x

'Between The Lines'

or

'Undecided'

Late August 1944

Aldbourne, Wiltshire

Eve watched Louise and Floyd. They sat close together on a bench on the pub terrace, turned slightly away from the centre of things, laughing and speaking softly. He was looking well, she thought, lively and handsome, and he seemed not even to notice the pain and tightness in his chest. How different from the thin and weary paratrooper she had first met just a month before… She would have liked to have credited his return to health to her own influence, but there was no use pretending: he was never happier than when he was with Louise. She knew she ought to worry, and yet she could not blame him. There was something about Louise, a spirited exquisiteness that would make anyone bloom under her gaze. It was strange: Floyd had described her as cold, once. Eve had expected a very different sort of woman.

"This is the B.B.C. Home Service, and here is the news…"

From the wireless in the living room the newsreader's voice came, clear and measured, down the hall and into the kitchen, where Louise and Eleanor sat with the remains of their breakfast on the table between them. It had rained in the night, and the morning had dawned cold and misty: the two women wore dressing gowns over their pyjamas, but the kitchen was cosy and warm with the scent of coffee, a present from Chuck Grant. Eleanor was making Louise giggle by describing, with a twinkle in her eye, how she might repay him for the gift, if only she were thirty years younger, but at the sound of the presenter's voice, the conversation faltered as they both turned slightly to listen.

There was a beat, and the newsreader said:

"Paris has been liberated."

Louise dropped her coffee cup; it shattered against the tiled floor, but neither she nor Eleanor seemed to notice.

"The French Second Armoured Division and elements of the American Fourth Infantry Division fought their way to the heart of the city late last night, despite resistance from the occupying German forces—"

Eleanor clapped her hands together, beaming, and squeezed Louise's shoulder before dashing into the living room to fetch the wireless. Stunned, Louise watched her go, and then glanced down at her hands: with a string of apologies and hissed profanities tumbling from her mouth, she dropped to her knees to pick up the pieces of china.

"—the scene of fierce and chaotic fighting since last Saturday—"

As Louise discarded the shattered china, Eleanor cleared a space amongst the plates and bowls for the radio, and turned up the volume. There was a blare of interference, but the broadcast continued.

"—uprising staged by the French Forces of the Interior. But the Parisian people were met last night by a company of the French Second Armoured Division, which broke into the centre of Paris by the Pont d'Austerlitz and arrived at the Hôtel de Ville just before midnight."

The two women sat close together, their hands clasped, as the restrained voice of the B.B.C. newsreader was replaced with that of a correspondent, fading in and out of the crackle of static, buoyant with exhilaration.

"It's the most marvellous sight I've ever seen… As we came down the boulevard into the heart of Paris, people came running out of their houses, out of the shops, shaking hands with us… Children were held up to us to be kissed, and they clung around our necks—"

There were faint sounds of gunshots, cracking and ricocheting in the space between the reporter's words, indicating that the battle had not yet been won, but it was hard not be swept along on the wave of jubilation.

"People are giving us flowers, fruit, everything. It's simply the most wonderful procession. The Parisian people are mad with joy. Just listen to these crowds…"

Cheers, whistles, and shouts of joy were heard through the hiss of static. Someone took up the Marseillaise and, as it rang through the crowd and filled the cottage kitchen, Louise and Eleanor beamed at each other. Louise could imagine it all: the wreckage of tanks and armoured cars, the shattered masonry and splintered glass, the broken branches of the plane trees on the Paris streets she knew so well, and, just as vivid, the elated faces of the Parisians and the F.F.I. fighters, waving flags and drinking champagne hidden throughout the Occupation.

The broadcast ended and the presenter moved on to the other war news, but Eleanor switched the wireless off. She sat in happy silence for a moment, and then took her breakfast things to the sink.

"Isn't this just the most splendid news?" she said over her shoulder.

Louise leant back in her chair and folded her hands across her stomach. "Yes, it is," she said, her mind far away. "I wish…"

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

She shook her head and fell quiet once more, wishing for many things all at once, thinking of that silver city and its people, starving and fearful for so long, and now free.

Further broadcasts followed throughout the day, announcing the entrance of American troops into Paris, the arrival of General Leclerc, and, in the early afternoon, the surrender of the German forces occupying the city. The villagers gathered around their wirelesses, listening to the correspondent, whose voice was tight with exhaustion and excitement, describe the German troops filing out of their strongholds to face the fury of the Parisians, the wild celebrations of the French soldiers and résistants, and the joyous ringing of the bells of Notre Dame.

The radio played French music in honour of the occasion, and it was heard across the village through the open windows of the cottages; young women strolled arm in arm, chattering about the news, and, as if the weather had sensed the lively mood, the cloud lifted and the afternoon sun shone warm and bright.

In the early evening, the villagers gathered on the green to continue the merriment. French flags and banners, souvenirs from the last war, were unearthed from attics and draped from second-floor windows, and the women pinned homemade tricolore rosettes to their blouses. A few men fetched musical instruments and began to play, and the villagers held hands and danced in a long chain that circled the green.

Floyd and Eve sat on a bench on the pub terrace, surrounded by stone troughs draped with honeysuckle and fuchsias, chatting quietly. She was settled into his side, her head resting against his shoulder, as she watched the dancers; his fingers traced slow circles on her arm as he listened to her speak, but he was staring over at Louise, who sat alone on the far side of the terrace.

"We've been listening to the wireless all day," Eve was saying. "It sounds like everyone in Paris is out celebrating in the streets."

"One hell of a party, I bet."

"Wonderful, isn't it?"

"Oh, sure," Floyd agreed. "I'm glad that what we did in Normandy meant something. Y'know, that it led to this."

He smiled down at her as she reached up and squeezed his hand. For a moment they talked about other things, until Floyd pressed a kiss to her forehead, picked up their empty glasses, and went to fetch them another drink. He returned a few minutes later, and handed her the glass of cider before settling down beside her once more.

Eve took a sip of her drink, and then asked, "Were you scared?"

"Not really. I've ordered drinks before."

"No, I…" She laughed despite herself. "I meant… I meant in Normandy." There was a beat of silence, and she shook her head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

Floyd touched her hand. "It's okay." He paused, trying to find the words. "Well—yeah, of course I was scared. I got lost on D-Day, for Christ's sake." He laughed down at her, and she managed a smile in response. "It was kinda hard to keep my cool stuck in a hedgerow with a Kraut patrol marching past. And then… there was that night outside Carentan. That was the worst. I thought I was gonna die."

Her expression was solemn. "But you didn't."

"No. No, I didn't. You can thank Louise for that."

There were many things that Eve wanted to say just then. Instead, she simply looked at him, the line of his profile edged in amber in the glow of the setting sun, and she nodded and murmured: "She's quite something."

He gave no answer, or any indication that he had even heard her, but kept staring out across the terrace. After a moment, she followed the direction of his gaze and saw Louise, sitting by herself underneath the row of hanging baskets, watching the dancers with a blank expression.

