This chapter is so late, and I am so sorry! The summer was very busy for me, and I didn't get to write as much as I had originally wanted unfortunately. I am back now, though, and as an official apology I made this chapter longer than the last few, not so angsty, and put in a disgusting amount of interaction between Ron & Emilia. Gross, I know. But in the next chapter we'll be saying farewell to rainy Britain, if you catch my meaning, so I thought a nice filler chapter would be welcome. Also: just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone that favourited, followed, and reviewed! It means the world to me and kept me going through my little block. Shout out to howdystrangers for sending love to my tumblr for this story! The support is much appreciated. Happy reading! xx
CHAPTER VI
"Every morning, I wake up and forget just for a second that it happened.
But once my eyes open, it buries me like a landslide of sharp, sad rocks. Once my eyes open,
I'm heavy, like there's too much gravity on my heart."
29 April 1944
London, England UK
Footsteps on pavement – rushed, but steady. Eyes cast downwards, hats pulled over eyes, strands of hair flying away from once-neat curls. Blood rushes impossibly fast through tormented veins. More steps, not theirs, falling in heavy footfalls. They're getting closer. But, they fall so cruelly, those other boots, on the cobblestone paths, so harsh and demanding. Closer, still. They can't look back. If they look back, they'll lose. They can't lose. They're getting closer! They start to run. Her hand reaches for his, but she can't find it. He opens his mouth, he tells her to run. And then he's gone. She can't hear him, all she hears is –
The train's whistle gave a harsh cry as it stopped, startling the woman awake and causing her to knock her forehead against the glass. As far as being woken up went, it wasn't the best instance – but then, it wasn't the worst either. At least it did the trick in really waking her up, for the remnants of bad dreams were all but vanished from her mind.
Skip Muck stuck his head in cheerfully at that moment. "Welcome to London, Slim."
As if neither of them had ever been.
"I think today's gonna be a really swell day, don't you? Real swell."
And then he was gone.
—
It was raining in London. The station café was full of soldiers, all varying of rank, looking for what good times there were to be had before confronting the nearing fields of opposition. A weekend pass could mean a lot to a man on the brink of such a thing. London was, to the brave soldiers of the allied force, a breath of fresh air – despite being quite the opposite in the literal sense – with the country air came training and stress, the ever-present reminder of battle looming on the horizon, but the city? The city offered an escape, however temporary; a chance to forget what responsibilities had been thrust upon the world's youth. Perhaps they often wondered if people in Berlin had the same thoughts, but then maybe it was easier to think that they didn't.
Emilia was sat at one of the corner tables, a closed book on the table between her, Buck Compton, and Skip Muck, who was enthusiastically telling her stories of the man he'd come to meet - his best friend's older brother, apparently, who had seen already seen action in Sicily and elsewhere with the 82cd airborne. They were all so excited, she thought, to go to war and victory and relish in the stories of other men. She wondered what it would be like, to see the transition from idealistic youths to hardened soldiers; the real cost of war.
"I don't know, it's just gonna be a nice change, y'know?" He spoke between mouthfuls of a blueberry scone. "Bein' able to talk to someone who ain't gonna bullshit us about what's over really waitin' for us, after the jump. Someone who's opinion I can really trust, y'know?"
"You don't think Strayer, Sink, and Meehan have trustworthy opinions?"
"Nah, it ain't that…" he pushed his lips out in thought. "I just think they sugar coat it all… 'cos they gotta, for our benefit. I mean, don't get me wrong or anything—I ain't complainin', I don't need all the gory details. I get it. What with how they are with keepin' moral up and sh—tuff."
Emilia scoffed, sharing a knowing look with Buck. "And schtuff. Yes, I'm aware."
"Hey. Can't swear in front of the lady," Muck reasoned.
"Lady? What lady?" Buck asked, exaggeratedly looking around.
Emilia glared at the man, and Muck continued: "It'll just be a relief, hearin' about it from someone like us."
