“How long do you think it will last?” pressed Harris.
“ Longer than anyone expected.”
“That’s rather grim.”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence until they entered Waterloo and Robert Brentwood alighted, turning to pay the cabbie. Harris waved the money away.
“All right,” said Brentwood. “You can put off some of the people some of the time, but you can’t put off all of the people all of the time.” And with that he handed the bookshop manager the liter of Old Espagnol that he’d been hiding under his coat.
Harris was agape.
“Thanks for everything, Mr. Harris. I really appreciate—”
Harris cut in, “I’m — really, this is quite — wonderful.”
“Between allies,” said Brentwood, smiling.
“Allies indeed.” Harris put out his hand. He made to say something, hesitated, then dared to go on anyway. “Captain, you might be right. It might last longer than any of us imagined, but if you’ll accept a piece of advice—”
“Certainly.”
Harris lowered his head. “That gal — any port in a storm, old boy.” Then he sat back in the cab, chuckling, shaking his head. “Any port — my God, Captain — don’t you tell anyone I told you that. So banal, they’d have me thrown out of the club.”
“I won’t,” said Brentwood. “Good-bye.”
“Ta-ta.”
When he got to Oxshott, a wind had come up, the oaks and big elms around the station blowing hard, a smell so fresh and clean that despite the distant thudding of antiaircraft guns and the orange scratches against the sky that were the surface-to-air missiles along the coast from East Anglia down, Robert had the sense that he had been to this place before. But not being a superstitious man, and trained in the cold logic of launch mode attack, he decided that it must be the invigorating force of the wind that had cleared the Guiness, heightened his senses, giving him the feeling of déjà vu.
The Spence house, however, looked familiar, too, like the one his parents had in New Jersey — double-storied, semimodern brick. All the lights were out, but flower beds were dimly visible beneath the high silver moon, a dog barking from somewhere behind the house, and a run of big bushes, possibly rhododendrons, giving the whole garden a casually ordered appearance. He rang the bell, realizing that he’d planned this operation badly. But there had been no hotel rooms left in Oxshott, so it was either this or back to the train station to wait until 4:00 a.m. A light came on, then another.
When the front door opened, he saw a woman, her hair in curlers, long, padded dressing gown held tightly by her hand at the throat. He guessed it was the dead boy’s mother. He took off his cap. “Mrs. Spence?”
“No, is there something—”
“I’m Captain Brentwood, ma’am. U.S. Navy. Robert Brentwood. My sister is a nurse — she was William’s nurse and she wrote me with—”
“Oh — oh.” He heard the door chain rattling. “Oh, do come in. Ah — oh, please come in.” She switched on the kitchen and living room lights. She switched them off again, explaining quickly, “I haven’t drawn the blackout drapes.”
“What’s—Rosemary!” A man in his sixties, tousled head of sparse brown hair, in a tartan nightrobe, was coming down from the upstairs bedroom, peering shortsightedly.
“Oh, Father. This is Captain Brentwood. Nurse Brentwood’s brother. He’s—”
Richard Spence tightened the belt on his robe and put out his hand. “How kind of you. My goodness, where have you come from at this hour?”
“London, sir. I ‘m afraid I left it a bit late, and when I reached Oxshott, there were no bed-and-breakfast places, hotels, or anything else. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Bother? No bother. Rose, get Mother quickly.” He turned back to Brentwood, tying his robe tighter about his thin frame. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, sir. That’d be nice.”
Robert Brentwood decided there and then not to tell them about the damaged tape in his kit. If they asked, he’d say it never arrived. It would be heartbreak for them.
When Mrs. Spence came down slowly, a short, frail lady with soft white hair, she looked dazed.
Richard Spence said softly, “My wife’s been on medication, Captain. Ever since—”
“Of course, sir. I understand.” Robert Brentwood rose to his feet to greet Mrs. Spence.
Richard Spence left the room hurriedly. The American’s manners, his thoughtfulness in coming this far, all the way from Scotland, to bring something of their son’s last hours in a foreign place, filled Richard Spence with such gratitude, he had to excuse himself in order to regain his composure. When he reappeared, he was in command of the situation. “I hope you’ll be staying.”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, sir. A bed for the night would be more than—”
“Tonight? When are you due back?”
“Ten days, sir.”
“Of course he must stay,” put in Anne Spence, the hot, steaming tea Rosemary had made reviving her. “William’s room.”
There was a quick glance between Rosemary and her father. It was the first time Anne Spence had even considered the idea of anyone entering William’s room.
“Perhaps,” said Rosemary, who Robert now saw had taken off her scarf and hair rollers, her hair warm and golden, “perhaps the captain has other plans, Mother. I’m sure he has friends.”
“No, I don’t.” He had said it without thinking. Why, he couldn’t fathom. First law of defense — never betray your most vulnerable angle of attack. It was Rosemary — her eyes. She was not especially beautiful, but there was a kindness, devoid of any cunning, and in that moment he remembered Lana’s injuction about giving love. He had been trained for split-second decisions; his kind of war did not permit anything else. A second lost was a ship lost.
He wanted to stay. The house, astonishingly to him, did not have a different smell from his own home; perhaps it was a spice, something as mundane as a rug cleaner his mother had used with the same odor, or perhaps he’d been at sea so long, he could no longer tell the difference in ambience between one house and another. Whatever the reason, he felt he was in a home he knew and understood. Here there was loyalty and affection. And there was love.
“I’d like to stay,” he said.
“Bravo!” said Richard Spence, brightening. “You hungry?”
Brentwood thought about it for a moment. “Why, yes, sir, I believe I am.” They all laughed. Even Mrs. Spence showed the trace of a smile.
“Now then, what do you Americans like?” asked Richard. “Wish Georgina was here.” He looked over at Brentwood. “She’s our younger daughter. Up at LSE — London School of Economics. Political Science—”
“What on earth has that got to do with what Americans eat?” asked the frail-looking Mrs. Spence.
“Haven’t the foggiest,” replied Richard, rolling up the sleeves of his robe so they wouldn’t touch the element. “Well, Georgina thinks she knows everything, I suppose. That’s why.”
“Americans like hamburgers,” said Mrs. Spence.
“Eggs,” said Richard. “What’s that expression? Easy up?”
“Easy over, Daddy,” said Rosemary, chuckling. She shook her head at Robert. “Don’t mind us,” she said. “I expect we’re bombarding you awfully. Perhaps you hate eggs?”
“No, ma’am, I love them.” Brentwood also knew that eggs were the least-rationed of foods — much easier to get than meat.
“You see?” cut in Richard happily. “I told you, Rose. How about a Welsh rarebit?”
“Sounds fine,” said Brentwood.
“Oh,” said Rosemary, “how rude we are.” She walked over and took Robert’s cap. “Call me Rose,” she said quietly, and Robert Brentwood did something he normally never did. He looked at her fingers. No rings.