Eve smiled, though it took some effort, and said: "Speaking of…" She studied the other woman for a moment longer. "She looks rather deep in thought."

"She looks sad," Floyd corrected before he could stop himself. He was silent for a little while, and then he turned to her. "I'm just gonna…" His vague gesture towards Louise finished the sentence. "Back in a minute."

With a smile, he squeezed her arm gently, and then got to his feet and moved off through the crowd. Eve watched as he exchanged a few words with a group of young privates, causing them to laugh, and edged past them, and then he disappeared from view.

The roar of laughter from the replacements caused Louise to glance up; she saw Floyd a second later, and caught and held his eye as he approached.

He stopped at her side and shoved his hands in his pockets, grinning down at her. "Evening," he said. "Mind if I join you?"

"I do mind, yes. So don't—" she gritted her teeth as he took the chair opposite— "sit down. God!" She glared at him. "Can you never do as you're asked?"

Floyd shook his head. "I can't, actually. I'm allergic to doing as I'm asked." He leant back in the chair. "So, then, what's the problem?"

"At the moment? You."

He laughed, another quip at the ready, but, as the sadness in her eyes returned as she watched the dancers, opted for sincerity instead. "I just wondered," he began gently, "because you're sat here alone—"

"I'm not alone. I'm with the Reids."

"Yeah? Are they trying out for The Invisible Man or something?"

"They're inside the pub," she shot back, now acutely aware of Chuck and George's furtive glances and of Eve's steady gaze from across the terrace, "with your girlfriend's parents. And speaking of—will you please go away and sit with her instead?"

"Not until you tell me what's on your mind."

Louise just sighed.

"Oh, come on, Lou." Floyd gestured towards the dancers, now heartily singing the Marseillaise. "Paris is free. I'd have thought you'd be glad." Then, all at once, he understood. "Oh. I…"

She looked up at him, softening, as he trailed off. "I am glad. Truly, I am. It's just…" She shrugged one shoulder. "There are lots of people I wish could be alive for this day. That's all."

He met her eye, tugging on his lower lip, and said quietly, "I'm sorry."

"Whatever for?"

A small smile appeared as he considered the question. "For annoying you into talking."

"That's never bothered you before."

Floyd was relieved to see her smile in return. There was a moment of silence, and then Louise made up her mind and spoke.

"Did I ever tell you that I lived in Paris?" she asked. "Just for a year, before the war."

"No, I didn't know that."

Louise nodded. "I was devastated when Paris fell in 1940. All I could think about that day were the people I'd met and known—what would happen to them, whether or not I'd ever see them again…" She looked down at her hands and then back at Floyd. "I thought that nothing could ever be the same."

He watched her silently, and waited.

"When I was sent to Normandy in September the following year," she went on, her voice low and steady, and he felt his chest tighten, "I did wonder at first if there was some chance of visiting Paris. As if it were a holiday—Croydon to Le Bourget." She managed another smile, wry this time. "I abandoned that idea very quickly. But, one night, there was a message from London, telling us that a wireless operator in the city desperately needed replacement radio valves and crystals. So… off I went."

"What was it like?" The question slipped out before he could stop himself.

Louise hesitated, trying to find the words. "At first, it was everything I'd feared. There were soldiers everywhere—" her mouth turned down in anger at the memory— "and that damn swastika hung from every building. The flowerbeds had been churned up by the armoured cars, every wall was plastered in vile propaganda, and the people—"

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she tried again: "The people all looked so grey and cold. There was none of that Gallic charm or insouciance, just—just fear and humiliation, and cruelty. But," she added, and the sorrow in her expression gave way to something quite different, "I was wrong."

Floyd frowned. "How so?"

She leant forward. "One morning, I left the safe house and wandered down the street to this little market square. There were a few stalls and trestle tables set up. People selling clothes, odd tools and furniture, fruit and vegetables… I fancied some apples, and I was on my way over to the woman with her basket when I heard music—someone practising their violin, I thought, in one of the shuttered apartments above the market." With a sudden elation: "But it grew louder and louder, and then I realised it was a group of musicians, all playing the opening of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony." She paused, and hummed: "Da-da-da-dum…"

"V for Victory," he said quietly.

"Yes. The market went eerily quiet, save for that music. Everyone had stopped to stare at the German soldiers in the square, and—" she raised her eyes skywards— "for once, for the first time, they looked worried."

Louise clasped her hands in her lap. "I returned to Normandy, and told my friend Robert what had happened. He was smiling. He took my hands and swung me around. He said to me that the people had not lost their spirit of resistance, and soon France would be free." She was silent for a moment. "A month later, he was dead."

Floyd sat still, his heart suddenly racing, staring at her. "I'm—I'm so sorry." He could think of nothing else to say.

"So…" she went on, softly. "Now you know why I am happy, but a little sad too."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged one shoulder. "I'm alright, really. Go on back to Eve, and enjoy the evening."

He hesitated. "I can stay, if you'd like."

"No." Louise shook her head. "No, I'll be heading home soon anyway—and you ought to be with your lovely girlfriend." She managed a smile. "Go on, please."

At length, he nodded and returned the small smile. He stood, and, just before he turned to leave, placed a hand on her shoulder.

The last of the light was fading from the sky as Floyd returned to his chair beside Eve. He said nothing, but simply put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her forehead as he pulled her close. Silently, too, she leant into his side, refusing to ask questions, trying hard, but with little success, to regain the easy and contented intimacy of before. Across the terrace, Chuck Grant and George Luz were looking at them over their pint glasses, and even Eleanor Reid, sitting with her own parents on a bench, enjoying the fresh air, was sending the couple little curious glances from time to time.

Eve stirred in his arms, and murmured in his ear: "Why do I get the feeling that everyone is looking at us?"

Floyd met her eye, and smiled. "Maybe 'cause I'm here with the prettiest girl in Aldbourne."

She laughed, the earlier questions forgotten, and held up her mouth to be kissed.

The following day

It was early morning, a soft, perfect morning overflowing with clear golden light, and the base was deserted—save for the drowsy sentries in the guardhouse—as Louise crossed the dusty parade ground and turned down the path towards the Easy Company barracks.

To her surprise, and delight, she saw Floyd sitting on the steps of a Nissen hut, polishing his boots with a steady concentration, brow furrowed and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She slowed, wanting to watch him for a moment longer, but then he looked up at the sound of her footsteps and beamed at her, and she smiled in response and went to join him.

He set aside the boots, the stained cloth, and the tin of polish, and turned fully to greet her. "Hello, you."

She sat down next to him, their bare arms almost touching. "Good morning."

"How are you feeling today?" he asked gently. "A little better?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. "Thank you for asking. And thank you for listening last night."

"Always." He smiled at her, and then, glancing down at his hands, added: "You're up early."

"I am, yes. It's a beautiful day." She closed her eyes and tipped her face up to the sun, radiant and warm even at this early hour. Then she turned her head to smile at him. "I'm glad you're up early, as well. I came to find you."