He didn't mean it in that way, but Emilia couldn't help but feel somewhat ostracised by the comment. Like us, he'd said, like all the other men waiting to be shipped off to god knows where, linked to one another in that single, unavoidable fate. Unlike her, who would play the endless game of waiting and waiting for the white flags to rise, hoping it wouldn't be hands like hers hoisting them up.
"When are you going to meet him?"
"Eager to get rid of us already, Slim, my dear?" Muck grinned. His grin only widened at her glare. "In a minute, just waiting for Malarkey to stop chattin' up that broad over there. Jesus, look at him—" they all turned toward the counter, witnessing a rather bashful looking sergeant.
Buck chuckled. "You'd think he never saw a girl before. I should probably get him outta here, save the poor thing. We'll see you back on the train, huh?" When she nodded, they both stood up, putting on caps.
Skip spoke with feigned concern. "Don't get into too much trouble without me, y'hear?"
"I can't promise anything."
"Atta girl," Buck said, and Muck saluted with exaggerated effort before going to his friend, the slightest skip to his step that put a smile on Emilia's face.
There was something so much about him – Skip – that reminded her of Henryk, the shine in his eye perhaps, or that good nature that was nestled deep within him. It seemed that Muck could put a smile on the face of anyone he encountered, friendly in a way that not many could boast. She hoped he would keep that throughout the war, even when it seemed that all else was lost, he'd be able to return to his friends and family with the same glint in his eye and joke on his tongue. She hoped, too, that her brother would return to her similarly, but those were hopes that were best to be locked away, deep—especially on that day, when she'd promised herself to try, for just that once, to enjoy herself for a day rather than angst over that which she had no control over, as she did all other days. At the very least, some peace.
"Anyone sittin' here?" She looked up to see Nixon, wielding a piece of paper. "I think I've got something that might interest you."
So much for peace.
—
Across the café, leaning against the bar with coffee far too hot, stood Lieutenant Speirs and Private DiMarzio – or Jumbo, as he'd been nicknamed. They were as unaware of Emilia's presence as she was theirs, and instead spoke of other affairs – mainly what there was to see and do in London during their short visit, and then there was the occasional mention of a pretty broad that walked by – a blonde one in particular, with whom Jumbo was currently trying his luck. It wasn't until the door chimed open once again that Ron's attention was garnered away from his companions amusing attempts, fixed instead on a leaving soldier – Lieutenant Nixon, as it turned out. Curious. Ron would have figured him to be spending the day at some pub somewhere, whiskey in one hand and a damn in the other. It was in retracing the other man's path that he finally noticed the agent's presence, and suddenly every other dame in the vicinity became a lot less interesting.
Jumbo didn't notice when he left.
"You look like you just found out there's a war on," a pause followed. "Ma'am."
Emilia – who'd been focusing on a falling drop of rain mournfully – looked up. "There's a war on?"
"I'm sorry to break it to you."
She smiled, but he noted it was slightly forced – pulling at her cheeks with an exaggeration that the line, lame as it was, didn't deserved. He supposed he'd ought to be grateful for the effort, and Ron supposed he was. He was more grateful, though, at her offer for him to join her. It was a strange kind of pull he felt towards the young woman – no younger than himself – and it drove him mad at times, that he couldn't place his finger on it. Maybe, it was just because she was there; some piece of normal to cling to amongst the storm of preparation and endless waiting – a distraction, as she had been since she arrived. That was all. A distraction.
She fiddled with a silver spoon, and he spoke again. "The coffee's good here..."
"I'm not having coffee. It's tea." At his look, she continued: "What?"
"You actually drink that?"
"No, I just like to pour into cups and stir it around."
"It just tastes like boiled water to me."
"It is boiled water."
"Ah. I knew there had to be a reason."
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms on the table. "What are you doing here, lieutenant?"
"Weekend pass, ma'am."
"That's not what I meant."
"It's impolite, isn't it? To see someone you know and not say hello, at the very least. All right, Fine. I'll admit, too, to being the slightest bit curious as to what Nixon had to say. Why, do you want me to leave, ma'am?"
