and I would make up a party and come here to dance."
The waiter returned a moment later carrying a tray of drinks, which even had ice in them, chinking gently against the glass. He placed them on the table and bowed away.
"Cheers, I guess," Louise said, holding up her gin and Italian. She smiled as five glasses clinked against hers under the spangled lights of the club.
"Alright, who wants what?" Louise said, about an hour later. Joe made to protest, but she shook her head at him. "No, it's my turn," she insisted. "Same again, then, fellas?"
"Sure, yeah."
"Thanks, Lou."
"My pleasure," she said, getting to her feet and picking up her purse from the table. After making her way across the crowded dancefloor, she gave her order to the girl behind the bar, who nodded and turned away to fetch the drinks.
Louise shook back a stray lock of hair, taking a look around the club filled with men in uniform and girls in dated evening dresses, and felt a brief pang of envy. She glanced down at her plain day dress and her scuffed heels, and, with a curious rippling sensation in her stomach, realised that she wouldn't have changed anything for the world. Smiling slightly at this revelation, her eyes moved from the dancefloor to the bar, coming to rest on a tall man a short distance away, wearing the insignia of a major. Louise swore under her breath and looked away quickly, but it was too late: the man let out a cry of acknowledgement and pushed his way over to her.
"My, is that you—Louise Johnson?"
Bugger.
She decided bluffing was certainly the best way forward. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
The tall major looked put out, his ruddy face falling a little, but then he laughed jovially. "Oh dear, old girl, don't you remember me?" he said. "Come on, think back to 1941—surely you haven't forgotten Scotland?"
Louise hesitated, and then cursed herself for doing so. He had got her, and now he knew it. So she swallowed, smiled weakly, and said, "Hello, Peter."
"There we go," he boomed. "I knew we'd get there in the end! Remember me now, don't you?"
"Lou, who is this guy?" came a voice from behind her.
She ignored the voice—Don's—and lifted her eyes to meet Peter's, giving him a cool stare. "Yes, Peter, I remember you."
The major didn't pick up on the iciness of her voice; instead, he seized her hand and pumped it up and down. Close to, she could smell the scent of whisky on his breath and grimaced.
"Lou, who is this?" Malarkey said again.
Louise's stomach churned. "Oh, well—uh, Don, this is an old… acquaintance of mine, Peter Brickhill."
The British man gave a snort of laughter. "Oh, do introduce me properly, old girl." He turned to the other American men, who had all come over when they had seen their friend looking mightily uncomfortable next to an unfamiliar face, and said: "I've known Louise here—" he put a hand on her shoulder; she flinched away— "since 1941. We worked together."
"For Christ's sake, Peter," Louise hissed.
"But I haven't seen her for quite a while," he went on, facing her again. "You know, the last I'd heard on the good old Baker Street grapevine, you'd done a bunk to America."
Louise turned her back on the paratroopers and said in a low voice: "I was assigned, Peter—and you bloody well know that. Come on: please, please, don't do this…"
"Oh, yes, of course," Peter said, nodding, "I do remember now."
"Hang on—did you say you worked together?" George demanded. "But you're in the Army, pal, and Lou was a nurse in the Air Force."
Peter turned a bleary face to the Americans, and then squinted at Louise, his eyes somewhat unfocused. He blinked. "Don't they know?"
"No," she said quietly through gritted teeth. "That's the thing about the Firm, Peter, and that little thing we signed called the 'Official Secrets Act'. It's secret. You can't tell anyone about it."
"The fuck is 'the Firm'?"
"Official Secrets Act?"
The confused voices of the Easy men seemed to echo around her, and Louise suddenly felt like weeping. Oh, God, make this stop.
"Sorry, old girl," Peter said, throwing back the rest of his whisky and not looking very sorry at all.
Talbert cleared his throat. "Could someone please explain what the hell's going on?"
"Don't you dare say another word," Louise ordered, jabbing a finger at Peter's face and then rummaging in her purse for a banknote. "You've done enough damage for one evening."
The major shrugged, swaying slightly. "I'm still surprised they hadn't found out. Bloody Yanks. Don't notice anything."
This personal crisis is now bordering on a diplomatic one. Brilliant.
Louise slammed the banknote on the counter, telling the barman that it was to cover the major's drinks. Sliding off the barstool, she took Peter under the arms and half-escorted, half-dragged him across the dancefloor and up the stairs. An attendant returned Peter's greatcoat and cap, and she shoved him out through the door and into the refreshingly-cool night.
"You were never this forward in Scotland," the major slurred.
