CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Harry leant on the metal railing and looked out at the London skyline. The Thames House roof was his sanctuary of sorts, not only for the fresh air and the solitude it gave him, but also for the view it afforded. When he wondered what he was doing with his life, when MI5 became too surreal to him, as it sometimes did, he came here.
Laid out in front of him was his reason for doing intelligence work. This beautiful city that he loved, and all the people in it. He always knew, when he looked out over the rooftops, that those buildings were filled with people. They may be strangers to him, but he knew who they were. They had families, children, mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, and they all deserved to be safe.
Most of them had a desire to simply travel through their days and arrive home at night in peace. But there would always be bullies who wanted to harm those people in order to show how powerful they were, or simply to prove a point. Someone had to take the side of those who couldn't defend themselves. This was the "soft underbelly" of Harry Pearce, the one he seldom spoke about to those around him. He cared deeply, passionately, about the people in those buildings, and about their right to have hopes and dreams and a safe place to realise them.
Today, Harry was remembering another day he had stood here. There had been a morning briefing and he'd watched a simulation of the effect of a thermobaric bomb on central London. It was a clinical explanation, given by Ruth, doing her job well, as always. He'd watched the yellow circle spread out over the very view he was seeing now, over buildings he recognised, streets he knew. That yellow circle signified death in the wake of a hypothetical bomb.
But Ruth's professional detachment had broken down when Malcolm had calmly called the area around the bomb a theatre of operations. She had replied with a sharp edge in her voice, "Shame when that theatre of operations happens to be a city full of civilians." Harry had listened with gratitude. She'd spoken his heart and again allowed him the luxury of staying silent, appearing aloof, removed. He'd counted on her for that. He realised he had depended on her from the day she first walked through the door. She was his external conscience and the Grid's constant reminder that these were people they were talking about, not stick figures moving about on a map.
As he'd stood on the roof later, Ruth had found him. She always knew where to find him. He would have felt intruded upon by anyone else, but he'd been very glad to see her. In fact, he'd been on the verge of talking to her about all of those people in the buildings, because he knew she would understand, when she suddenly blurted out, "I'm not naive."
He'd turned to her in surprise. "I didn't say you were."
"It's bad enough that the bombers are home-grown, now they're going to blow us up with our own weapons." Harry felt such a strong connection to her in that moment, because she was speaking the thought he'd had right before she'd walked up to him. She was angry, and looked to be on the verge of tears.
"You're absolutely right." He knew Ruth paid the price for her sentimentality, that she fought against it in the face of Ros and Adam, who could be icy in their apparent detachment. Her feelings were always close to the surface, her heart full of compassion. She tried to hide it, to seem more disconnected, but she couldn't pull it off. The feelings were too strong in her.
This was the moment that Harry had felt himself fall. He'd been teetering on the edge for some time, ever since she'd said, "Bugger the Home Office," but as she looked back at him, her face so solemn, he hurtled headlong into love with her. On a grey day in the first week of February, talking of bombs. He'd been living with his dream of Ruth for years already, the one he'd had the night after he'd met her. He'd been fighting it, ignoring it, wishing it away, but now, on the roof of Thames House, he let go. Harry fell beyond saving, head over heels in love with Ruth Evershed.
The next words out of his mouth had been, "Would you like to have dinner one night?" and thus had begun the journey. The winding, wonderful, heartbreaking, impossible, magnificent journey that now, in the relative warmth of mid-June, had finally ended. As Harry stood without his Ruth, he looked out at the people he tried to protect, and he let his mind wander.
He saw random visions, memories of her listening on headphones to that horrible Riff and what she called music. Laughing with Sam in the break room over lunch, then serious and grave in a meeting, pained by the suffering of the world. He saw her call him a bastard, saw her stroke Danny's forehead tenderly in death, heard her say a firm "yes" sitting on the bench next to him when he asked if she would stand by him. And for some reason, here on the roof of Thames House, his mind settled on one thing, on a conversation he'd overheard, that he'd forgotten until just now.
She'd been talking about her community choir, and the joy it gave her. She was explaining to Zoe about the hymn they were practicing, "Behold, They Gain The Lonely Height." Harry knew the words. He knew the words to many hymns, not because of their religious context, but because he found their passion compelling, and he truly loved the blended and complex sound of many voices singing together. The opening words of the hymn were what Ruth was relating to Zoe,
"Ah, vain the dream! The morning clear
brings back earth's weary life again."
Zoe said that it sounded depressing, but Ruth said, "No, no, it starts that way, that the dream has ended and weary life has begun again, but listen to how it ends,
"Yet still within each faithful breast
there dwells the thought of what shall be."
"That's a happy ending," Ruth had said. And then she had sighed, and said, "It's about hope, about being faithful and knowing in your breast, in your heart, that it will all turn out well in the end."
Harry had stood in the doorway, unseen by the two women, and he'd heard the fervent sound of Ruth's words. She really believes it, he thought, even in the face of what we see every day. An optimist. In this business. How he needed to hear someone say that it would all turn out well in the end. She had filled his heart that day, and he'd never told her.