She shook her head, sitting up straight. "Not what I meant either. And, that wasn't anything important, just… battalion news, I suppose. Nothing exciting, and it's classified in any case, though I do applaud your effort, Lieutenant Speirs." She smiled, then continued: "I'm surprised you're still here. I figured you all would be deeper in the city by now, causing trouble or… well, that's all you men ever do, isn't it?"
"Truth be told, ma'am, I would have preferred to stay in Aldbourne. I only came out for the men," he explained. It did them well, to see their commanding officers out and amongst them every once in awhile. It was no harm to him either, to breathe the city air. "And you? Are you staying here until your boiled water gets cold, or do you have plans to cause trouble of your own?"
She shook her head, but smiled softly. "No. There's this… social gathering that I was invited to. Not exactly a party. Too boring, I'd reckon. Just a lot of officers and their wives talking about things they don't understand or really care about. My plan was to sit here until it stopped raining, or until I decided whether or not I wanted to go."
"Why wouldn't you want to?"
"Aside from the fact that today is meant to be a break from the brass? The Lieutenant invited me – Halloran. I'm not sure if you remember him. He was at the demonstration awhile back, in Uppottery. When you gave me back my cigarette case." She leaned on the table, lowering her voice somewhat to give the impression of discretion. "Which would be fine, usually, but… well, between the two of us, Lieutenant, I've the slightest suspicion that I'm being courted."
Ron's expression shifted subtly, but she took no notice of it.
"I see. Isn't that what you want?"
"No… what do you mean?"
"What all women want," Ron leaned back in his chair, the previous good humour souring somewhat. He wasn't entirely sure what bothered him more: the idea of her and that stuffy officer, or that he cared even about it in the first place. He spoke again, as if his point were obvious and he wasn't in the least bit bitter. "For some decorated officer to take a notice in them. Isn't that the dream for all of you, Agent? Fancy parties, boiled water, important people, and a nice uniform to show off back home," He pulled a cigarette from his uniform pocket, placing it between his lips. "That's how it is everywhere."
"Unbelievable," Emilia exhaled, shaking her head. "Is that what you think of me? Do you think all women join the war effort to find themselves a husband, of all things, Lieutenant? And—… you know what? Even if some of us do, that's no concern of yours. You—you think you're some kind of expert on everything. On war, on women." She crossed her arms over her chest, exhaling irritably.
"What's the difference?" Ron felt the slightest satisfaction at her frustration, at seeing the fire peek through her ever composed self. Of course he didn't think all women joined the army for such demure reasons. He had a profound respect, in reality, for her and every other woman that chose to be there despite societal norms. But, it was far too easy to rile her up, and he wasn't going to miss out on the opportunity to distract from his own, sudden, irritations or insecurities.
She scoffed, and looked back out the window. "You have no idea what I want."
He softened at that, feeling a tinge of guilt in provoking her so.
"Don't I?" She looked back at him. "You want to find your brother."
It may not have been his place to say such a thing, but he found himself forming the words before he could stop them.
Emilia, for her part, looked uncharacteristically taken aback by the reply – unexpected, entirely. She remembered telling him a little about Henryk, when he gave her back that small piece of her brother that she thought she'd lost, but she hadn't expected the Lieutenant to remember it well enough to mention. She knew he had a penchant for pushing her buttons, for knowing exactly what to say to get a rise out of her, but she didn't imagine that his familiarity with her could go beyond that. That he could know, too, what to say to erase that exasperation entirely. Emilia wasn't sure why that scared her, a little.
"I… should be going," She slid the book into her purse, putting it on the table, standing and hesitating only slightly when he stood, too. "It was nice seeing you, Lieutenant. I—I'll see you back in Aldbourne. Good day," she didn't wait for his reply, but turned on her heel instead, still trying to put her coat on in the retreat and pretending not to hear whatever he was saying as she left.