Tab grinned, intrigued. "Oh, yeah? Swell. I do like to start the day by meeting a beautiful blonde outside my barracks."

Louise shot him a mischievous glance. "Mmm… So do I."

"I'm not blonde."

"You're not beautiful, either."

They exchanged looks and then burst out laughing. Floyd stretched out his legs in front of him, and asked, "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Ah, yes." Louise sat up a little straighter and fixed him with another spirited look. "Well…" she went on, producing with a flourish a small tin and something wrapped in brown paper and red ribbon. "I came to find you because today is your birthday—"

"Oh, Lou."

"—and, moreover," she added, starting to laugh, "because you are twenty-one years old, and deserve to be spoiled." She held out the gifts towards him. "So—happy birthday, Floyd."

He was laughing too as he took the parcels from her, and looking at her with unexpected warmth. "Oh, Lou," he said again. "Thank you."

Then he leant forward to kiss her cheek. She felt herself blush, and was glad when he lowered his gaze and began to untie the ribbon around the present.

"Wait," she said, touching his arm. "Save that for later. It's my gift to you, and I'll only be embarrassed if you open it in front of me."

He set the parcel aside and reached for the tin. The lid came off with a quiet pop to reveal a small carrot cake, topped with soft white icing and a painted marzipan carrot.

Louise watched him closely, smiling when his face broke into a grin. "Eleanor made it," she explained, "and she and George pass on their best wishes."

"How kind… Will you thank them for me?"

"Of course."

Floyd cast another look at the cake. "We're gonna eat some of this now, right?"

"Oh, naturally. I came prepared."

She brought out a cake knife from the pocket of her skirt and held it out to him with a laugh; he cut into the cake and placed the portions on the tin lid. They ate two slices each in quick succession, and then sat grinning guiltily at each other, licking cake crumbs and icing from their fingertips.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment more, listening to the birdsong from the trees in the lane and sending each other little surreptitious glances. The sound of a bugle playing reveille suddenly split the air; startled, they checked their watches, and then turned to each other with shrugs and rueful smiles.

"I guess I'd better go," Floyd said. "Sorry."

"That's alright. It wouldn't do for a sergeant to be late for roll call."

He grinned and nodded, pushed himself to his feet, and held out his hands to help her up. She took them with a smile and stood, and reached up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

She drew away and said casually: "I'll see you at the pub later, I suppose?"

"Without a doubt." He squeezed her hands. "Thanks for the cake, and your gift."

"I hope you like it."

"I know I will."

A number of troopers came barrelling out of the barrack hut opposite, towels slung over their shoulders, heading for the shower block. Louise slipped her hands from Floyd's and took a step back.

"I ought to go," she laughed, tucking a stray curl of hair behind her ear.

"So long."

She gave him one last smile and turned to leave, and walked away along the row of Nissen huts. When she looked back, just before she turned the corner, she saw him turn the wrapped present gently in his hands with a small smile on his face. It was with a certain lightness in her step that she continued walking, out of the camp gates and down the sun-dappled lane to the village.

That evening, with the last of the day's sunlight warm on her shoulders, Louise crossed the village green in her best midnight-blue dress and stepped through the doorway of the pub into the usual flurry of chatter and music.

She edged her way through the crowd of paratroopers and villagers, with smiles here and there to those she knew, and made her way to the bar. The publican finished serving pints of beer to a trio of airmen down at the other end of the counter; she waved at him and, when he had sidled over, ordered a gin and tonic.

When the drink was in her hand, she leant against the countertop, its dark wood worn smooth in little hollows where generations of men had placed their elbows, and half-listened to the snatches of conversations around her, not noticing amid the babble the footsteps behind her until a familiar voice spoke.

"You're drinking alone?" Floyd Talbert said into her ear. "Not quite the done thing, is it?"

She smiled slowly, feeling a shiver of anticipation run down the length of her spine, and glanced at him from the corner of her eye as he stepped up close beside her. "Neither is talking to strange men."

"I'm not a stranger."

"But you are strange."

He burst out laughing. "You think you're funny."

"And you—" she turned to face him fully, her smile widening— "need a new line, my friend."

"Don't they say the old ones are the best?"

Louise tilted her head to one side. "Perhaps. But they also say that variety is the spice of life." She laughed with him, and then held up her glass. "Cheers."

Floyd clinked his tumbler against hers. "Cheers." They took sips of their drinks, and, leaning his elbow against the bar, he said: "Have I ever told you how odd I find it that you drink gin?"

"What's so odd about it?"

"Gin is for little old ladies."

She scoffed. "You're a fine one to talk. Whisky and soda, indeed."

"Whisky and soda is perfectly respectable."

"If you happen to be eighty years old."

"Maybe I am."

"Oh, really? Well, I have always had a thing for older men…"

The comment made him crack up properly, and at the sound of his laughter she dissolved into giggles as well. They leant towards each other, with the villagers and paratroopers moving on by, unnoticed, until Louise felt a hand on her elbow.

She turned to see Eleanor and George behind her. "Oh, there you are," she said. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming, after all."

"Just listening to the last of the news," Eleanor explained quickly, and then leant in towards Floyd, beaming. "Good evening, dear—and many happy returns!"

George added, "Happy birthday, lad."

"Thank you, sir," Floyd said, shaking his hand and grinning at both of them. "And—" he swooped in to plant a kiss to Eleanor's cheek— "that's to say thank you for the cake, Mrs Reid!"

"Oh… Well, you're very welcome," Eleanor replied, trying not to look too delighted, but blushing all the same. Louise stifled a smile. "Twenty-one—it's a special year."

Louise tilted her head to one side. "Yes, perhaps now he'll finally grow up."

Floyd gave a long-suffering sigh, and looked at the Reids. "She loves to insult me."

"It's my favourite pastime."

The two of them exchanged grins, then Floyd, turning back to Eleanor and George, asked: "Can I get you both a drink? What would you—?"

"Oh, no," Eleanor cut in, holding up a hand, "but thank you. We're off to join Miss Cohen and her brother." She looped her handbag over her arm and gave them a smile. "Enjoy your evening, dears."

"Will do," Tab replied, with a glance at Louise.

With a last smile at Louise and Floyd, Eleanor touched George on the arm and moved off into the crowd. George lit his pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke; he patted Louise's cheek, returning her smile with a wink, before following his wife.

Floyd said: "We're all through there. Join us?"

"Of course."

So he took her under the elbow and steered her through the crowd to a table in the low-ceilinged lounge, at which were gathered the usual crowd: Luz, Chuck, and Smokey, laughing at a joke, Joe Liebgott and James Alley, sat to one side, deep in conversation, and Eve, who gave a little wave as she saw Floyd and Louise approach.

The others saw the gesture and turned, and immediately there was a chorus of greetings and a babble of overlapping conversation. When Floyd and Louise had sat down—the former next to Eve on a squashy two-seater sofa, and the latter in a wingback chair with George perched on the armrest—Chuck raised his glass of beer in Floyd's direction.

