Sentimental Journey Read online

  There was an old saying that if an automobile looked good, then it was good. The same proved true for planes, and no plane looked better than a Spitfire.

  The doors to the third floor library suddenly swung open with a clatter.

  Skip looked up.

  Greer stood there beaming at him.

  Yes, if something looked that good, it was that good.

  She was wearing some kind of filmy, flowered frock that clung to her figure and floated near her bare calves. She had told him once that the thing she missed most since the war began was her silk stockings.

  But he loved her legs without those stockings. He would walk into their dressing room and see her in her lace slip, bent over a stool as she creamed her bare legs with almond oil that made the narrow room smell of Christmas marzipan. He loved that he could sweep his hand over her bare leg and feel her, not some sheer fabric.

  “Look here!”

  He pulled his gaze away from her long, sleek legs and looked up at her.

  Her face was flushed, as if she had run all the way home, and she proudly held up two fresh brown eggs, something so precious and scarce that the egg produce of British chickens could have rivaled that from the House of Faberge.

  “No powdered eggs for us tomorrow morning.” She danced in a small, silly circle like one of those American comediennes at the cinema, only she held an egg in each pale hand.

  He stood quickly and stepped around the desk while her back was to him, her hips moving seductively to the catchy Latin band music playing from the wireless in the corner. She finished dancing in a circle and he was waiting for her, swept her into his arms, then danced her about the carpet in a smooth rumba.

  “Watch the eggs!” She frowned and stepped out of his arms.

  “Married scarcely half a year and my wife is already pulling away and scowling at me. The next thing you know we’ll be sleeping in twin beds, then separate rooms, next on separate floors, and within a few years, separate houses. You will be in Devonshire and I shall be holed up in a garret in London, my pain spilling from a brush onto an oil canvas and me a bitter soul who can do nothing but mourn what might have been.”

  “You bitter? Mourning? And an artist?” She laughed. “Never, darling. Besides which, as I recall, you do not paint, not even the dressing room walls, which you were supposed to do before we married.”

  She never let him get away with anything. She had known him since he was a gawky lad from a neighboring estate, one who used to climb elm trees to sneak a peek into the maids’ bathing room, and who taught her to throw chestnuts at the hares in the woods whenever they happened to move too near an iron trap. The two of them together had saved hundreds of hares that summer when she was eight and he was ten.

  “If you knew what I had to go through to get these eggs. The queues took hours this morning, and you know how much I dislike waiting in lines.”

  “You have no patience. Your family spoiled you terribly.”

  “I’m not spoilt. I only find queues a waste of time, especially when I could be with you. I must tolerate them for the war effort.”

  “You must tolerate them because you have no choice in the matter.”

  “That too.” She grinned. “But listen. Fortune was with me this morning. I saw Aunt Jane’s cousin and I was able to barter for these two lovely and wonderful eggs.”

  “If fortune is with me, you will have bartered away that dragon of a table that haunts the foyer.”

  “I love that table.” Her voice turned indignant and she gave him a mock glare. “It’s priceless.”

  “It’s a nightmare.”

  With a sidelong look she stepped closer, lowering her voice the way she did whenever she truly wanted to have her own way. “I wonder how you would feel about that same table, darling, if we were to make love on it?”

  He slid one hand down over her bottom and pressed her hips against him. “I wouldn’t take the chance, love. If you conceived, the child might be born with a long forked tail, gilt teeth, and breathing fire from its mouth.”

  She pulled back and searched his face for a moment.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She smiled softly. “Perhaps I might be the one who breathes fire.”

  He moved his hands up to her breasts.

  She swatted them away. “Now stop trying to seduce me and listen.”

  He wanted to ask who was seducing whom, but instead he stepped back, hitched a hip on the desk, and crossed his arms. He could wait and hear her out.

  “Along with Loretta, was—”

  “Who’s Loretta?”

  “Aunt Jane’s cousin. Oh, I suppose she is removed a few times, but she was at our wedding. You remember her.”

  “Five hundred people were at our wedding.”

  “I know you would recognize her if you saw her. Now, as I was saying, her very own good friend, a Mrs. Woodleigh, whose husband, Edmund, is a farmer and who has had no cigars for all too long a time—”

  “Mrs. Woodleigh smokes cigars?”

  “No. Her husband, Edmund. Now stop that! Do you want to hear my tale or not?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Now, Skip darling, you know how very much I dislike your cigars.”

  With a sick feeling he leaned back and lifted the humidor lid.

  It was empty.

  “I made a marvelous trade.”

  “You gave someone my last five imported cigars in exchange for two . . . eggs?”

  “Rid yourself of that frown. I also left with three pounds of fresh butter, a side of pork, a huge hank of beef, green beans, lettuce, and tomatoes!”

  “All that for the last few cigars of the war,” he said wryly.

  “Now, darling, you know very well that cigar smoke makes me ill. Those odorous things reek up the house. Anything that smells that horrid cannot possibly be good for you.”

  He stood, then pulled her close and began to slowly dance with her again. To hell with the cigars.