Harry tried to keep that thought in his mind now, because he'd come up to the roof today with a purpose. He had something to do, and he knew that it would be the end of one thing and the beginning of another. While he dreaded it, he was at the same time impatient for it.
Harry had a letter in his pocket that Malcolm had given him, a letter from Ruth, and he had come up to the privacy of the roof to read it. He pulled it out now, and before unfolding it, he leant again on the railing and looked out at London. He took a deep breath, opened it, and began to read.
As Harry read, his eyes filled, he blinked, tears spilling over, and then his eyes filled again. He wiped them with the sleeve of his coat, and still they filled. His tears dripped dark circles onto the green patina of the railing, reached its edge, and fell to the cement of the roof, and still they came. He held the back of his hand to his forehead and pressed there, his other hand shaking slightly, holding the letter.
He read it five times, and stopped himself from reading a sixth. He wanted to memorise it, to immerse himself in her pain, to share it with her so that she wouldn't have to feel it alone. And now, even with his eyes closed, he could remember what she had written. "Not that I wouldn't see another sunset, but that I wouldn't see another one with you." The purity of her love, of her honesty, staggered him.
Her eloquence in showing him the wound he had opened in her, "If it's true that I must never see you, hear your voice, touch your face, kiss your lips, then perhaps I should have died in that room." Her steadfast belief in his love for her, "And my dearest love, you know that it will be the same for you... but if you turn your back on it, then so must I."
Her sense of loss. "I grieve for our summer wedding, I grieve for books and films, and strong opinions, and laughter, and making love. I grieve for The Grand Tour, for Bath, for our dreams together." Harry's tears continued to fall. Oh, my Ruth, so do I.
Her rage. "I'll be angry, and hurt, and will think you somewhat of a coward." Harsh words, yes, but true. He was afraid. Although she was ready to face the danger of loving him, he wasn't strong enough to be the reason she might die. She should think him a coward, he thought. He thought himself one when stood next to her.
And then, what touched him most deeply, her optimism in the face of his coldness. His sweet Ruth, ever the glass half full. "Still in hope, and in faith. I want to live up to that name, my love, to have faith in you, to have faith in us." So her name was Faith. Good for Malcolm, for giving her that gift. It suited her.
The hymn he had just remembered returned to his mind:
Yet still within each faithful breast
there dwells the thought of what shall be.
Still in hope, and in faith, she had written. Still a belief in the happy ending. Could he believe with her? Could he believe that beyond this time there was something more? That right now they were caught in the churning, stormy, foam-filled waters of the roughest part of the river, but that there would be a tranquil, calm place ahead? A place where they could catch their breath, finally, and float together? Harry desperately wanted to believe it. He wanted to have faith. To have Faith.
And still his tears fell. He didn't know he had so many tears. Harry was aware he was sobbing softly now, the sound lost in the monochromatic London sky, mixed in with the sounds of the city, the metallic hums of cars and lifts, the soft pad of shoes on pavement, the rustle of newspapers, the clink of glasses in pubs.
And Harry understood that he was now, himself, one of the people in the buildings he protected. One of those with hopes and dreams to be realised. But today, he couldn't see how they could ever be realised, and he felt desolate, bereft, hopeless.
Harry tried to fill his lungs and get hold of himself. He breathed in and then exhaled, restoring calm in his agonised chest. He laboured to gather his thoughts. I'm not without choices, he thought. He refolded the letter and put it back into his pocket. Although the tears were still forming, they were beginning to subside, and he gazed back out to the distant buildings of London. He shook his head roughly. Right. I've had my breakdown. Now I think.
He could go to her, but it would have to be a total release. He would not only have to give up MI5, he would have to give up England. He would give up Harry Pearce and become William Arden. He had enough money put by to give them a good, solid life, if not an extravagant one, for as long as they both shall live. He would be doing what he had asked her to do, what she had done, twice, "With good grace and a healthy dose of stoicism." They would live as Faith and Will, and Harry Pearce would die with Ruth Evershed.
Harry closed his eyes. Although it felt like a simple trade of his name for his love, he couldn't reduce it to that. It was anything but black and white. The break would have to be final. They would need to disappear. He would always know things that people would want to know. Not just this year, but next, and the one after that. And she would always be his weakness, his Achilles heel.
When he was held by the IRA, he had been questioned while a gun was trained at another agent's head, a friend. He'd resisted and his friend had died, not ten metres away from him. That wouldn't be possible with Ruth. He didn't know what he would do, but for her he thought he might lose his honour, sell his friends and even his country. Or perhaps he would manage to stay silent, but he would then plead with them to put the gun to his head. The nightmare of that scenario was too much for him to contemplate, but it would be a very real possibility if they were together.