"Peter, for once in your life: shut up." Louise stepped out and raised an arm to flag down a passing taxi, keeping a firm grip on Peter. "Take him to the nearest hotel," she told the cabbie, bundling Peter inside without ceremony. "Please make sure he goes in and gets a room for the night—escort him in, if you have to."
"Alright, miss."
Louise gave him a couple of banknotes. "Thank you." As the taxi drew away into the darkness, she exhaled shakily and passed a hand over her eyes.
"Louise?"
She squared her shoulders and turned to her friends, who had followed her outside and were standing in a huddle on the pavement. She tilted her chin and said, "Yes?"
"What the fuck just happened?"
Louise gave a hollow laugh, her hand sweeping her hair out of her eyes. "Peter's always been an idiot," she said. "He could never hold his liquor. A few whiskies, and the next thing you know he's on the floor spewing nonsense."
"Yeah, that didn't really sound like nonsense."
"It's nothing," she snapped.
"It was not nothing," Don argued. "C'mon, it's us here—you can talk about it!"
She shook her head. "I can't. I wish I could—it would make everything so much easier—but I can't."
"Bullshit," Joe said.
For the second time that evening, she felt as if she was going to burst into tears. "Just leave me alone," she said, walking off down the pavement, her hands still holding her head. It was as if it would burst if she let go.
"Louise—"
"Leave me alone, George," she snapped over her shoulder, her hands dropping to her side as she quickened her pace.
It took Louise over an hour to get her thoughts in order. She lay on her bed in the small bedroom of the hotel she and the other paratroopers had booked into, her mind racing: she went back over the events of the evening, establishing just what the Americans now knew, and thought about what she had to do next. Major Peter Brickhill: secret agent, saboteur, and all-round jerk—dealing with him would be simple. She would tell her S.O.E. superiors that he'd blown her cover and needed to be reprimanded. It was thinking about her American friends that got her stuck. Just what on earth was she supposed to say?
There was a knock on the door, and she said: "Who is it?"
"It's Floyd."
"What do you want?"
Even coming muffled through the door, he could tell her voice was shaky. "I just wanted to give your coat," he told her. "You left it in the club."
"Come in; the door's open."
Floyd Talbert pushed open the door, and switched on the light, taking in the sight of Louise lying on top of the bedcovers, her bare feet dangling over the edge. "Here it is," he said. "I seem to be making a habit of this, don't I?"
"Just hang it over the chair."
"OK," he said, folding the coat over the back of the chair. "So, uh," he began, "did you want to say… anything about what happened in the club?"
"For crying out loud: yes," she cried, sitting up. "God, yes, I want to talk about it! I want you to know—but you can't, because I can't tell you!"
Floyd nodded to himself, and tugged on his lower lip. "That would the, uh, Official Secrets Act, right?" he asked rhetorically. "Right. OK. So back in Toccoa," he went on, "when you told us you were working for the government, you meant… as a spy?" Louise was quiet, and her silence gave him all the confirmation he wanted. "Fuck," he blurted out. "Fuck."
"Stop." Louise stood up, and clasped her hands in front of her to stop the shaking. "My work is classified," she told him. "And that's all you and the others need to know."
"But—"
"No," she interrupted. "I cannot, and will not, tell you, because—" she crossed over to him; her breath tickled his skin as she breathed into his ear— "if you are captured by the Germans, they will use you to get to me." She swallowed. "My colleague—my friend—was interrogated and tortured for my name and whereabouts in 1941, I—"
"We wouldn't tell them anything," he murmured, trying to ignore the tingling sensation running down his spine.
She closed her eyes. "The Gestapo took him out into the town square and shot him against the wall because he wouldn't say anything. You'd prefer that ending?" She took a deep breath. "The less you know, the better. That way, if you were taken prisoner, they'd leave you alone."
And just as suddenly as she had leant forward, she drew back and stared at him. He knew she was waiting for a response, and said: "OK. OK, no more questions. I promise."
"Thank you," she breathed, and then turned away, signalling that the conversation was over. She busied herself with moving her possessions around on the bedside table.
He left the room and closed the door behind him.
March 1944
Aldbourne, Wiltshire
"Louise, are you alright?" The woman in question gulped and hummed a reply. "You know, it's OK to be nervous—"
"I'm not nervous."
"—it's OK."
"I'm not."
"OK, you're not nervous," Chuck Grant said. "That's good."
"Shall we just get on with it?"
"You need to actually get inside the jeep first, Lou."
"Right."
Chuck watched amusedly as she slipped gingerly into the driving seat of the jeep, as if afraid that it would speed off without warning. He raised his eyebrows. "And put your hands on the wheel," he prompted gently. Louise gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. "So the first thing we need to do," he said, "is start the engine. Can you do that?"