  “Wait! The eggs!” She leaned over his arm and placed those precious eggs of hers in a blue Chinese bowl on the corner of an end table; then she turned easily back into his arms, slid hers about his neck and her fingers into the hair at his collar while their bodies moved slowly and easily to a Vera Lynn love ballad that crackled from the wireless.

  She rested her head against his shoulder and hummed along for a moment, then she said casually, “You know, darling, if you truly wish to trounce my toes, we should go to the Savoy tonight, where you can cripple me to a live band. It’s so much more elegant that way.”

  “You are a cheeky thing. First you give away all my cigars, then you insult my dancing skills and now you want me to reward you and take you out on the town.”

  “Um-hummmm.”

  “Tonight?”

  She leaned back in his arms, her expression suddenly serious. “Would you mind terribly? I know you only have five days this leave.”

  “I would hate it.” He pulled her back against him and looked over her head. “What sane soldier, especially one who has been away from home for over a month, would want to spend the evening with his wife’s body slithering against his?”

  She laughed softly, then grabbed the knot on his tie and pulled his face down close to hers. “I slither well, flyboy.”

  “Yes. You do.”

  She kissed him then for a long, long time, before she broke away and looked up at him. “Then you will take me dancing?”

  “I’d rather take you to bed,” he whispered against her ear.

  “Why, George Agar Inskip. You are becoming dull and predictable.”

  “Dull? Watch it, wife!” He grinned and reached out to give her a soft swat on the bum.

  She scampered away towards the doorway while he was laughing at her.

  “Wear the red frock tonight, my love.”

  She grasped the doorjamb in both hands, then swung out and away from it like Katharine Hepburn playing a ditzy American debutante. She cast him a seduct
ive glance, grasped the fabric of her skirt, and slowly raised it halfway up her thigh. “The red gown with the slit up the leg?”

  “Yes.” He smiled when she stuck her long leg out like some pinup girl. “That red gown.”

  “Sure thing, flyboy.” She winked and disappeared around the corner.

  “STOMPIN’ AT THE SAVOY”

  They were in the ballroom at the Savoy, dancing slowly to the last song when the music suddenly stopped. The bandleader stepped up to his microphone. “We have just received word that all leaves have been cancelled immediately. Every member of the military is to report to their bases by midnight.”

  In less than five minutes the darkened hotel entrance was crowded with couples vying for lampless cabs and cars that had to make their way awkwardly in the dark to the narrow entrance. Skip and Greer stood under the awning, while five taxis ignored his signal.

  “Must be the uniform,” he muttered, then decided he’d had his fill and stepped out into the middle of the street.

  “Skip!”

  He turned to Greer and held up a hand. “Stay there.”

  He walked between the cars towards an empty cab two cars back. The driver looked at him, then hammered his horn as he wrenched the wheel right and the cab darted into a suddenly empty lane. The cabbie floored the gas pedal and whipped past Skip, who slammed a hard fist on the bonnet of the cab as it sped past him. “Damn bloody fool!”

  Frustrated, he looked down. His uniform cap had fallen into the street. He stared at it a moment, then picked it up and walked over to the kerb. He stared down at the cap in his hands; it was spotted and muddy, like the RAF’s reputation. He felt such mixed emotions: anger, shame, confusion.

  Greer took the cap from him and cleaned it on her coat, then stood on her toes and placed it on his head. “There.” She threaded her arm through his. “Let’s walk home, darling.”

  “It’s raining. You’ll be soaked.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He looked up. A cabdriver on the opposite corner pointed and waved him over.

  Skip looked behind him, thinking the cabbie was waving at someone else. He turned back. The cabbie was still pointing at him.

  “Come, love! Quickly!” He grabbed Greer’s arm and pulled her with him out into the traffic-jammed street, then led their way through three lanes of cars. He quickly opened the taxi door, half expecting it to be a prank.

  “You and the missus going to number twenty-seven again?” It was the driver he’d overpaid the day before.

  “Yes. There first.” He turned to Greer. “Get in, love.”

  Skip crawled inside after Greer and closed the door.

  The cabbie was half-turned in the seat. He looked from him to his wife and back at him again. “From the sound of those sirens, I’d say we’re going to need you boys again.”

  “He’s the best pilot in the force,” Greer said with plenty of pointed pride and a distinctively stubborn tone Skip knew all too well.

  “My wife’s somewhat biased.”

  “Don’t listen to him. He is the best.”

  The cabbie didn’t comment, but turned, shifted into gear, and they moved down the street.

  Greer leaned closer. “You are the best at everything you do, and I love you for it.”

  He held her hand as they drove along the dark streets at a restricted speed of just under twenty miles per hour. He didn’t feel like the best at anything right then, even though his blood was pumping faster at the promise of air combat and his palms itched to hold the stick of his Spit.

  The trouble was, at the same time he felt strangely ill, like he had the first time he’d ever flown aerobatics, that memorable moment when he was upside-down, scared shitless, and so bloody damned excited that he couldn’t wait to do it again. He was ready for war, God knew he was ready, but there was this sense of the unknown battling inside of him, along with the risk and wanting so badly to show the Germans that the British could be a fierce adversary.

