"That was very tricky timing,” Smedley said. “How far is it from here?” He looked at the other three, who were staring aghast at the burning buildings. “Alice! How far is it from here?"
"What? Oh, miles!"
"Let's get started, then! Don't wait to say good-bye to everybody."
Alice stared at him. “How can you make jokes?” she shouted. “There are people dying, bodies—"
"If you don't laugh you cry. Come on!"
"But you can't walk in your condition!"
"Then you can carry me. Come on! No one's going to question how we're dressed! Or where the blood came from.” Smedley took Ginger's arm and urged him into motion. He assumed Exeter and Alice were following, but he did not look back. He felt the same wild exuberance he had known when he lost his hand—saved! No matter the cost, deliverance was what mattered. They could explain their bizarre appearance now, if they were asked. It could not be more than five miles or so to Lambeth, and he was sure he could manage that. He had walked almost that far with a tourniquet on his bleeding stump. Alice would find it harder in her fashionable shoes.
That was a very strange journey along the winding darkened streets of the great city. Half the population had emerged to look at the fires and the searchlight beams playing on the clouds. They cursed the Hun and called out condolences in incomprehensible accents.
About half an hour later, as the fugitives emerged from the affected area, they began to attract more attention. People started asking questions. It could not be long before another policeman appeared. Then a lorry pulled up and asked in very thick Cockney if they needed help. Alice rode in the cab with the driver, denouncing the bombs and explaining about going to stay with a mythical aunt. The men rode in the back, and a few minutes later they all arrived safely at her flat.
16
ALICE HAD NEVER HAD FOUR PEOPLE IN HER SITTING ROOM BEFORE. She had far too much furniture, and it was all designed for greater, grander rooms. The three men standing there, blinking in the harsh light, seemed to fill every inch. This was the first time she had been able to see Edward properly. He had not changed in the slightest from the gangling, fresh-faced boy he had been three years ago. Except that now his expression was murderous.
"Do sit down, please!” she said. “And I'll make some tea."
They were all beat, as if they had mud smeared under their eyes. The two youngsters were blue chinned, old Mr. Jones's beard was frazzled. His thin hair lay all awry over his bald crown, while his fingers kept touching the bridge of his nose, feeling for lost specs. She probably looked a hag herself. She ought to be exhausted, yet she seemed to be floating in unreality, a bubble on a sea of illusion.
"So the old bastard did steal it all?” Edward said.
"Don't speak ill ... You do know he died?"
"Glad to hear it. And for all eternity, he will wonder why he's in hell!"
"Edward! Go and wash out your mouth."
Still glowering, he removed the greatcoat and spread it on the sofa, bloodstains out. He gestured for Julian to sit there, while he flopped into a chair, apparently unaware that his pajamas were blood spattered also. Mr. Jones sank into the other with a long sigh, like a collapsing balloon. Alice took the kettle from the counter and headed for the bathroom to fill it, stepping over feet.
She heard Julian say, “Your late lamented uncle Roland, I presume?"
Edward growled something she did not catch; probably just as well. She returned to put the kettle on the gas ring, then stepped over all the feet again and went into the bedroom. D'Arcy's photograph was safely hidden in the drawer. She had only one other thing to remember him by, the bottle-green velvet dressing gown he had kept at her flat in Chelsea. Many of her favorite memories of him involved that gown—sitting on his lap, watching him take it off, or taking it off for him, or stepping inside it with him and feeling its soft touch on her back as he closed it around them both, body against body.... Every day I do not hear is one day closer to the end of the war.
D'Arcy would not mind her lending his dressing gown to Cousin Edward. Young Cousin Edward had been a little too friendly in the car. He should have grown out of his romantic illusions by now.
She went back into the sitting room and dropped the gown on him. “Here. You can make yourself a little more respectable."
Then she went to the cupboard and began taking out cups and saucers, not watching what was happening behind her back. Edward must have risen and donned the gown and sat down again, because she heard the chair squeak. Presumably three grown men knew a man's garment when they saw one. The silence was pregnant. Extremely pregnant.
She turned enough to see Julian. If that was an owlish look in his eye, then it was an owl trying very hard not to hoot.
"We must take a gander at your leg,” she said. “It may need a doctor."
He blinked solemnly. “Then it won't get one. It's only a gash. A scar there won't ruin my looks."
Scar! She spun around to look at Edward. His eyes had never been bluer, but she did not read in them what she had expected—reproach, self-reproach, humiliation, anger, all of them? No, Edward was amused, and suddenly it was her face that was burning. He had seen through her little ploy. However he looked on the outside, there was an older, more experienced Edward inside there.
Ignoring the embarrassment she had brought on herself, she touched his forehead. He jerked his head away.
"You had stitches!” she said.
He smiled sardonically. “Now you believe me?"
"I believed you before.” But that physical evidence made her feel creepy. He had no scar at all, which was impossible.
"The sawbones have some new techniques,” Julian said. “They're using them on the—” He yawned. “Scuse me! On the wounded. They say they can put a chap back together so the scars don't show."
"They couldn't three years ago. Get those bags off, old man,” Edward said without taking his mocking gaze away from Alice. We're all men of the world here. “Want to take a look at your leg."
Julian yawned again. “In a minute. Alice, how safe are we here? How about the neighbors?"
She turned back to the kettle, feeling it. “The old lady across the hall is as nosey as they come but deaf as a pole. The two couples at the end are away all day. You may be noticed when you go to the loo, though."
"Do it in squads and march in step?” He grinned wanly. “Or do you have a bucket we can use?"
"Good idea,” she said. Julian had a foxy streak, an echo of his boyhood mischief.
She sat down on the end of the sofa, and all her bones seemed to creak. The bubble had burst. She felt old. She wished the watched pot would boil. She did not want tea, she wanted a mattress. “Two of you can share the bed. If we—"
"Tommyrot!” Julian said. “I can sleep in two feet of mud with shells falling all around. Nagian warriors lie on the ground, so I'm told."
"'Sright.” Edward yawned also. “That's why they sleepwalk so much."
Well, well! Big boy now.
"I'll remember to lock my door."
Jones, too, was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “And I made out very well on the settee last night, or whenever it was. Feels like a week ago."
"We'd better draw up some plans, though,” Edward said sadly. “A couple of hours’ shut-eye until the shops open won't hurt, but we can't stay here longer."
"Why not?” Alice had been wondering about that, and had decided that they had left no trail. “There's nothing to connect the car to us.” She had dropped the lockup key down a drain in Bermondsey.