"Well, then…" he began, waiting for the others to follow suit before declaring: "Cheers, Tab!"

"Yeah, cheers, buddy."

"Happy birthday, Floyd!"

Somewhere between pleased and embarrassed, Tab dipped his head but could not hide the beginnings of a beaming grin. He cleared his throat and said, "Shout a little louder so the whole pub can hear, why don't ya?"

Eve tossed back her hair. "You're lucky we didn't start singing," she quipped, prompting a ripple of laughter from the Americans.

"True." He laughed as well, and then looked around at them all with a smile. "Thanks, anyway. No place I'd rather be."

Louise swirled her drink, the ice cubes—a rarity—clinking against the glass. "This is all a little more civilised than the past two years, isn't it, Floyd?"

"Oh, sure." Floyd turned to Eve, and recapped for her benefit: "I spent my nineteenth drinking awful flat beer in the mess hall at Toccoa. Last year—" he gestured towards Louise— "we went to the movies. But the other fellas forgot."

Luz and Chuck made comical grimaces at each other. "Shoot. Sorry, Tab."

"Hope this makes up for it."

Joe Liebgott grinned. "Sure it will. We really pulled out all the stops. Here we all are, in the same place… drinking as usual."

George sniggered.

Louise propped her elbow on the arm of the chair and leant towards Joe. "How about we bunk off, then?"

He mirrored her position, grin widening. "What you got in mind?"

"Uh, excuse me," Tab cut in indignantly. "I'm sat right in front of you."

Eve, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter, looked up at him and said: "How do you put up with them?"

"A question I ask myself every day, Eve," he sighed, "but it's far too much effort to find new friends."

The other Americans, who had been following the conversation with amusement, suddenly threw up their hands and turned to each other with wounded expressions, making a great show of offence.

"Well, that's nice, ain't it—"

"—to think we came all the way down here—"

"We should have stayed on the base and watched the movie."

Louise said, "Is there—? Oh, of course, it's Saturday." Saturdays were film nights on the American base: each week the mess hall was converted into a cinema, with the benches rearranged into rows and a huge sheet stretched over one wall as a makeshift screen. She perked up. "So what's showing tonight?"

"Casablanca," Chuck supplied, lighting a cigarette.

"Aw, nice," Tab said, with a broad grin that could only mean mischief. "Louise loves that movie. Don't you, Lou?"

"What are you—?"

"It's her favourite."

Eve turned to Louise. "Oh, really?"

"We saw it together in Swindon once—"

Louise shrugged distractedly, her eyes still on Floyd. "Well, I think it's rather good, but I wouldn't say—"

"—and she cried the whole way through."

She fixed him with a glare. "I was not crying."

"You were."

"I was not."

"You were."

She sat up a little straighter. "Perhaps they were tears of frustration—at the fidgeting—"

"So you admit there were tears?"

"—and the thought of the incessant commentary on the bus home."

Tab held up his hands, desperately trying to hide a grin. "I only had a couple questions…"

"Yes, I know, you found the whole thing rather difficult to follow," Louise replied, her face neutral, but he recognised the spark of pleasure in her eyes. "Perhaps we should have gone in for the children's matinée and watched cartoons instead?"

"I just decided," he said, "I don't like you."

"I just decided—I don't care," she retorted.

Eve looked between them, a slight crease between her brows. "Oh, now, you two…"

Louise and Floyd both jumped; they had almost forgotten the others were there. Blushing, Louise glanced around: Luz and Smokey were watching her with knowing grins, the other Americans had averted their eyes, a little uncomfortable… and then there was Eve, sat quietly next to Floyd.

Tab met Louise's eye, and then smiled down at Eve. "Hey, we're only kidding around. We don't mean what we say."

Alley added: "They do this all the time."

The remark did nothing at all to reassure Eve, but she smiled and began a new subject of conversation, and the moment passed. With an odd swooping feeling of guilt, Louise turned to Joe and, very deliberately, asked him for a cigarette.

Before long, the wireless was brought out from behind the bar and claimed by a group of paratroopers, and there was dancing in the pub lounge. Americans and village girls swung around the floor in a whirl of olive drab and floral summer frocks; a few R.A.F. pilots and their W.A.A.F. girlfriends, in from Fairford, joined the crowd. Floyd and Eve got to their feet and were soon lost from sight in amongst the dancers, and, a moment later, were followed by James Alley and Constance.

Louise remained seated at the table, with Chuck and Joe beside her. They offered her cigarettes and told her the jokes from the day's training exercise, and then, raising their voices to be heard over the B.B.C. crooner, offered to buy her another drink.

She nodded, and so off they went. They disappeared into the crowd, but she caught sight of them a moment later—chatting up two Land Army girls at the bar. She rolled her eyes a little, without any real annoyance: she was in fact quite content to sit alone.

The solitude did not last long. Floyd appeared unexpectedly at the table and dropped down into the seat next to her.

"Never took you for a wallflower, Johnson."

She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. "I didn't want to dance," she said. "I'm just watching people."

"Okay." He nodded, and then laughed. "Bit strange, but—"

"You should be dancing with Eve," Louise interrupted, the earlier embarrassment fresh in her memory. Floyd shook his head and opened his mouth to speak. "No, go on," she urged. "I mean it."

"Yeah, Lou—she's dancing with Chuck," he explained. "Look."

She whirled around in her seat, searching for Chuck amidst the dancers, and saw him at the same time he turned in her direction. She held out her hands indignantly. "Where's my drink?" she mouthed at him.

"With Joe," he mouthed back, nodding his head in the direction of the bar. Louise looked, and saw Joe now standing with Luz, still flirting with the girls. She waved a hand at Chuck as if to say never mind, and he laughed and whirled Eve deftly away.

Tab watched them dancing for a second longer, and then said, "Y'know, I think she likes him more than me."

"That's fair enough. I do, too."

"God!" he exclaimed. "You can't say things like that to me on my birthday."

"Alright, then," she laughed. She nudged his shoulder with her elbow. "Birthday boy…"

"And don't call me that."

"I've never called you 'That'. It would be a bit rude, don't you think—?"

"Yeah, okay, okay. Wiseass."

Louise turned her head and beamed at him, the curve of her cheek and the line of her neck aureoled in the glow of the lamps, and the motion set her hair swinging on her shoulders.

Floyd looked steadily back at her for a long, lingering moment. He cleared his throat. "You look nice tonight, by the way," he said eventually. "That's—uh… that's some dress."

She laughed, though she was unsure why. "Hmm. Thank you."

He seemed a little awkward as well. "And—did you get your hair done?"

"About a week ago, but thanks for noticing," she said lightly, and to her delight he broke into laughter. She shook her hair back and tilted her chin, striking a pose. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah. It looks good."

"Such an effusive compliment…"

"If I told you what I really thought, you'd slap my face and go home."

Louise laughed at him. "I'll slap it now, just for luck."

"Then I'll have you arrested," Floyd said loftily. "You can't hit a soldier in wartime—it's treason."