It was such a strange back and forth between them, she thought. Emilia enjoyed her conversations with the lieutenant as much as with anyone else, or perhaps a little more than she ought to have, but they always seemed to end before either could figure out exactly what to say to each other. Even with all their disagreements and the frustrations those occurrences were laden with, she couldn't deny an almost intriguing factor in her interactions with the man. It was enough, even, to sometimes leave her looking forward to the next meetings. But those weren't the kinds of thoughts she was willing to entertain in such times. Maybe in another life, she could, but not this one. In this one, perhaps, she thought it would be best to stay away from him; him and those eyes that seemed look right through her. He would be gone soon, after all. Just like all the rest of them.
Yes, she thought, that would be for the best.
But, what was for the best seemed to be ignored entirely, as it was just then that he caught up with her at the street corner.
"What—" she turned toward him, hands frozen on the beret she'd been adjusting.
"You forgot this," he held out her purse, and after a moment of consideration, she laughed.
"Thank you. I'm surprised it didn't take you three months to get this back to me as well."
His head ducked in an attempt to sequester the grin that formed, but he figured it was a lost cause – and he was right, she saw it. Ron thought about leaving it at that, a stolen smile on a crowded street, but he instead allowed himself a moment to look at her. She looked pale – her cheeks flushed and pink from the cold – dark hair brushing the tops of her shoulders, speckled with drops of rain. They were there on her eyelashes too, he noticed, not having realised he was close enough to do so. He swallowed, and looked off down the street.
"Walk with me?"
She didn't take the time to think about it. "All right."
...
It had stopped raining about half an hour into their walk, but London was still grey and cloudy well into it, the sun just barely peaking through the blanket of clouds above a blitz-ridden city. Emilia stepped over a puddle, noticing with some amount of exasperation that there was a bit of mud on her heels. And, they were new, too. Oh well. That's what she got, she supposed, for wearing nice shoes in the middle of April. She glanced – briefly – at Ron, sidelong, before stepping around another puddle. His hair was mussed slightly, likely from the rain, strands rebelling from the military mould. Emilia thought it looked nice that way, but she didn't say as much when he smoothed it back. Instead, she listened as he told her about Boston – about his childhood there, siblings, and a little about Scotland, too. He told her, also, about how he'd studied to be an accountant, of all things, however brief the endeavour had been. It was a funny picture, she'd mused, the thought of him in an office somewhere running endless numbers – or doing whatever it was accountants did, for she wasn't certain.
Would he go back to it, after the war? Would there even be an after for him?
"That sounds... exciting."
"It wasn't," Ron chuckled. "But, it was stable. I made it home for dinner every night, much to my mother's delight, and was damn – excuse me, ma'am – pretty close to affording an apartment downtown, much to my father's delight."
"Wanted to kick you out, did he?"
He shook his head. "No, not so much. Just wanted us all to start our lives, I think, be proper Americans. My mother held us close; too close, sometimes, like all mothers do. My father's always been better at letting us go, with some exceptions. The war having been the main one."
"It was opposite for me," she sighed. War had come, and she'd all but been shoved out the front door. She didn't want to think about that, though.
A wide smile broke through a moment later.
Ron glanced at her. "Why are you smiling?"
"I was picturing you in an office. Lipstick on your cheek from mummy," she tapped her forefinger to her cheek, but at his face she forced herself to frown, and gave a short nod. "It's an improvement."
"That's very funny," He could still see the cheeky grin pulling at the corners of her lips, despite her poor effort. "And how should I picture you, before all of this?"
"Me? You can picture me…" She hummed. Emilia couldn't even picture herself before the war. You can picture me happy. What was happy? Happiness was playing in the autumn leaves. It was her father's cello, and her mother's smile. It was her sister, brushing her hair before bed, and her brother's laughter as they raced down the street. Yes, she thought. "You can picture me happy."
Ron considered that, hands in pockets, as they reached the bus stop at last; her bus, not his. He would be returning to his men to drink stale beer and flirt with faceless dames, while she was off to attend fancy gatherings with expensive wine and tiny sandwiches; neither of them spending the day how they really wanted to.