"I could if I knew how, dear," Louise retorted. She looked up and groaned as George, sitting on a nearby wall, gave her a girlish wave. "Oh, great. Now we've got company."
The Californian laughed distractedly, casting a look over his shoulder to where Don, Skip, and Alex Penkala were also watching. "It's OK," he said. "Just—just don't look behind you."
"Why?" Louise asked, starting to turn.
"No!" he yelled, and she faced back again, bemused.
"Calm down, Chuck. Jesus."
Rolling her eyes, she shifted in her seat and relaxed her grip on the steering wheel a little as Chuck pointed out how to start the engine. It was quite simple: there was a starter button that she had to press until the engine roared into life. Louise flinched a little as the engine thrummed and the jeep vibrated underneath her.
George wolf-whistled, and then burst out laughing as she gestured obscenely to him. "I can't believe you didn't know how to drive before, sweetheart!" he called.
"Keep on like that and I'll run you over," she shot back.
Despite her nervousness about learning to drive and George's teasing, Louise was beginning to enjoy herself. The day was fine: one of those rare mornings that declares itself as the beginning of spring, with an extravagance of warmth and light. After months of rain and frost and mist, the milder weather was a relief.
"Press the clutch down as far as it will go," Chuck said. "Bit more… there we go. Put it in first." Louise reached for the lever. "That's it—no! Fuck, that's the handbrake. We'll get to that in a minute. This is the gearstick."
"Sorry." Louise wiggled the gearstick into the correct position and sighed in relief.
"Step on the gas now, just a little," Chuck went on, "and keep your foot there—and now bring the clutch up a bit until both feet are level." He craned his neck over from the passenger seat. "OK. Now you're ready."
"What?"
"You're alright—take the handbrake off."
Louise took a deep breath and yanked the lever towards her, and couldn't help herself from squealing loudly as the jeep shot forward like a greyhound. She took her feet off the pedals in a panic and the vehicle ground to a halt with a grinding screech.
"Oh, Lou! You were doing fine," Chuck said, as George fell about laughing behind them. "OK, we'll try again. Next time, don't panic, just keep going."
Louise repeated the procedure carefully, and kept her head as the jeep moved off for the second time. The vehicle crept along the lane in first gear, until Chuck told her how to move into second, and then onto third. She managed that quite successfully, and started to smile as the vehicle gained speed, feeling a surge of confidence.
"Shit—Lou, brake."
"Huh?"
"Brake!" he said urgently. "Just brake—"
"Ah!" Louise gasped, slamming on the brake. The jeep jolted to a halt, smacking Chuck forwards against the windscreen.
"—slowly," he finished, wheezing. "Jesus Christ…"
Louise seized him by the shoulders. "Oh, God, Chuck, I'm sorry! Are you OK? I'm so sorry—"
"What's going on here?"
She looked up into the eerily neutral hazel eyes of Lieutenant Speirs, a platoon commander in Dog Company with a fierce reputation. He had materialised seemingly out of nowhere, and Louise gulped.
"That's why I told you to brake," Chuck coughed, testing his ribs. "The lieutenant was crossing the road."
Louise gazed up at the officer, wringing her hands. "Sergeant Grant was teaching me to drive," she explained weakly. "I figured it would be useful to learn now…"
Speirs regarded her, expressionless. "Forget the invasion," he said at last. "We should just send you over to France armed with a jeep."
She cringed as he turned on his heel and walked away, and then turned back to Chuck. "I'm so sorry," she said again. "I panicked."
"No shit."
Louise bit her lip. "Would it be better if you drove back to base?"
"Yeah, I think it would."
The two paratroopers swapped places, and Chuck drove them back to their starting point in silence; Louise sat in the passenger's seat, feeling absolutely wretched. George was waiting for them, and hopped off the wall as Chuck drew up and stopped the vehicle.
"Hey, honey," he said, "good day at the office?" Louise glared at him. "Shit, what happened?"
Chuck climbed out of the jeep. "Lou nearly ran over Lieutenant Speirs."
"What?" Luz looked from Chuck to Louise and back again for a moment, and then burst out laughing.
"It's not funny, George," Louise protested.
"It really is," he laughed. "You nearly flattened old Sparky. Jesus Christ…"
Eventually, Louise began to see the funny side, and began laughing too.
"What's up?"
She whirled around to face Joe, who had been passing by and had stopped at the sound of their laughter. "I just had my first driving lesson," she said. "Didn't I do well, Chuck?"
"Yeah," the Californian laughed. "You were swell. A real knockout."
George broke down into fresh sniggers as Joe gave a quick, insincere smile. "I pity the other drivers on the road," he said, before walking off without a backward glance.