She burst out laughing, and the sound of it, loud and full of pure joy, made him grin. Leaning back against the arm of the chair, she studied him fondly. "I like you like this," she told him.

The comment instantly recalled a night in Georgia, the elation of the occasion, their closeness, and they shared a smile.

"And I like you like this," he replied, and met her eye. "Not yelling at me."

This time she did hit him, smacking his arm lightly in reproach, and Floyd gave a shout of laughter. The music on the wireless continued, the dancers swept past, unheard, unnoticed, for they sat in their chairs, a foot apart, looking at each other. He smiled at her, a small, soft, conspiratorial kind of smile, and she could not help but smile back.

Then, all of a sudden, she glanced away, and when she looked back at him the smile was gone.

"Go and dance with Eve," she insisted, sternly solicitous, "and enjoy the rest of your evening."

"I'm enjoying the evening right here."

"No. Off you go."

His smile faltered as well, and he seemed on the verge of a protest, but eventually he shrugged, got to his feet, and headed off into the crowd.

Louise hesitated, and then gathered up her purse from the table. She moved around the edge of the room, sidestepping dancing couples and jostling her way past chairs and tables, and paused on the steps between the lounge and the bar-room to look back.

She saw Floyd and Eve on the other side of the room, swaying together as Vera Lynn on the radio sang 'Harbour Lights': her back was to Louise but he faced her, and their eyes met. She gestured to herself and then to the door, and he nodded in understanding. With a last small smile, she waved; he lifted his hand from Eve's waist in farewell, and then, as another couple moved past, he was hidden from view.

At about half eleven, Floyd returned to barracks after walking Eve home; worn out, he dropped onto his bunk, but jerked upwards again as his back met the hard edge of something under his blankets. He suddenly remembered the present Louise had given him.

He drew the package out onto his lap and, shielding it from the view of the two or three paratroopers who were still awake, unwrapped it carefully. The red ribbon fell from his fingers and coiled over his knee, and the layers of brown paper and cream tissue paper parted to reveal a book. Its hard cloth cover was gilded with gold, forming the outline of a rising sun and blossom on the bough, glinting in the light from the bare bulbs in the ceiling. He tilted the book in his hands and saw the title—A Shropshire Lad—on the spine.

There was a note tucked inside the cover. Floyd slid it out and read the neat cursive looping across the paper.

Dearest Floyd—

For you: in celebration of your twenty-first birthday, in honour of a true friendship, and with all good wishes for future days of happiness.

Louise.

He saw that there was more handwriting underneath the slip of paper, inked across the flyleaf. It was a list of names, the first two written in an old-fashioned, spidery script, and the third in the same tidy writing as was on the note.

Lt. M.S. Johnson
1st Bn., Queen's Own R.W.K.
—
Capt. T. Johnson
November 1914
—
Louise M. Johnson
3rd January 1940

Floyd flicked through the pages, reading little passages here and there, the words written in a different time and about a different county, and still so evocative of this little corner of England: its pretty villages and meadows, its shallow wooded valleys and glittering chalk streams, and the hedgerow banks swaying with wildflowers and long grasses. In the end he returned to the flyleaf page, and rubbed his thumb lightly over the handwriting.

He sat still for a few moments, holding the book, thinking about the Louise who had first read it. The Louise with the carefully pinned-up hair and the crisp accent and the guarded smile, who laughed only rarely, who had killed before they had even held a rifle, who strode into their lives that hot August day, never dreaming that she would stay so long and become their friend, that she would give way to a Louise with a pair of jump wings and a fondness for their American ways, funny, brave, lovely Louise, indisputably one of their own.

Solemnly, he reached for a pen from the upturned box that served as a bedside table, and, underneath Louise's name, he wrote his own, and then the date, 26 August 1944. And then, with an electric fizz, the lightbulbs in the ceiling were switched out.

Five days later

Dusk was falling, slow and soft, the golden late-summer sun sinking behind the willow trees around the village pond, as Eve walked up the lane towards The Blue Boar. She passed the large stone-and-brick cottages on her left and emerged at the bottom of the green, and continued on up to the pub. The terrace was quieter than usual: there were only the elderly villagers, talking softly over pints of bitter, a few young women, the girls she had gone to school with, some with small children sitting sleepily on their laps, the farm labourers, lithe and tanned—and Louise, sat to one side, smoking, waiting.

Eve crossed over to her, her heart suddenly racing with dread. There was weariness and sympathy in the other woman's eyes, and Eve knew, straight away.

"They're off again, aren't they?"

"Yes." Louise stubbed out her cigarette. "You need a drink," she said, her voice low and firm like a hand on Eve's shoulder. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

She rose to her feet and slipped inside the pub, and returned a moment later with two bowl-shaped glasses containing a generous measure of amber liquor.

"Here. Brandy."

Eve almost wanted to laugh. "For the shock?"

"Old-fashioned, yes," Louise said, smiling, "but still effective."

Her hands shaking, Eve took a sip of the brandy and felt her lips sting.

Louise was watching her carefully. She put her brandy glass on the table and touched Eve's forearm. "You must try not to worry too much," she told her. "Paratroopers are tough chaps, as tough as they come, and Floyd is… Well, he's one of the best soldiers in the company."

"Really?"

"Yes, he is." She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something else, but settled instead for a comforting smile. "Besides," she went on, "the way the armies are rolling through Europe, I shouldn't think the company will be on the front lines for too long. They'll be back here before you know it."

Eve nodded slowly, considering, wanting very much to believe her, wanting very much to be reassured. "Yes," she said at last. "Yes, I'm quite sure you're right."

"Oh, of course I am," Louise said lightly, the smile widening. It was the kind of teasing remark that she normally reserved for Floyd, and Eve laughed despite herself. "There we are," she murmured, pleased, and regarded the younger woman for a moment.

Eve took another sip of her brandy, and, as the alcohol slid through her veins, she felt herself calm. She glanced up at Louise. "I want you to know I don't usually fall to pieces at every bit of unexpected news," she began, wanting to explain.

"Oh, please. That was hardly falling to pieces."

"Well, anyway." She dipped her head, looking down at the glass she held in her lap. "I do have such fun with Floyd—oh, and with you, and the others in the company—but it makes the war seem almost unbearably real sometimes." She heard Louise hum in understanding. "I can't help but worry," she went on unsteadily. "You see, I… I really am very fond of him."

There was no response: Louise was silent, sat very still beside her.

"I know you are as well, of course."

Louise gave a start. "Excuse me?"

Eve was questioning without quite meaning to, trying to understand, genuine curiosity tainted by a small stab of jealousy. She chose her words carefully. "I mean, I know that you and Floyd are very close friends."

"Yes, I suppose so," Louise said, her tone casual. "We do always seem to wind each other up, though."

"Even so… He certainly thinks the world of you."

A small smile played on the corners of Louise's mouth. "He's a good friend," she said, "and, yes, I care very much about him." She went on swiftly: "I care very much about all of them. We're all such firm friends."