"You're not happy now?"
"Is anyone, in war? It would feel wrong somehow, I think, to be happy now." She pulled a cigarette from her case, nodding gratefully when the Lieutenant moved to light it for her. She studied him for a moment, blowing the smoke to the side. "Are you?"
"No," he bit his bottom lip, thinking about it. "I don't know. I don't think I've ever really been."
"That makes me sad."
"I didn't say it for your pity, ma'am," he spoke sharply.
Emilia sighed. She didn't pity him, and she hated his tone, but neither did she much feel like fighting him in that moment. So, she settled with a soft "Sorry," and pretended not to feel her cheeks heat up at his scolding tone. She looked away, shoulders falling slightly. "This whole war makes me sad, among other things – emotions. I just wish it would stop dragging on, endlessly. I'd like very much for it all to be over."
Ron's lips twitched as he watched as the bus rolled up, and he felt the need to make amends. "I'll win the war for you."
And then, she smiled; really smiled. There was nothing forced about the gesture this time, as she looked at him again. It bloomed and blossomed across her features without the slightest bit of hesitation, and – to Ron – it felt as though the sun was shining in London again. "That would be nice."
"Goodbye, Agent Rösner."
"I'll see you, Lieutenant."
—
Elsewhere in London, in a little pub no one remembered the name of, six soldiers were huddled around a small table. Among them was: Chuck Grant, Joe Toye, Donald Malarkey, Skip Muck, Fritz Niland, and Bob Niland – the latter two were brothers, friends of Skip's, from back home in Tonawanda. The entire evening would be spent in that little pub, but it wasn't as thrilling a trip as they'd all imagined on the train. There were few jokes exchanged amongst the men, no girls were brought to the table to be charmed by the seasoned soldiers, and there weren't any generous patrons offering to buy drinks for the brave boys from America. Instead, they all listened with heavy hearts to the stories Bob Niland recounted, knowing very soon they'd have tales of their own to tell idealistic trainees.
"If you want to be a hero," he'd told them, a rare grin forming on his lips that made him look but a shadow of his old self. "The Germans will make one out of you real quick—dead!"
Muck was put off the most, perhaps, by the encounter. But, then, what had he expected? For Bob to tell him war was glorious, and that men didn't really die but just... went back home. Like a game, or something. That was wishful thinking, perhaps, but he certainly wasn't expecting this. He could remember Bob well from the days before the war. Hell, those memories of the Niland boys were among the few that really kept him going through training. But, this man that sat across from him, dark circles beneath his eyes and jagged around the edges… Skip felt more familiar with the strangers on the street than he did this person he'd grown up with. Would this be his future, as well? To be disillusioned with war and life, finding no more pleasure in the world, but for bitter comments and morbid warnings made in dimly lit pubs.
No, he thought. No, I'll never be like this. They'll have to take my life before they take my spirit.
"Well, I don't know about you," Malarkey said to Skip, voice low so as to avoid prying ears. "But it seems to me like Bob Niland's lost his effectiveness."
—
The train's halls were full of shoving soldiers and girls who – purposefully or not – were stepping on their feet. Emilia was trying to navigate the train as carefully as one could, but it was to no avail. By the time she'd found who she'd been looking for, she'd already been elbowed in the stomach, stepped on thrice, and nearly shoved into an old man's lap. She really hated people who said they enjoyed train rides – it looked far more picturesque on film reels than it did in the flesh. She waved down Muck, who – along with Malarkey – was taking up space in the crowded, hectic halls despite being near their seats.
She wasn't at all surprised.
"How was it, then?" She spoke, a bit out of breath. "Your meeting?"
Malarkey gave a low whistle, before ducking inside the compartment to leave them. Emilia furrowed her brows, pulling off her gloves as she spoke again: "Bad?"