Were their dreams even possible under those circumstances? Would The Grand Tour exist if they were always looking behind them, peering around corners? Would they learn to despise each other, feel trapped, claustrophobic? Or could they fly to South America and hide next door to Zoe and Will, chatting about the old days as they formulated fiction for their legends? Was that a life either of them could tolerate for very long?
Harry put his head in his hands, his elbows hard on the railing. Perhaps a middle ground. He could go to her once. Hold her, tell her how much he loved her, reassure her. It's only for a time, my love, although he had no idea for how long. And if he were followed, if he jeopardised the peaceful existence she had carved out in the last month, what then? Even if nothing bad happened, he knew one night would lead to another, and another. Once the barrier was breached, it was a short step to repeat it, and each time would carry more danger, until he would be in his office again, looking at a piece of paper that said "NO!" and loathing himself.
Less, then. Just letters. But didn't they have a map for that already? The letters had led to phone calls which led to visits, which led to ... and Harry was back in his office in an endless loop, desperately waiting for news of the woman he loved. All possible scenarios took him back to the same conclusion. She was safer without him. He had to let her go.
Harry sighed raggedly. He couldn't answer her. He stood on the roof of Thames House, where he had fallen finally and completely in love with Ruth Elizabeth Evershed, and he let her go. Then he let go of Sophie Persan. And now, he let go of Faith, a beautiful, barefoot woman in a flowing white dress and flowers in her hair. She was standing on a beach in Polis, and she was waving to him. Waving goodbye.
He tried to imagine a smile on her face, but for the life of him, he couldn't conjure one. And, in wonder, Harry realised that he still had more tears to cry.
Ruth thought another glass of wine was probably a bad idea. She held the bottle up close to her eyes to see the level, but unfortunately, she couldn't remember where she had started. She sipped at what was left in her glass as she walked over to her computer again.
She now had a laptop and an internet connection, but it meant that instead of making the three-hour round-trip to Paphos, she simply checked obsessively on l'Alcove's IP address from home. It had been exactly a week since she'd sent the letter off to Harry. Yesterday she'd gotten the call that she'd been hired into the Accounting Department with the Polis Hospital starting Monday, and in one week it would be July. Ruth was standing on a razor-thin fence between her old life and her new one, and she was aware that she needed to jump one way or the other.
Her old life was starting to fade. She had lived for thirty-three days on Cyprus, and she'd adjusted nearly completely into its rhythms. She knew this because the Post Office hours felt entirely reasonable to her now, actually quite civilised. The days were warm, the water clear, and her flat pleasant.
If her heart hadn't fallen utterly out of her chest, leaving a cavernous hole, she thought she could, in fact, be moderately happy here.
She asked herself repeatedly about that night outside the library a week ago, and her question was this. If she had let go of Harry so completely under the full moon, how could she be in such terrible pain all the time? He was still rattling around in her head, but now there was no hope attached to the memory of him, so it always hurt. When he said something funny, she couldn't even laugh, because the ache that followed on its heels said, You'll never laugh with him again. Ditto the commentary on Polis life. Ditto the idea of making love. Even the happiest memories were sad. And the worst part was that he seemed to have attached himself to her brain, and there was nowhere that Ruth could hide.
She had known he wouldn't write back, and she had known why. So why in hell did she keep checking for an email? And as this thought ran through her mind, she checked again for an email. Nothing. "Bloody stop!" she railed at herself, and stood to resume her pacing across the room.
Nothing seemed to quite fit together anymore. She had her swim every morning, and in her head she still said good morning to him as she gazed beyond the horizon to England, but she wasn't sure he was still there, listening. She didn't know if he could hear her anymore. It disoriented her, and then the pain would hit again, the way Harry described Davey King's bullet, as a mule-kick to the chest.
Ruth paced back to her small kitchen and picked up the bottle again. Oh, just one more glass won't hurt. I think I've only had two. Three at most. She poured out another glass of the Cabernet, made from locally-grown grapes. Most of the wineries were in Limassol, in the South, but she had found this wine, from Nicolo Vineyards, that was made right here in Polis. Before she could stop herself, she thought, Harry would like this wine.
"Oh, he would, would he?" she said out loud. "Well, he's not bloody here, is he?"
She stepped out into the early-summer warmth on her terrace. The moon was smaller now than it was last week, but it still didn't stop her from wondering if, right now, Harry was looking at it too. Ruth grimaced. "Enough!" she muttered to herself. She walked to the kitchen counter and set her wine down. Getting her purse, she slipped on her sandals and went to the door. She needed distraction.
Ruth really didn't have a plan as she walked down the three flights of stairs to the street, she only knew she had to find something else to think about. She had to remind herself that there was more in the world than Harry Pearce. She walked toward the Square, following the lights and the noise of the Disco Club. She thought she might see if there was a film playing tonight at the Community Hall. They were generally terrible, and the chairs were hard and of the folding variety, but she could at least immerse herself in someone else's sorry life for the evening, instead of her own.