"It must be strange for you, to be here while they're away."

"More than strange. It feels awful."

Eve looked at Louise, and saw a flicker of emotion pass over her face before she regained her composure and her smile. She took a moment to admire her strength. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, suddenly embarrassed. "You must think I'm being awfully silly."

"Not at all."

"No, it is silly, really." She managed a smile of her own. "I haven't even known Floyd that long—not as long as you have, and yet you look so calm."

Louise gave a small nod, looking, for some reason, amused. "Perhaps I'm just better at hiding it."

Eve paused, and then she said, "Thank you, Louise."

"Whatever for?"

"You've been so good to me."

Louise took her hand and squeezed it. The two women sat in silence for a few minutes, looking out over the dusky village green. In the lowering light the elms around the church cast deep shadows across the grass and the whitewashed cottages, and, out of the sun, there was a slight chill to the air. The glorious summer was coming to an end, Eve thought. Already there were the first russet tinges of autumn to the trees in the lane: soon, the woods and spinneys would blaze into reds and burnished golds, lying on the land like treasure, the fields would all be cut to stubble, criss-crossed by hedgerows filigreed with old-man's-beard and rosehips and black sloes, and above it all peewits would wheel and turn in the enamel-blue vault of the sky.

Lost in thought, Eve murmured: "I wonder if it'll all be over soon."

"I'm sorry?"

"The war, I mean." She turned her head. "I was just thinking how this year is wearing on… Surely the war can't go on into next year?"

Louise frowned. "Sometimes I wonder the same thing," she replied, her voice quiet and low. "Sometimes I listen to the news on the wireless and I tell myself the war has to end soon. And then I think, 'well, how many times have I thought that before?'"

"Mmm."

"It just goes on and on." She lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "Look, enough of this gloomy talk. Have another glug of that brandy, for a start."

"Alright," Eve said, and obeyed.

"Now, tell me about your week. Have you begun harvesting?"

"Oh, yes. We started on Monday." Eve hesitated, but Louise remained silent, waiting, her head tilted slightly to one side. It was not a passive waiting, and presently Eve raised an eyebrow and said, a little doubtful: "You can't possibly be interested in hearing about the harvest."

"On the contrary," Louise replied, "I'd love to."

"Really?"

"Really. Farming is completely out of my range of experience." She took another drag on the cigarette, smiling, as Eve laughed. "So, first of all: what crops do you grow?"

"Wheat and barley, mainly," Eve explained, swirling her brandy around the glass, "although every few years Dad turns one or two fields over to oats or rapeseed." She sipped her drink. "We also have two meadows for hay, but they were cut in June. The weather has been so fine, though, so we may take a second cut next month."

"And you keep the hay for fodder?"

"That's right. But we sell the wheat and barley in winter at the corn exchange."

"I suppose that means the grain harvest is more important."

Eve nodded. "Yes, I suppose. It certainly puts Dad under a fair strain. Harvest-tide is…" She trailed off and paused, finding the right words. "There always seems to be a sense of anticipation before the harvest. We get jittery and impatient… Whoever comes in from weeding the fields or trimming the hedges, or suchlike—well, they get hounded for news before they can get their boots off." She laughed. "It seems as if everything is waiting, and then, all of a sudden, it's time."

"And then you have to scramble, as the fighter boys say," Louise remarked, and Eve laughed again. She tapped ash off the end of the cigarette. "So, you work out in the fields? Do you have a particular duty, or do you just pitch in with whatever needs doing?"

"Hmm…" Eve tilted her head from one side to the other. "Usually, unless the weather turns bad or one of the machines fouls, we each stick to one job. Dad goes about with his scythe and opens up each field in turn," she went on, "so that John—our horseman—can get in with the team and the reaper-binder. The rest of us—well, myself, my sister Dorothy, and my brother Sam, now he's old enough—are tasked with hyling the wheat for it to dry."

"I see," Louise said, and then she burst out laughing. "No, I don't! What is that?"

"Hyling?"

"Yes."

Eve placed her glass on the table so that she could describe with her hands. "The reaper-binder sends out sheaves of corn, bound with string. We follow behind and stand the sheaves up against each other, like this." She made a triangle with her hands, her fingertips pressed together and her palms apart. "We call that a hyle."

Louise nodded in understanding. "It was the word that confused me: in Kent, they were called shocks."

"Really?" Eve asked, interested. "All these funny little local names for things are lovely, don't you think? Anyway," she added with a laugh, "whatever they're called… all our wheat is cut and hyled now. We'll start straight in on the barley tomorrow, Dad says: cut it, cart it, and build the barley ricks in the barn. And then, when the wheat is dry—next week, or maybe the week after—we'll bring it in and make up the wheat ricks, as well."

Louise waited to make sure Eve had finished. Then she observed the younger woman for a moment, with a small smile, and said: "You must be exhausted."

"I am," Eve laughed. "It's hard work… but I love it. I'd forgotten just how much, having been in London." She fell silent, thinking of the splendour of the farm at harvest-tide: acres of golden corn like bullion, strewn with sapphire cornflowers and deep-red poppies, and watched over from on high by the larks. "Though, of course, I don't mean to make it sound like an idyll."

"No?"

"Not at all. There were all sorts of fools touring the county back in the Thirties, full of crackpot ideas—" her voice turned disdainful— "about English traditions, and 'living in harmony with the land', and self-reliance."

"Oh, I see. Those types, hmm?"

"Thankfully they soon goose-stepped off elsewhere," Eve said, tossing back her hair, and Louise laughed. "Aside from their politics, I wonder if they would have found farming quite so enchanting if they had ever weeded and hoed a field by hand, or spent an evening picking barley-awns from their clothes, or… tried to stay warm in our old farmhouse in the depths of winter."

Louise finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in the glass ashtray on the table, and leant back against the bench. "Is that why you went into nursing?"

"To escape it, you mean? Oh, no, it was the war."

"Still," she said evenly, crossing one leg over the other, "you trained at St. Thomas' to become a qualified nurse, rather than simply joining the V.A.D. or something. You must have considered nursing as a profession?"

"Well…" Eve blushed a little, without quite knowing why. "What I meant was—"

Louise looked suddenly troubled. "Please don't feel you have to explain," she said quickly, and reached out to touch Eve's arm. "I wasn't trying to catch you out."

"No, no, it's quite alright," Eve assured her. The fingertips brushing her bare arm were steady and warm, and she hesitated. She had never thought to pay attention to a woman's hands before. "Honestly, though," she continued after a moment, "I would never have even thought about nursing if not for the war. But…" She smiled. "Well, you're right, in a way."

"Oh?"

"I decided to make a proper go of things." All in a rush, she said, "And I'm glad, because this way I can have a career for as long as I like. I can earn my own money, and I can travel, and… do all sorts of different things." She laughed, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. "Perhaps that's selfish, but—"

Louise gave a laugh, too: a surprised, delighted laugh that sounded so much younger than she ever seemed. "Oh, Eve, no," she said. "It's not selfish at all. You ought to do exactly as you like."

