June 1, 1945

On a misty afternoon in late spring, Peter Newkirk popped his head into the pub, peered around, and ducked back out. There were so many Red Lions in London that he'd halfway hoped the old man would turn up at the wrong one, but that was him, all right. He didn't look half bad for a man in his mid-50s. His hair was a bit greyer, his shoulders a bit more stooped, but he was still dapper, and Newkirk knew that profile anywhere.

Newkirk stepped back out to the pavement to gather his thoughts. Lighting a cigarette, he looked around, half expecting to see his mates crowding round him. But not this time. Hogan's team from LuftStalag XIII had been through lengthy debriefings together, and had gone their separate ways three weeks earlier. He'd gone straight home to Mum and the rest of the family, expecting the old man to turn up eventually, but he hadn't shown his face. So Newkirk passed word through a string of acquaintances: If Fred was about, he should meet his son Peter at the Red Lion on Friday at 5 P.M.

Newkirk smoked his fag down to a stub, then crushed it under his foot. He brushed off his uniform; he'd be in it a while longer until he was discharged, and he wanted to keep his new togs tidy. He took pains to look smart; he had that much in common with the old man. He'd had a haircut and a shave just this morning, and he'd put on a few much-needed pounds since leaving Germany in April.

He ran a hand through his clipped hair, then fixed his side cap in place and squared his shoulders. Then he took a deep breath, let himself back inside the smoky pub, ambled across the sticky floor, and plunked an elbow down on the bar.

And he waited.

His old man, in a grey suit and with a close shave, was in full possession of the bar and was deep in conversation with a lanky man in his 50s. Fred stopped what he was doing just long enough to turn, look, and pat his son briskly on the chest, as if to say "Be with you in a moment." Newkirk rolled his eyes as his father turned back to the man on his right.

"That's all very well, I says, but in my place, you'd have done what I done, and no messing about, eh, Charlie? It's not like it was in our day, mate." Then he gestured to Newkirk. "Look, my lad's here now, but we'll talk later, eh? I'm pretty sure I've got some work for you."

He smiled as the man walked off, then turned to his son and muttered, "What a tosser. Scared of his shadow, that one. Nearly blew the entire job when we were out in the country in January. I'll find something for him, but it won't be much. How are you, son?"

Newkirk had seen his father only twice in the preceding 10 years, and had barely spoken to him on those occasions, but no suggestion of estrangement lingered in the casual way his father greeted him. He acted as if they'd just been chatting, as if there had been exactly no water under the bridge.

"Ain't got your demob suit yet?" Fred asked, looking Peter up and down.

Newkirk controlled his expression as he answered, even though his eyebrows wanted to twitch in confusion. "I'm still in the RAF, probably for another three months, they said. I report back tomorrow."

"What are you, 28 years old now? 29?"

"I'm 30, Dad," Newkirk replied testily. "Born in November 1914, remember? Right when you left?"

His father exhaled sharply. "Blimey, age and service don't count for nothing, do they? I should think at your age, after six years of this bloody mess, you'd be one of the first out." Fred shook his head, tossing a few wisps of his thinning grey hair out of place.

"What are you drinking, lad?" Fred asked as the publican appeared before him and started sopping up bar spills with a rag.

Newkirk leaned forward to peer across the bar. "You have Young's Ordinary on draught? Pint of that, please," he told the publican. One drink, he told himself. Just enough to be civil.

May 1921

Alfred Newkirk rustled his newspaper as he sat at the bar of his corner pub, The Blind Beggar, nursing a pint of bitter. He'd felt guilty spending tuppence for the ale, but it had been a long, dusty day, and at least the newspaper was free, in a manner of speaking.

He huffed out a breath and pursed his lips as he studied the headline. "Unemployment reaches 23.4%."

Didn't he know it. Fred had walked half an hour before dawn from Whitechapel to Fleet Street, then tramped through the narrow streets doing whatever work he could hustle. There were delivery trucks to unload, bundles of newspapers to run to nearby newsstands, sheets to stack into the presses at the bindery. There was no full-time job to be had, but enough work to stretch his pathetic fifteen shillings of weekly unemployment.