Ruth was surprised at how tipsy she actually was, once she started walking. The cobblestones were uneven, and her sandals were thin, offering no support. She was needing to concentrate more than usual in the dark as she headed toward the Square. And suddenly, Ruth started to think that this wasn't a very good idea after all.
Polis was a lovely little town, but it did have packs of local boys who roamed the streets in their macho, very Mediterranean way, looking somewhat harmlessly for local girls. They weren't particularly sinister, but when they got together in threes and fours, they generally drank, and sometimes to excess, which made them bolder and more aggressive. And even through a bit of Cabernet haze, Ruth could see three of them walking toward her now.
It was dark where she was, especially when contrasted with the brilliant light of the Square nearly a block ahead. She could see people there, strolling, talking, but she knew they couldn't see her. She felt that her senses were dull, as if she knew what to do in a situation such as this, but couldn't quite remember what it was. She turned to look toward her flat, to see how far it would be to go back to the light of the front entrance to the building, but it seemed very far away now, and even darker than the street she was on.
So Ruth put her head down and decided to brave it out. She reminded herself that these were only boys, none older than twenty-five. Ruth was suddenly aware of how thin her blouse was, and that she had neglected to bring her jacket. She pulled her purse closer around her shoulder and joined her hands across her chest. She was only a couple of metres away now, and not only could she dimly see them, but she could hear them talking.
"Angliká ómorfi gynaíka," She heard the tallest of them say. Beautiful English woman. And Ruth realised that they knew of her, but probably didn't know she understood Greek. They weren't even trying to keep their voices low. She gave no indication that she understood, and hoped she could slip by them.
"Tha íthela kápoia apó óti." It was another voice, and now all three were laughing, and agreeing with what was said. Ruth's heart was beginning to hammer just a bit, and the wine seemed not to be affecting her quite so much, as her senses began to return with the adrenaline. Roughly translated, the second boy had said, I would like some of that. As she tried to pass on the right, she saw that her way was blocked, and she stopped and looked up into the dark faces of three tall, leering young men. They were so close around her now that she could smell the combination of too-strong cologne and sweat mingled with the heat of the night.
She knew if she had to, she could scream, but there had to be a better and less dramatic way out of this predicament. Ruth pulled herself up to her full five feet, four inches and tried to look imposing. Unfortunately, two of the three were well over six foot, and the third not far behind.
"Katálava," Ruth said, trying to sound menacing. I understand you. Her voice sounded thin to her, and there was a slight shake to it.
The leader's smile widened, his white teeth almost glowing in the darkness. "Aftó eínai kaló," That's good, he said softly. He reached his hand out, and ran the back of his fingers lightly down the skin on her arm. Ruth shrank back, and was beginning a sharp inhale to scream, when she and the three boys heard a man's voice boom from the darkness.
"Alexio Kostopoulos!" The boy's hand returned quickly to his side, and all three young men turned. With the light behind him, the figure coming toward them was indistinguishable at first, but soon Ruth knew who it was. And so did the young men. Their bravado turned immediately to a reluctant, arrogant fear, and they backed away, scattering as they disappeared into the darkness.
George came quickly to her side, and then looked out to where they had run. "I know their parents, all of them. They're just bored. They won't bother you again." He peered into Ruth's eyes in the meagre light. "You okay?"
Ruth nodded. Although she was grateful George was there, she had no desire to continue to be the damsel in distress every time the poor man encountered her. She was shaking just a bit, and tried to collect herself. "I'm fine, really. Just felt a little cornered, is all." The adrenaline was retreating now, and Ruth was dealing with a strange combination of embarrassment and mild inebriation. She leant against the brick wall to steady herself.
"I'm really not this helpless usually." Ruth sighed loudly. "I'm very seldom in need of rescuing, and now you've done it twice." She realised she wasn't sounding very grateful, so she added, "Thank you, I appreciate your help, George. Again."
"You're welcome. And they wouldn't have gone much further. They just like to have something to talk about tomorrow. As I said, they're bored. They know every girl in town already, and you're different, new." He pointed toward the lights. "Were you going to the Square?"
"Yes. I was going to see if there was a movie playing." At once, Ruth realised he would probably go with her and, nice as he was, she wasn't anxious for company tonight. She added, hurriedly, "But I think I'll go home now. I'm rather out of the mood." She started to turn, but slowed in the face of the darkness between where she was and her flat.
George quickly fell into pace with her. "I'll walk you. They won't be back, but it's probably a good idea for you not to go alone."
Ruth was still feeling a bit unsteady, so she concentrated all of her energy on putting one foot in front of the other on the uneven stones. As she did, her mind seemed to focus as well. She stopped suddenly, and turned to him. "That's quite a coincidence, isn't it? How is it that you happened to be walking by at just that moment?"
George laughed, "Ah, the suspicious foreigner is back." It was darker here, but Ruth's eyes were adjusting. She could see George look down at his feet, and she thought he seemed slightly embarrassed. "You're correct. I wasn't just walking by. I've heard some talk of you, and thought I would take my regular coffee in the Square just in case you ventured out."