There was something exhilarating about voicing her thoughts, the kind that Eve had never quite dared to share with her family, and hearing Louise speak so forthrightly in return. As their laughter rushed between them, giddy and conspiratorial, Eve was struck by a sense of relief in being understood.

She said, her voice smooth and low: "And you, Louise? Do you always do as you like?"

"Hmm…" Louise turned her head, giving Eve a glimpse of her smile and a strange secret expression in her eyes. "Not always," she confessed, "but most of the time, I think." Something crossed her face, and then tucked itself neatly away, but she still added, quietly: "For better or worse."

"What does that mean?"

"It means… Oh, I don't know." She shrugged. "I was just thinking about a letter I had from my sister. She said I can be careless, which I have to admit is true."

Eve did not press the matter. Instead, she said, "I didn't know you had a sister."

"Yes. Just one. Emily."

"And what's she like?"

Louise faltered. "She's—um…" There was a moment of silence, and she frowned, uncertain and full of shame. "I—I don't really know."

"You don't know?"

"Let me explain." Louise took a breath, and folded her hands in her lap. Eve sat still, watching the other woman carefully, and waited. "You see," she began, "I—I hadn't seen my sister for years, until recently, and before then we weren't always close."

"Oh, I see," Eve murmured. "How sad."

"Yes. It is sad." Louise was looking out across the green, an unfamiliar vulnerability to her expression. "Emily and I were best friends, once. She ran wild around the house and gardens, and I loved to follow her, and she let me. We did everything together. But things changed."

"Why?"

"Emily went away to school—a girls' boarding school, near Canterbury—when she was eleven. She was a model pupil: gentle, hardworking, obedient, and beautiful. The teachers adored her. Everyone raved about her. And then—" Louise gestured vaguely with one hand— "I came along."

"Were you compared with her?"

"Oh, God," Louise laughed, "yes. From dawn to dusk. 'Why aren't you like Emily?' the teachers would ask. 'Because I'm not Emily,' I would say. Then I would be given detention and hundreds of lines for answering back." She leant back. "I was always losing my temper, and so I was always in trouble. Once, I was even sent off to have a private talk with the school chaplain."

Eve scoffed, incredulous. "What?"

Louise laughed again at her expression. "He told me that my anger would distort my face and repel any suitors, and so I would end up an ugly old spinster," she went on. "Of course, I then had to point out that the teachers were all spinsters—"

They collapsed in loud, helpless giggles, almost doubled over on the pub bench.

"It was so unfair!" Louise burst out, the laughter still bubbling up inside her, though it was hardly funny. "And of course there was a whole goody-goody crowd in my House who were out to win the school shield, so every time I got into trouble they were absolutely foul to me."

"Didn't you have any friends?"

Louise shook her head. "There were a few girls, over the years… We started getting on well, but we were always separated, and that was that. After a while I just gave up. Oh, it happened all the time—with others, that is. The teachers were desperately afraid that we'd get too friendly, if you know what I mean."

"For goodness' sake," Eve exclaimed.

"I hated it," Louise said, and the smile finally slid from her face. "But Emily loved it. She was so popular, and she was a whizz at everything." She shrugged one shoulder. "I liked literature, and I was pretty good at languages and games—but Emily was brilliant at the serious subjects, like History and Geography, and especially Mathematics. She actually ended up reading Mathematics at Cambridge."

"Gosh."

Louise paused. "Emily seemed to—no," she amended quickly, "I think she did change. She grew cruel and derisive. And I truly disliked her. I was resentful and jealous. But—" she laid her hands flat on her thighs, the fingers splayed— "I never realised Emily was jealous, too."

She lapsed into silence, thinking again of the letter she had received from Emily. In all honesty, her sister had wrote, I always felt a little crushed beneath the weight of our parents' expectations. I did my best to be responsible and well-behaved, until I no longer did anything for myself. But you always did as you pleased, with no care for the consequences. You were careless and indifferent, bold and daring; I hated it, but I loved it, too. I envied your courage. My little sister, the adventurer. I know I must have disappointed you. I think, Louise, you expect people to be like you, honest and brave, and when they aren't, you cannot bear it.

Aware of Eve sat beside her, Louise turned her head and smiled. "We've been such idiots, really," she acknowledged, almost shyly. "Still… When we saw each other again last month, we resolved to start again, and do better. I must say I'm looking forward to it."

Eve smiled as well. "I'm so glad."

Louise blushed. "God, sorry," she said hurriedly. "I don't know why I told you all of that."

"Oh, please," Eve replied, waving one hand to dismiss the remark. "You listened to me wittering on."

The two women smiled at each other, falling quiet once more, and sat back against the bench, and the pub terrace and the people and the evening sky all rushed back in around them, surrounding their stillness. Twilight fell across the village, cooling the air and casting the green in a hazy dimness; the old men went home to their wives and their beds, and the young mothers called a quiet goodnight to their friends and walked off down the lane, carrying their sleeping children in their arms.

Above their heads, silhouetted against the pale-blue sky and the wispy pink clouds, appeared a murmuration of starlings, whirling, wheeling, performing their strange and hypnotic aerobatics. Louise tipped her head back to watch, followed a second or two later by Eve, and they sat mesmerised.

Finally, Louise asked, her voice barely above a whisper: "Why d'you suppose they do that?"

"I don't know," Eve breathed back.

Her eyes still on the flock of birds, following the ever-shifting shapes and patterns, Eve realised she had not thought about the war or Floyd or anything for hours. She turned her head a little to look at Louise. It dawned on her, all of a sudden, that the questions about the harvest and nursing had been prompted perhaps by sincere curiosity, but were also a way to distract her. Not for the first time, she could not understand what Floyd had meant on that July night, now that she had seen the depth of Louise's kindness, concealed beneath the quips and clever retorts and the distant allure.

"You know, when Floyd and I first met, he told me all about you," she said, her voice light.

"Oh?" Louise straightened up slightly. "And what did he say?"

"He told me that you can sometimes be cold."

Louise raised an eyebrow, but her eyes and mouth were blank; if she was hurt she did not show it. "Hmm. He's probably right," she said at last. "I know damn well I can be cold."

Eve hesitated, and then said, a little defiantly: "I don't think you're cold."

A chilly breeze swept across the village green and Louise shivered distinctly; the timing of it made them both laugh. She had such a wonderful smile, Eve thought: how radiant Louise Johnson was, in those rare moments when she forgot to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Three days later

September 1944

Just as before, the advancing Allied armies overran the proposed drop zone near the city of Tournai, and the intense, hectic preparations came to nothing as the jump was called off. And, just as before, after the regiment returned to Aldbourne, the paratroopers descended on The Blue Boar for a celebration.

The mood inside the pub was jubilant: the Americans drank their beer and danced young women around the lounge, their high spirits tinged with a little guilt at their relief over the cancelled jump, but the locals were sincere in their merriness, and simply glad to have their adopted sons and brothers and their boyfriends back for a time, however brief.