When he was out of earshot, Louise turned to the two men. "OK, what the hell is with him?" she demanded. "He's been like this for days—either ignoring me completely, or being an asshole."
George met her eye and a look of understanding passed between them.
"Great," she muttered to herself, but shook her head, and looked up at Chuck with a grin. "Next time we'll go somewhere less busy," she said brightly, and he nodded, bumping her shoulder with his.
Late March 1944
Aldbourne, Wiltshire
Louise was irritated.
She stood in front of the dressing table, brushing her hair in the mirror, and told her reflection so. Her hair crackled as she brushed the same section over and over again, not realising what she was doing as her irritation worsened. She sighed shortly and stopped brushing, and gritted her teeth as she noticed that her hair now resembled a frizzy light-brown bush. Reaching into her washbag, she pulled out a few hairpins and pinned her hair back, smoothing it down as she twisted it into a roll at the nape of her neck.
Earlier that day, the company had been out in the field on exercise, and had split into groups to attempt a flanking manoeuvre on multiple fronts. Louise had found herself with about twenty others in a copse near Ramsbury.
"OK, Schmidt, you wanna tell the looey we're in position?" Joe muttered as they lay in a ditch with the objective just across the field.
"Who died and made you goddamn general?" George said, and Louise sniggered.
Liebgott had glared at him. "You bastards ain't taking it seriously," he shot back.
Louise had sighed and lounged back against the damp earth. "George, why don't you try Major Horton again? This exercise is such a waste of time."
George laughed. "Well, goddamn, if that ain't the best darned idea you've had all day," he began, drawling in a perfect imitation of the major. "Alright, boys—"
"Luz, will you shut your fucking mouth?" Joe snapped. "Johnson, stop fucking encouraging him."
She exchanged glances with George as Joe had moved on down the ditch, trying to find a better position for attack. Liebgott hadn't spoken to her for the rest of the day, and this was the reason for her exasperation.
Louise set her hairbrush down on the dressing table and looked at her reflection once more, fingers resting lightly on the wood next to her washbag and the jar of cold cream. She grabbed her jacket from the bedpost and slipped it on.
"Nell?"
"Yes, love?" Eleanor said as Louise met her in the hall.
"I'm just popping to the pub for a bit," Louise explained. "I won't be too long, but don't wait up. I'll see you later."
The older woman smiled. "Alright. Have fun."
"I will," the girl said, grinning, before letting herself out of the cottage. She put her cap on her head and crossed over the green to the pub, ducking behind the blackout curtain and pushing open the door.
"Lou!"
George Luz greeted her eagerly from across the pub floor; he was sitting with Floyd and Lipton underneath the poster for the officers' drinking club: 'The Keglers' Club'. Louise grinned to herself as she crossed over to him: it had been established in January with a loud initiation ceremony, with Lieutenant Nixon—of course—taking the role of Sergeant-at-Arms.
"Hello," she said, sitting down next to them.
"Hey, Lou."
Floyd Talbert got to his feet. "Excuse me," he said, going over to where a Land Army girl was sitting with her two civilian friends.
Louise raised her eyebrows, and turned to George. "Everyone's ignoring me today."
"I know just the cure for that," he said. "Alcohol."
"Thanks," she laughed.
She chatted to Lipton for a while before George returned with her drink. The three paratroopers talked for a time, and then Lipton excused himself to break up an argument on the other side of the pub. Just then, Joe walked by with a couple of other soldiers. Louise half-rose from her seat and opened her mouth, but he brushed past her and carried on towards the door.
Louise set her jaw. "Hang onto my drink for a minute, George?" she said, thrusting the glass into his hand and heading outside after Joe, pushing her way through the paratroopers and civilians gathered in the pub.
Joe was standing smoking outside when Louise strode over to him. "Joe?" she said sharply.
"Louise," he acknowledged.
"Can I talk to you?" she asked. "Alone," she added after a beat.
The soldiers standing with him whistled and laughed, but after a snapped 'fuck off' from Louise, they retreated back inside the pub.
She waited until they were gone before rounding on Joe. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded.
"Nothing," he said dismissively, not meeting her eye. "I'm fine."
"Oh, get over yourself," she retorted. "I mean, what is the matter with you? I tried to talk to you just now and you walked straight past me!"
"I'm sorry if you're upset," he said, reaching out consolingly.
Louise took a step backwards. "No, I'm pissed off!" she cried. "You've done nothing but ignore me all week and you completely blanked me in there." She gestured vaguely. "Have I done something wrong? If I have, you can just tell, I—"
She was cut off by Joe's lips on hers, kissing her passionately, almost feverishly. For a moment, Louise's mind went blank and she closed her eyes, but then she regained her senses and pulled away, backing off towards the wall and brushing her fingers across her lips.