Ruth was dumbfounded. "Talk of me?"
He looked up. "Faith, you must understand, Polis has a population of 3,000, and that's a broad estimate. The vast majority of those live in the country and hardly venture to town." He paused and weighed his next words carefully. "When a beautiful Englishwoman comes to live here ... alone ... it is noticed."
For a moment, Ruth was speechless. She thought she'd been so inconspicuous, and all this time there was talk about her? "What do they say?" she asked incredulously.
George indicated that they should keep walking as he spoke, "They say that you are very kind." He snuck a look back at her, smiling. "I said beautiful, yes?" Ruth kept her eyes on the ground and didn't react, so he continued. "They also say you seem very sad."
Ruth's mind returned to the night outside the library in Paphos. She had been uncertain then, but now she felt that George was interested in her as more than a friend. Her heart was so completely entwined with Harry's that she hadn't wanted to see it, but the way he said the words "beautiful" and "sad" spoke it clearly to her. What was confusing was that she thought he was a good man, a kind one, and God knew she needed friends — that was made apparent to her tonight. She knew she didn't want to encourage him, but didn't know quite what to say, so she said nothing.
They reached her door in silence, and Ruth stepped into the small lounge on the ground floor of the building. She turned, and said, "Thank you, George. I appreciate your help." Although she really did mean it, and she meant to say it warmly, her words came out rather clipped.
George stepped back and pursed his lips. "Faith, have I said something to offend you?"
Ruth tilted her head, frowning, "No, no, I'm sorry. I ... I can't ... I need a friend, George, but I can't offer anything more. I want you to understand that." She thought she never would be saying these things without the bravery of the glasses of wine she'd had earlier. "Am I misinterpreting?"
He smiled, and looked slightly abashed. "Ah, the directness of English women. I'd forgotten." After a pause, he answered her, shaking his head, his eyes on the ground. "No, you're not misinterpreting, but I had hoped it wasn't that obvious." He looked up at her. "I can see that your situation is...complicated."
Suddenly, Ruth was overwhelmed with love for Harry, and she thought the man before her couldn't be more different than the man she wished was standing here now. She felt her eyes begin to fill, and she backed further into the lounge, beginning to close the door. "I'd like to be your friend, George, but as for anything else ... my heart's taken. It always will be." The door was only open a tiny bit now, and her voice was beginning to quaver, "Thanks again. Good night."
She just managed to get the door closed before her tears spilled over entirely.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
It was a Friday at the end of July, and Malcolm felt they'd all had enough of the long face he saw in Harry's office every day. He was standing at Harry's door after having dropped a report on his desk, and he had a plan. "When was the last time you saw Tom and Christine?" Malcolm asked.
Harry turned to him, shrugging slightly. "A month ago? They came into town and we had dinner. Why?"
"I'm driving up to Liverpool for the week-end to do some work for them. Come with me. They would very much like to see you."
Harry immediately shook his head. "I can't." He made a show of shuffling some files on his desk. "I have too much to do."
Malcolm looked at him from under his brows. "Harry, Connie nearly nodded off this morning compiling the threat report. There's nothing going on, and you know it."
Harry had the feeling Malcolm was going to stand there until he said yes. The truth was, Harry didn't know what to do with himself. The prospect of muddling through a repeat of the last three long week-ends alone was not an attractive one. Company would be nice, and he did enjoy being with Tom and Christine very much.
Their last dinner had left him sadder than when it started, however. The three of them tried to reclaim the lightness they'd enjoyed when Ruth was in Paris, but it was elusive. They didn't talk about the fourth chair, but she was there nonetheless, a ghost, as if she had drowned in the Thames so long ago. Harry sighed, and said to Malcolm, "I don't think I … "
Malcolm could sense that he was weakening slightly. "Come on. Spend one week-end as part of the human race again. Then you can come back to your dreadful mood. It will always be here, you know."
Harry growled, "I'm not in a dreadful mood." To Malcolm's highly sceptical look, he said, "What about the animals?" Even Harry could hear that he was losing this battle.
"You know how Wes loves them. He'll be thrilled, and Adam still has his key, yes?"
Harry looked up at his friend, sadly. "I'm afraid I won't be very good company, Malcolm."
"Then we'll get you drunk and keep you that way." He was starting to walk away now, enjoying his victory. "You're leaving the Grid early today. Pick you up at your house at four."
By half-past four, they were on the road to Liverpool. Harry wasn't always a happy occupant of the passenger seat, usually preferring to drive himself, but today he didn't feel a need to be in control. He was quite willing to sit and wallow in his melancholy. Malcolm was single-minded in his goal that Harry would cheer up, and he had even resorted to telling jokes to accomplish it.
Harry was already stifling a laugh, but it was because he was listening to what he thought might be the longest and worst joke he'd ever heard. It didn't help that Malcolm was telling it with death-like gravity. Something about two parsnips crossing the road, one gets hit by a lorry and is taken to hospital, and now, finally, the husband-parsnip is hearing the prognosis about the wife-parsnip from the doctor. Harry could tell Malcolm was winding up for the punch line.