  This was the RAF’s chance to show the world they were the best, now that war was on their own shores. The buggers had taken Guernsey and blocked the Channel. Poland and France were gone. It was enough.

  Greer rested a hand on his arm.

  He smiled down at her. Sitting there next to him was his reason— multiple reasons—for risking his life. At dinner she had told him they were “expecting a child.” It had happened in early May on his last leave.

  In the darkness in the back of the cab, he could only make out her silhouette, her features came only from his mind’s eye. But he could see the white skin of her leg and thigh reflected against the darker fabric of her red gown. He loved her in red.

  He lifted his gaze; her belly was as flat as always. While they were dancing he had held her against him, pressed his hand on the low part of her back. He’d thought he might feel the life inside of her.

  But there was no change. A miracle they had made together was going on inside of his wife, yet he couldn’t see it. He was on the outside looking in. He wanted to see his child growing in her. He needed to see the miracle on some elemental level that he couldn’t explain. He just did.

  “Skip?”

  “What, love?”

  “Shouldn’t you go back to your field immediately? I can get home on my own, darling.”

  “There’s time.” He slipped his hand into hers.

  She rested her head on his shoulder.

  The cabbie made a tight turn and ran over a kerb.

  She crushed the hell out of his hand. She was frightened and trying not to show it.

  “Sorry!” the cabbie called back over a shoulder, then jerked the gearshift into reverse and backed the tyres down a few feet until they slammed back onto the road. “Can’t see a buggering thing in the dark.”

  Skip put an arm around her and held her tightly. He didn’t blame the man, driving through the dark streets, while the air-raid sirens were blaring and the devil coming from across the Channel was bent on only God knew what kind of terror.

  He checked his watch and then wondered if he could make the next train. After a moment’s thought he leaned forward. “I say there, I need to get to the airfield at Wellingham, and the trains are likely to be a tangle. Are you up to giving it a go?”

  “Wouldn’t let you get there any other way. You shoot down one of those ruddy Nazi buggers for me.”

  “Be happy to.” Skip glanced down. Greer was trying to be brave, but she was worried. “I’ll be fine, love. We’ve been training for this. They aren’t going to get us. Not this time. We won’t let them. I’ll be home before you know it.”

  She smiled up at him and nodded, but her look was distant, so he said nothing because he couldn’t change things.

  Within a few minutes the cab came to a halt in front of No. 27. Skip slid out and opened the door for her, then helped her stand. He bent down, his head level with the window of the taxi. “I’ll be only a minute.”

  He straightened then and took her cold hands into his. For the briefest of moments they stood on the pavement, facing each other in the long, rectangular shadows of the surrounding townhouses. The air was thick with the plaintive sounds of distant air-raid sirens and what was to come.

  The rain had stopped. The taxi’s engine was running; there was a slight ticking and pinging noise, and warm exhaust brushed against Skip’s leather dress shoes and trousers; it made Greer’s hemline flutter against his legs, and a couple of leaves brushed by.

  Even in the darkness he could see her features, tense and strained, her skin taut and pale over the fine bones of that face he loved. The siren pealed over and over, sounding faraway and yet so near, unreal but real. It felt as if the war were on the other side of an invisible glass wall, another dimension away from the two of them.

  He could taste her breath between them. She’d been sipping on a crème de menthe before they’d left the Savoy. It was a strange thought, mundane in a moment that was anything but.

  Then he saw that she was crying. “G
reer . . . ”

  Her hands tightly gripped the fabric of his coat. “I’m being a goose, I know.” Her voice was wet.

  “You need to go inside, love, and promise me you will go immediately down into the wine cellar until those sirens signal it’s clear. Go into the room we set up. You’ll be safe there.”

  “I will.”

  He was leaving her, but this time there was an urgency that had not been there since war was declared. She was carrying their child. He knew women felt differently then, had heard that pregnant women were more emotional. “Would you rather have me take you to the shelter on the corner? It will be crowded, but you won’t be alone.”

  She shook her head, but she was looking down at his shirt, not at him. “No. I want to stay in our home. It will seem as if you aren’t gone at all.”

  He slid his hands into her hair and tilted her face up so he could look at her. “You’re certain?”

  “I’ll feel closer to you if I stay here. I might not wonder, then, if it’s your plane I hear.”

  He didn’t know what to say to her. She must have understood because she took a deep breath and raised her chin, then slid her hands down to his forearms to grip his hands in hers. “I will go directly inside, where I will put those eggs away and save them for when you come home. I promise to make you a cheddar-and-tomato omelet that will be so much better than any old cigar ever could be.”

  The kiss they shared was everything neither one of them could say. When they broke apart, the only words that came from his mouth were, “I love you.”

  “I know.” She smiled weakly, then pushed him away. “You go. I’m fine. Truly.” She swiped once at her eyes, looked up and ran her fingers over his mouth the way she always did. “Watch your tail, flyboy.”

  He kissed her fingertips. “Always.”

  She turned and ran up the steps, then disappeared inside the door.

  “I’M SHOOTING HIGH”