"I think I'm in love with you," Joe said quietly.
She stared at him, her breathing suddenly shallow and quick. "Is that it?" she blurted out.
"What?"
"Is that why you've been an absolute prick to me lately?" she asked, her voice growing louder. "Because you think you're in love with me?"
"I—"
"Oh, God," she groaned, "oh, God, Joe, why'd you have to do that?"
"What the fuck?"
Her hands began to shake. "Why did you do that? Oh—couldn't you just do what you've always done and like me from a distance—?"
"You knew?" he interrupted. "You knew, and you never said anything?"
"Of course I knew," she snapped, "but I thought if I ignored it, it would go away!"
Joe looked suddenly as if he would like to swear at her, but he said, deliberately calm: "You couldn't even tell me you knew? Not even a 'hey, Joe, so I figured out you've got feelings for me, but—'"
"Feelings?" Louise repeated, her voice growing shrill. "Jesus Christ—not to rain on your parade, Liebgott, but I'm pretty sure you don't actually—"
"How the fuck would you know?" he demanded. "You don't talk to me like you used to—if you did, you'd notice. You'd notice that I do—"
"Well, you shouldn't!" she yelled, the words out before she could stop herself. "It's a war; we're in a war—you can't fight a war and be in love at the same time, you just can't."
"Listen to you—you were gonna get married!"
"And look how that turned out!" Louise turned away from him and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, desperately trying to stem the tears prickling behind her eyelids.
"So I've… ruined everything?" he asked blankly.
"Yes," she snapped, "you have. Things are never going to be the same now, and it's all your fault!"
Joe reeled backwards as if she'd slapped him, and opened his mouth to speak, but shut it a moment later and stormed away into the darkness of the night. Louise stepped back and slid down the brick wall of the pub to the floor, and buried her head in her hands.
Christ, what a mess.
After a moment, she got to her feet and walked across the damp village green until she reached the church. Under its imposing shadow, she took a deep shuddering sigh and sat down on the steps by the gate. Perhaps a cigarette would help, she thought, and rummaged in her pocket for her packet of Players and a lighter.
Inhale, exhale, inhale… She settled into a slow rhythm, lifting the cigarette to her lips absent-mindedly as she thought. All the anger had left her, leaving her feeling drained, but was replaced by an odd sense of guilt—she had known about Joe's affections, and she should have let him down gently. He couldn't have helped it any more than she could, all those years ago at Biggin Hill under the sweltering summer sky.
But why, why, had he kissed her? Louise let out a small noise of frustration and buried her face in her hands, fingers knotting into her hair. She could have dealt with it if he had continued to keep it to himself; she could have gone on ignoring it, pushing it to the back of her mind…
She stayed like that for a few moments, and then she sat back up and took a long drag on her cigarette, eyes aching from the effort of holding back tears.
"Alright there, miss?"
Louise looked up and saw a stout air raid warden in front of her. "Yes, thank you," she replied.
"Better be moving along now, it's late," he told her. "And put that cigarette out—a German bomber could see that from miles away."
Louise stared at him, expressionless, and then intoned dully: "Of course." She stubbed out her cigarette on the step and rose to her feet, nodding politely at the warden as she passed him.
The dark shapes of the houses and the rippling expanse of the village green blurred before her eyes as she walked back to the cottage. The door was unlocked, and she let herself in gratefully, stepping into the warmth.
"You're home early, love," Eleanor said, coming out of the kitchen, "we didn't—oh, Louise… What's wrong?"
Louise waved a hand as her lip trembled, and then buried her head in her hands and started to cry.
Right. I owe you two Huge Apologies.
Huge Apology Number One—I am so so sorry this is so late. In my defence, I have had a horrible few months. Lots of exams, for starters (I passed them all, by the way!), trouble with friends, and my dog died a month or so ago.
Huge Apology Number Two—I have rewritten a few parts of this fic in the earlier chapters. Nothing too groundbreaking, so you can read or not read at your leisure—there may be scenes that I make reference to later, though. To be honest, it will probably be more enjoyable for you; I had to deal with the cringeworthy stuff that I must have written after suffering a blow to the head.
OK. Next, thank you to everyone who has reviewed! You honestly make my day when you do so. I'm feeling a bit wibbly about this chapter, so it would be great if you could tell me your feelings on it (if you have none, just send me song lyrics or something), like: do you think Louise is right or wrong? What do you think will happen? Etc. Thank you! Hopefully see you again soon! :)