"And the doctor says sadly to the husband-parsnip, 'I'm afraid she'll be a vegetable for the rest of her life.'" Malcolm glanced sharply over at Harry, and the expectant look on his face was enough to put Harry over the edge. He laughed, and Malcolm returned his eyes to the road with a smug look.
Harry shook his head, saying, "That's a terrible joke, Malcolm, but it's clean, so I'll try to remember it for Wes."
"And, of course, you'll give credit where it's due."
Harry nodded his head, "Oh, yes, Malcolm, you can be assured of that."
Malcolm drove in silence for a few moments, and then said, "And now that I have achieved the impossible and finally made you laugh, I would like to tell you a story."
Harry rubbed his forehead, smiling. "I'm not sure I can survive another joke, Malcolm."
"Not a joke. A story." Malcolm's voice softened. "About the lovely Sarah."
Harry turned to him, surprised. The lovely Sarah. Harry remembered Connie's question to Malcolm. Malcolm had answered, "Sarah wasn't to be, I'm afraid." Harry had never heard of a woman in Malcolm's life, although of course Connie knew. He meant to ask Malcolm about it, but in the crisis that followed, Harry had frankly forgotten.
Harry thought he hadn't been a very good friend to Malcolm, and he should have asked. He turned in his seat, ready to listen. Malcolm said wryly, "You're not the only one with a great and tragic love, Harry."
Malcolm looked back to the road. "Connie said she had a second-rate mind," Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "And fat thumbs. She was trying to make me feel better." Smiling sadly, he said, "Neither was true. Excellent mind, and quite beautiful thumbs, as I recall."
"How long ago was it, Malcolm? When did you last see her?"
"Six years, four months, twenty-three days, and about twelve hours." He looked at Harry. "But who's counting?" We are, Harry thought quickly, remembering his calendar this morning. Sixty-six days since he had kissed Ruth goodbye in Dover.
Harry was incredulous. Malcolm was smitten, truly in love, even thinking of her. After six years. Harry could see it now, the deep sadness, the resignation that always seemed to be there under the surface. Harry felt ashamed that he'd never noticed it before.
Malcolm continued, "I keep tabs on her. She's still living in the same place, still at the same job, haven't seen a name change yet, no licences applied for, and Sarah's certainly not the girl to live with someone. I suppose she's now classified as a middle-aged spinster. So I have to assume she still pines for me a bit as well." Harry didn't say anything, but was listening intently.
"We were ... are, I think ... very much in love. She's a teacher, English Literature, O Levels, and brilliant. Not a supermodel, but then again ... " Malcolm glanced over to Harry with an amused smile curling his lips, "Neither am I." He paused for a moment, his eyes focused on the road, but his sight was somewhere else entirely. "I think she's the most beautiful woman I've ever met. She never could believe that, but it was true then, and it's true now." His voice grew softer, more wistful. "We were very good together, Sarah and I."
Suddenly it came into Harry's mind that he had never seen a request from Malcolm to socialise with the lovely Sarah. Malcolm, the rule follower. But Harry didn't ask. He understood better than anyone how the rules can be bent for love. "But it ended. How did it end, Malcolm?"
Malcolm sighed. "She ended it. Didn't much like my job. It was the only thing we ever argued about, you know?" He looked over at Harry and realised that was a rhetorical question if there ever was one. "She said I was secretive, that I didn't trust her, that I would get myself killed one day, and then where would she be? She wouldn't even have known me." He sighed again. "She was right."
"I walked out of her door all those years ago, and told her that I would always love her but that one day I would no longer love my job. That someday I would be back. She said she might not be there. I said I hoped she would be."
Harry was still reeling a bit. He knew this conversation wasn't a random one. Malcolm had probably been planning it since before he'd asked Harry to come to Liverpool. The reason for Malcolm's revelation was obvious, it was a gift, and Harry wanted to honour it. Might as well get to the heart of the matter. "Did you ever think of leaving the Service for her, Malcolm?"
Malcolm turned and smiled. Yes, this was the question he was waiting for. Harry hadn't yet spoken of leaving, but Malcolm had been feeling it from his friend since the last letter had arrived from Ruth over a month ago. He nodded, his lips tight together. "Many times, Harry. You can't imagine how often." He looked pointedly at Harry. "Well, perhaps now you can."
Harry was grateful for this conversation, grateful to Malcolm. He had wanted to talk to someone about this very much. "But you never did leave. Why didn't you?"
Malcolm paused. "Do you remember the story of Edward VIII?" Malcolm knew it was a non sequitur of sorts, but he also knew that Harry would make the connection immediately.
"Yes." Of course, Harry knew the story. Edward VIII, King in 1936. He fell in love with Wallis Simpson, American socialite, twice divorced. Edward was told by the Church of England that he could never marry her. In December of 1936, after only ruling since January of the same year, he abdicated the throne with a famous speech. Harry frowned, "What was it he said in his abdication speech, Malcolm, about 'the woman I love'?"