Skip Muck did a lot of thinking in a little bit of time. He could tell her the truth, all those bitter words and haunting stories that every soldier and civilian already knew (but pretended not to), or he could smile and say it was a swell time, just as he'd predicted. He'd probably sleep a little better, taking the first route, but hell... what good was there in worrying her? She could hide it very well, he had to admit, that caring nature she tried so hard to bury. Emilia just wasn't as good as she thought she was, truthfully. He could live with losing a bit of sleep over a white lie, if it meant she could rest easier and not worry about him. It wasn't as though he was expecting to get much sleep in the months to come, anyway. So, he just smiled, and shook his head.
"Nah. Malark's just bitter still, about that dame from earlier. Couldn't swing that number."
"What a shame,"
"For the best. She had freckles, too. The both of them together?" He whistled. "I'd pity that kid."
"You still haven't said how the talk with your friend went."
"What's there to say? He said everything I expected him to, y'know? Lots of pretty girls that don't know how to say 'no', plenty of krauts to shoot while passing the time, and the most comfortable beds waitin' for us. Honestly, I can hardly wait to get over there! Ah, but it was fine. He's the same old Bob, really. Still has that leap and shine from when we were kids. I'm relieved." He leaned against the compartment door, and hoped to god he wasn't overselling it. Her smile, relieved, made him think he'd done well. "Anyway, I'm more interested in hearing how your day went, Slim. Break any hearts? Did'ya end up goin' to that party?"
"Not as many as I'd have liked," she glared at a passing man, who'd just bumped into her quite rudely. "I did, and I can report that it was uneventful. Just a lot of overweight officers talking about accomplishments, and pretty women judging my muddy shoes. I think I prefer this hallway to it, honestly. I would have rather spent the day just..." she sighed then, but there was a soft smile on her lips. "... walking around the city."
"... in those shoes?"
"Shut up, Sergeant."
He snapped to attention, just as the whistle blew in warning. "Yes, ma'am. See ya back in the village," he adopted a thick, southern accent, and turned to join his friends. Emilia shook her head, moving on to find her own seat before the train started. Skip called after her, though, and she turned back a few feet away. He was sticking his head out the door, curiosity furrowing his brows. "I saw Nixon passing by when we left, earlier, sitting over with you. Anything worth sharing with me, a lowly soldier who cares nothing for gossip at all?"
She hesitated. "No. Nothing worth sharing."
Earlier that day…
"Anyone sittin' here?" She looked up to see Nixon, wielding a piece of paper. "I think I've got something that might interest you."
"Be my guest," she gestured to the open chair, and almost laughed at how literal the expression was. She hadn't realised that before. English was a funny language. She crossed her arms on the table, looking at the piece of paper with a suspicious gaze. "I don't suppose that's Germany's unconditional surrender?"
"Wishful thinking," Nixon clicked his tongue. "Thought they stamped that outta you Brits in '39."
"Well. I'm a rare breed of optimist, what can I say?"
He chuckled, and they both ordered tea when the server found their table. "Wish I could say you were right," Nixon waited for the server to walk away before he slid the paper across the table, and Emilia almost made jest of the secretive behaviour – everyone in Intelligence always acted like spies in a film – but he spoke again before she got the chance. "It's our date."
"I'm flattered, but I'll have to decline. I don't have the patience to be a mistress."
"No," he scoffed, putting milk in his tea. "We got our date." Emilia's grin slowly slid off her face with realisation, and she looked at him for only a moment longer before picking up the paper and scanning it over herself. Nixon continued: "It's not final, of course – subject to change, and all that, which is why it's on a strictly need-to-know basis for the time being. May's gonna be one hell of a month in training for the boys, I'll tell ya. Our last month in Aldbourne."
He didn't mean for it to sound so ominous.
Emilia stared at the paper, seeing but not seeing. She wasn't entirely sure how to react, or if there was even a right way to do so. She felt as though she'd just been cursed to know the date of so many men's deaths, and that knowledge weighed down the paper in her hands. Men die everyday, a voice told her. But, not like this. "June fifth?" she said, looking up at last.
He dropped a cube of sugar in his cup and hers, nodding, but neither of them drank.
"June fifth."