Louise and Tab stood close together, tucked away in a corner of the pub, bathed in golden lamplight. They were quite alone: Eve was talking with Constance, James Alley, and Liebgott on the other side of the room, and the other members of their little group had long since abandoned their table for a game of darts. The conversation and laughter flowed easily, shifting from the events at Membury airfield to the village news.

Then Floyd said: "And what have you been up to these past couple days?"

"Not much," Louise told him. "I've been rather idle, really."

"For shame, Lou…"

"I know. Although I did help Nell with her vegetable patch. Her tomatoes came in with a vengeance, so we spent a couple of hours on Monday picking them."

"Were they good?"

"Really good. I've been gobbling them with every meal since." The remark—and the image it conjured—made him laugh, and she grinned. "What else?" she went on. "Oh, of course—I went up to London yesterday, to see my friend Ruth."

Tab nodded, recognising the name and casting his mind back to remember. "Ruth was a nurse, right? At Biggin Hill?"

"That's right."

He took a drink of beer and shot her a mischievous glance. "So, what did you two do? Get up to any trouble?"

Louise scoffed. "Hardly," she laughed. "Ruth is having a baby, so she's not quite up to making trouble." She smiled as she met his eye. "I helped her with some packing, since she and her husband are moving house soon. Then we went and had afternoon tea and buns, and after that we sat in deckchairs in St. James' Park and ate ice cream." The smile widened to a grin. "I wanted to spoil her."

Floyd grinned as well. "You big softie."

"Don't tell anyone."

"It'll be our secret."

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the dancers, laughing and singing, attempt a Paul Jones in the crowded room, until he turned to her.

"I meant to tell you before… I opened your present last week." His expression was unexpectedly serious. "It—it was really good of you. Thank you."

Louise smiled. "You're welcome. Y'know, I did wonder the other day… if I had offended you." At his blank, questioning look, she elaborated. "Because the book isn't new, and—"

"Oh, no," Floyd said quickly. "No. I like that it's old." He could not find the words to explain what he really meant, but Louise seemed to understand anyway. They smiled at each other. "Will you tell me about those other two signatures?" he asked. "I guessed that one of them must have been your dad, but…"

"Mmm. The book originally belonged to my uncle," she explained, her voice low and her head bowed slightly. "Papa's younger brother. Max. He was killed in action in the last war. One of his fellow officers posted his belongings home, and my father took the book, and carried it with him when he went to war."

"And then he gave it to you?"

"Yes, for my birthday in 1940. Within a couple of weeks, I was working at Biggin Hill, so… in a way, I took it to war, too. I wonder—" She broke off, and changed tack. "Honestly, I didn't even remember I had it until I went home. Anyway," she went on briskly, "Housman is—well—" she laughed— "all very English, and so I thought you might like a little reminder of your time here."

Tab had a strange expression on his face as he looked at her. "I don't know what to say," he murmured eventually, "except: thank you."

Louise inclined her head, smiling gently.

"So," he began, his tone light and teasing, moving the conversation onto familiar ground. "What's the 'M' stand for?"

"Maartje. After my great-aunt. It's Dutch."

"It's pretty," he said, and then looked down and away.

She tilted her chin up. "What's your middle name, Tab? 'M' as well, isn't it?"

He laughed awkwardly. "I ain't telling you."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, Floyd," she said, and laughed up at him. "Oh, Floyd. Is it embarrassing?"

"I'm not saying."

"Mark? Matthew?"

"No."

"Marius?"

"No."

"Marion?"

"No!"

Giggling, Louise asked: "Methuselah?"

"For fuck's sake, no," he said, laughing so hard he could barely get the words out.

They leant in towards each other, close but not touching; the pub lounge and the music and the other people faded into insignificance, meaningless noise and unnoticed movement, as they looked at each other, and went on laughing.

Eve watched Louise and Floyd. They stood close together in a corner of the pub lounge, turned away from the centre of things, talking and laughing, their bodies moving in harmony, but never quite touching. Tilt and curve, action and reaction. Dark head inclined towards fair, the sleeve of a dress pale against olive drab. Floyd bent to murmur something, and Louise tilted her head to listen. A dimple, a smile. Eve saw Louise sip her drink, her lipstick leaving a red half-moon on the rim of the glass. She did not understand it, but Louise fascinated her: she felt her own mouth quirk upwards when Louise smiled, and she blushed when Louise turned towards her with arched brows and knowing eyes.

Tilt and curve, flicker and sway. She watched, but she could not understand them. They seemed to communicate in a language all of their own, a language for which she had no code, no point of reference; an intimate, private language of glance and inflection, in which thoughts and feelings were conveyed by the turn of a shoulder, the drumming of fingers on a table, the wry curve of a mouth. Their conversation was weighted: references to peach lace and Mata Hari and mountains and tourist photographs elicited fond grins or laughter that she could not comprehend. She was reminded, once again, of all that they had been, and all that they had shared, and she felt a child in the face of their shared history.

The pub lounge was a whirl of movement and noise: the yellow lamplight cast soft shadows over the wallpaper and dark oak furniture; the dancers circled the room, hand in hand, and the bright cotton frocks and olive uniforms blurred before her eyes; there was cheerful conversation and laughter and the singing of familiar songs. Eve sat still, adrift. Floyd and Louise had noticed nothing.

Sergeant Grant had joined the table; he was looking at her, intently, unblinking, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Eve folded her thin hands in her lap, and suddenly, for some incomprehensible reason, she felt like crying.

A/N: So, this pandemic lockdown has been an unrelenting nightmare for many reasons, but it has given me a lot of spare time in which to finish this chapter!

I was really bowled over by the responses to the previous chapter. Every time I had an email notification that someone had left a review, I grabbed my laptop and opened up the document; even if I only managed to write a couple of hundred words, your kind words and encouragements really did spur me on. To that end, a huge thank you to spacevoyage, AliceGirl6, Nirvana14, nicoleebogdann, Captain-MJB, bloodredcherry, Ketaya, Liliesshadow, sabrinazizzle, rebeccakoch1999, gotapenny, Grace, Samnril, and the various Guest reviewers. So many of you! I have no idea if you're still around after [checks notes and grimaces] two years, but I'm really grateful anyway and I hope to hear from you again. Shoutout also to arromanches, my dear friend and writing hype-woman.

A couple of notes: the "I just decided, I don't like you" / "I just decided, I don't care" exchange is from the cinematic masterpiece Chicken Run, simply because that film is like fifty percent responsible for my sense of humour. The chapter's song is best heard sung by the incomparable Ella Fitzgerald.

The next chapter is planned and drafted, more or less, and I will try my hardest to be a bit speedier with updating. You can look forward to some S.O.E. intrigue, a few Important Character Developments, the launch of Operation Market-Garden, lots of great Eve moments, and a resolution to… whatever the hell Tab and Louise are doing.

I hope you're all keeping safe and well during these strange times. Until next chapter! :)