Malcolm recited it exactly, and with some reverence. "I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility, and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love."
Harry smiled at the perfect recitation. "Yes, that one."
Malcolm continued, "I was rather obsessed by the story when I was younger, read everything I could get my hands on. Thought it was at once the most romantic and the most absurd thing I'd ever heard of. A Monarch of the Realm giving up his throne for an American divorcee who was thought by all round to be only after his money and his power."
In truth, Harry had fallen more on the side of thinking the whole affair absurd rather than romantic, but it seemed much sadder to him now, as he recalled it. As he looked out at the passing countryside, Harry thought how interesting it was that his own pain had opened him up to the pain of others so completely. He said softly, "He became the Duke of Windsor, and wasn't even given the honour of having her officially called his Duchess."
Malcolm turned off on to the M6 toward Liverpool. "It was like fiction, really, wasn't it? I couldn't let go of it, and I always found myself scanning for news of the two of them. And do you know, Harry, I never saw a photo of Edward after that where he looked truly happy. For twenty-five years."
Malcolm waited for that to sink in, and then he looked directly at Harry, with purpose. "I mean, you would hope that if you gave up a Kingdom, you would spend the rest of your life in bliss with the person you gave it up for, wouldn't you?"
Harry smiled at his old friend. "Yes, you would hope so."
Malcolm looked back at the road. "But then I started to think, if you've given all that up, isn't it practically a foregone conclusion that your life will never live up to it? Who even knows if they were happy? Everyone wanted to believe they were, of course, but they had to stay together, didn't they? It's not as if you can abdicate all of England, and then say, 'Gosh, I guess this wasn't such a good idea after all.'"
Harry didn't answer right away, but when he did, there was great affection in his voice for his old friend. "Thank you, Malcolm. With the obvious understanding that the Grid and the Kingdom are two quite different seats of power, I appreciate the analogy. And yes, I have thought often of leaving, but something has always stopped me."
"And it's how I always felt about Sarah. It was too much pressure to put on her. On us." Malcolm sighed. "I will give this up someday and she'll be the first one I call. She may not be there, but it was still the right decision, Harry."
"I hope the lovely Sarah is still there, Malcolm."
"And I hope Ruth is still there as well, Harry."
Harry dismissed the thought with a shrug. "Well, our situation is entirely different."
Malcolm looked at him and smiled. "Not so different, Harry. And the sooner you realise that, the better off you'll be. This too shall pass. And love will find out the way."
As he looked at Malcolm, Harry felt a glimmer of something that had been achingly absent from his life since Ruth went to Cyprus. Hope. He had been thinking in black and white terms, which he knew was never how things turned out. He was in a frame of mind of having her or not having her, but he hadn't allowed for the possibility that their situations might be different someday, and that their love might survive it.
And Harry thought, despite six years, four months, and whatever it was, Malcolm was still as full of hope as if it had been days. It may be foolish for him to think that Sarah was still there for him, but no more foolish than assuming it was impossible that she would be.
Malcolm saw a slight shift in Harry. He had that look in his eyes when he was working something through, a new idea. Malcolm thought this conversation had worked out quite as well as he'd planned it in his head. He made his final point. "How long would you wait, Harry, if you knew you could have Ruth at the end of it? It's only been two months. It may be that you can't have her now, but who knows what the future holds?" Malcolm paused, and then said with a sly smile, "Faith, Harry."
Harry always tried not to underestimate his old friend, but he continued to find that he did. "Thank you, Malcolm, for getting me away from the Grid. I needed a new way of thinking."
Harry took a deep breath and leant his head back, looking out the window. He felt his heart relax, as he loosened his vice-like grip on it. His love for Ruth had always been there, but Harry realised he had been trying to hold it off for months now, as if it were an enemy.
Now he let it flow back through him, and the relief was indescribable. "Yes, Malcolm. I must have faith."
Ruth had never been paid in fish before, but a small hospital in a rural area needed to be prepared for that eventuality, she supposed. She was astonished the first time she took a bag of freshly-caught bass to her supervisor. In return, she received an unconcerned look and was pointed in the direction of an ice cooler. At the end of the day, the doctors came through and helped themselves. She was told that she was welcome to it as well, if she would promise that she would eat it that night and enjoy it.
But it was up to her to make the books tally, and it was a process that amused her no end. They had developed a sort of barter schedule for fish, game, grapes, various quantities and types of vegetables, and even farm animals. In fact, one of Ruth's first tasks was to calculate the value of a burro as payment for an appendix removal. That was one for her resume, she thought.
Ruth had quickly learned to appreciate her job. Where the Grid had been all grey areas and intuition, the Polis Chrysochous Hospital and Rural Health Centre required nothing of her but common sense and steadiness. Be on time, do your job, and then head off to the market or a swim. She'd had to switch her morning swim to an afternoon one, but that was really the only change she'd been required to make. The dress code was as casual as it could be, and the hours were Cyprus hours, start early, and leave early, before the heat of the day.