He felt in his pocket for the coins he'd collected through odd jobs today. Five shillings and ninepence would be just enough for two days' worth of milk, bread, and sugar for his two hungry children and a bit of tea and cheese for himself and the wife. He thanked God that their newborn baby was still nursing and told himself to save tuppence to drop in Mary's jar to get new shoes for the lad, who was six and half and growing out of everything.

He'd worry about the rent tomorrow, Fred decided. He had a man to see tonight, a chap by the name of Alfred Burke. He'd been told he was looking for a few good men to help him with his work.

June 1945

"What do you plan to do now that you're back?"

"Like I said, I have three months to sort it out," Newkirk replied. "I'll have skills. I'll find work."

His old man scoffed. "Good luck with that. When I got home in 1919, there was not a job to be had. 'A land fit for heroes,' Lloyd George said. It turned out to be a land fit for chumps."

"Oh, I'll find something," Newkirk replied. "My CO will see to it." Under his breath, he added with more conviction than bitterness, "They owe me that much."

"Who owes you anything? What, for sitting out the war in a POW camp? You're daft, son," Fred said. He tapped his fingers on the counter, thinking of something his son had just said. "Who is this CO, anyway?" He wondered if Peter knew anyone with any pull.

"His name's Hogan. An American. He'll help me get started somewhere. He's already said…"

"He'll help you get started?" his father drawled incredulously. "What, is he packing you in his duffel bag? Off to America, where the streets are paved in gold?" His voice dripped sarcasm, and he shook his head in dismay. "An officer? I didn't think I raised a fool, Peter," he said.

Newkirk bit back what he wanted to say, which was that his father hadn't raised anyone at all. For better or for worse, Mary Newkirk had reared all 10 of her children with very little help.

Before Newkirk could even formulate an answer, Fred had switched seamlessly from ridicule to a smooth, confiding tone. "Think about it clearly, Peter. Why would a Yank do anything for you?" He dropped his voice. "Look son, I've got two words for you: Fresh eggs. Eh? Eh?"

"What?"

"Fresh eggs. Hen eggs. Farm fresh." Alfred drew out the words, waving his hand like he was weaving a magic spell. He thumped his son on the chest. "It's a nice little earner, lad, and the housewives are clamoring for them," he said. Then he shook a finger at him. "You get a few mornings a week in the country, help me with distribution, and Bob's your uncle."

"Black market," Peter said. It wasn't a question; he knew.

His father shrugged. "Well, now, you say that like it's a horrible thing. But think of it: You and me, together again, eh? Helping the poor, struggling housewives of a decimated city. Bringing a little joy into their lives by helping them put a decent breakfast on the table for their children. The important thing, of course, is not to be caught, but I know you, lad. You could lie your way out of anything." He beamed with pride at that observation.

Newkirk could feel his stomach turning over. No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Not if he wanted to be able to look his best mates in the eye. Which he did, even if he couldn't see them.

"No thanks, Dad," Newkirk said, draining the last drops of his pint. "I'm going to take my chances at finding a real job. Good to see you, though." Colonel Hogan said he'd be back in London in a month; he'd speak with him them. Newkirk reached into his pocket to scrounge up some coins for his drink.

"Put that away," his father said warmly. "What kind of a father would I be if I couldn't buy my eldest son a drink?"

Newkirk shoved the coins back in his pocket. "Thanks for that, Dad," he said. Then he grinned and patted the old man on the back. "You haven't changed a bit, you know," he said.

The implication flew right over Fred's head as he stretched his arms out as if he was presenting himself to an adoring audience. "Alfred Newkirk, at your service," he announced. "Say hello to your mum for me, all right, lad? Oh, and give her this."

Alfred reached into his coat and produced a thick envelope. Peter squeezed it and knew Mum wouldn't have any trouble paying the bills for a while. He thought of shoving it back at his father, but he couldn't. Times were hard. There were mouths to feed. He'd have to figure out a way to not need the money next time.

"I'll give it to her tonight," Newkirk replied as he stood to leave, but by then his father had moved on. He had buttonholed another mate and was ramping up his sales pitch.

"You've got trouble, I've got trouble, we've all got trouble, mate" he said, oozing charm. "The only thing is you ain't got the same troubles as what I got."

Newkirk looked over his shoulder as he pushed open the door and the cooling air of a late spring evening hit his face. He's right about that, he thought. They didn't have the same troubles at all.