One of the first people she had seen there was Dr. George Constantinou, but he had clearly taken her last communication to heart. He was offering her only friendship and asking for nothing more. The disconcerting softness that she had seen in his eyes on that night a month ago was gone. It had been replaced by what seemed to be only a kind desire to help her acclimatise and not feel so alone in her new life.
Ruth found she was increasingly grateful for George's friendship, because, aside from the tourists, there weren't many who spoke English. She loved the Greek language, and was getting to a point far past fluency with almost no accent. But she still felt an ease, a comfort, of speaking her native tongue.
And now she knew more of his story, which was an interesting one. He'd been married to an English girl, Emily, and they'd had a son, Nico, who was eight years old. George had met Emily when he was in London at his studies. They'd fallen deeply in love and married quickly, against the protestations of his Greek Orthodox family. They'd lived in London, where Nico was born, until George finished his internship. George and Nico had taken frequent trips to Cyprus, but Emily always had a reason to stay behind in London.
When George achieved his degree, everything had fallen apart. It had never occurred to Emily that she would one day move to Cyprus, to a town where people paid for their medical services in burros. George had never thought he would use his skills in any other way than for the good of his people. Each had skimmed over their differences, thinking they could change the other, but when it came down to it, neither was willing to budge.
So Emily stayed in London with the opera, and the art galleries, and the West End. George went back to Cyprus to offer the fruits of a London medical education to the poor people of Polis. Nico vehemently chose, at seven years old, to live on the vineyard with his father, grandmother, aunts, uncles, and myriad cousins in the sunshine of Cyprus.
In fact, the wine Ruth had been drinking on that night a month ago was from their vineyard, named for Nico. Nicolo Vineyards covered 20 acres of rich land, but it was a young vineyard, the first bottles having been decanted the year Nico was born eight years ago, hence the name.
George's sister, Christina, was a favourite of Nico's, and his connection to her seemed somehow stronger even than the one he had to his mother. Nico would visit his mother on holidays, but she seemed cold and distant to him, and he had never taken to the city. He preferred to swim, to play in the green hills of Polis with his cousins, and to help out on the vineyard for extra money. And he dearly loved his father.
So George was nursing a broken heart of his own, and Ruth found that strangely comforting. Two damaged people with their own language, finding each other on a small island, and offering companionship.
Ruth had discovered all this on a Sunday morning when she had taken her copy of The Times to read over a cup of coffee in the Square. She had looked over and two tables away, George was doing exactly the same thing with his own copy of The Times. She had laughed, and with her now-familiar suspicious look, had said, "George?"
He'd put his hands up and said, "No, not this time, Faith Ruth! I didn't know you were here. I promise I am not following you." She then moved to his table, and they'd had a lively and very pleasant discussion of the news in Britain. He'd told her his story, and she had told him nothing. And she was again grateful that he didn't ask.
So Ruth was finding her way on Cyprus, and the Grid was gradually fading. So was Paris, although she missed Isabelle terribly and thought often of writing to her. She didn't, because she knew that just once wouldn't be enough. And she trusted that somehow Harry had gotten word to Isabelle that Ruth was safe and cared for, so that she wouldn't worry.
She wondered about her flat in Paris, and if Harry had done as she asked and retrieved her necklace and ring. She missed them terribly as well.
But she missed nothing and no one as terribly as she missed Harry.
Ruth still loved Harry every bit as deeply as she had when she said to goodbye to him in Dover. He was with her everywhere, a permanent resident of her heart. She felt broken, and she knew the chronic pain would always be with her, the way a physical pain can be, from a severe wound that has never fully healed. She was resigned to it, and just as someone may groan each morning under the strain of waking with injured muscles, she started each day with an ache that gradually worked its way to a feeling of relative normalcy.
No matter how she tried to move on, she found she couldn't. She fell asleep crying most nights, although there was no catalyst, no difficult moment, no specific memory that brought it on. She would put her head on the pillow and find a wave of emotion in her chest that wouldn't be held down. As she lay sobbing, Ruth knew that she would always love him, as she had told him so many times. Forever. He would always be in her life, whether or not he was physically present.
Tonight, as she did every night as she fell asleep, she wondered where he was, what he was doing, how he was feeling. And in her deep love for him, she hoped Harry wasn't in the same kind of pain she felt, although she doubted that was true.
Ruth looked at the clock. Two in the morning. Midnight in London. Was he awake, thinking of her? She reached her legs back, to where he should have been, and felt emptiness. As the tears spread again into her pillow, she said aloud softly, "Oh, Harry … will it ever get better?"
The question hung heavily in the sultry Cyprus air. She knew it was just her imagination, or perhaps the beginnings of a welcome dream, but Harry put his arms around her, and as she fell asleep, she felt his lips warm on her ear, whispering, "Yes, my Ruth. Yes."