“I have to go back to school soon,” said Henry, sounding sad. “But they let me have time off to come see you.”
“Well, school is important. And I’m not going anywhere else.” He reached out to tousle Henry’s hair, then looked at Doris. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” she said, uncertainty in her voice. “I am glad you’re home. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too. Both of you.” And that wasn’t a lie. He might not have missed his marriage, but his children were another story.
A cab pulled up, and Julia helped him inside. Her touch felt strange and foreign. Frank did hope that things would work out between them, but even as he settled into the cab, he couldn’t help but touch the watch on his wrist, as if reassuring himself that it was there and reminding himself of all that it meant. Julia glanced down at his hands but said nothing, turning her attention out the window.
They arrived at the house without incident. Henry carried his bag inside. Everything felt surreal as Frank crossed the threshold. It all looked virtually the same as before, but strange, like a half-remembered dream.
“I’ll put your bag in your room,” said Henry, hurrying up the stairs.
They’d been sleeping apart before Frank had left, and it seemed that would continue now. Probably best, given the nightmares that haunted his nights. Doris followed him up the stairs, clearly making sure he wouldn’t fall. It would be rather ironic if he'd survived years of war and getting shot, only to break his neck within five minutes of getting home.
“Thank you,” he told Doris. She gave him a nod and went back down the stairs. Frank stepped into his room and smiled at Henry. “Tell your mum I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Okay,” he said, looking at his father a moment longer, then hurrying out, closing the door on his way.
Frank took a few deep breaths, then carefully unbuttoned his uniform shirt, hands trembling as he lay it aside. He went to the mirror and examined himself. Thin, yes, and his side bore the scars of his injury. He set the ring on the dresser before he lost it.
There was a knock, and then Julia let herself in. She helped him out of his trousers and opened the wardrobe to get his civilian clothes. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she said quietly, without looking at him.
Frank bit back bitter recriminations. After all, they were supposed to be trying. “Me too,” he said instead, feeling vulnerable, sitting on his own bed with his own wife. “There’s pain pills in my bag; can you get them for me?”
“Of course,” she said, looking at the scar on his side before going to his bag. “I’m still working at the factory, but I’m off for the next few days.”
“Good. We should spend some time together,” said Frank.
“Probably,” she answered, bringing him the pills and then helping him into clothes that felt strange and too big. “We’ll get you to the tailor,” she said, handing him a glass of water. “Dinner?”
“Yes, please,” said Frank, throwing back the pills and reaching for his cane.
He followed her down the stairs and took his old seat at the dining table. Henry filled the meal with questions which Frank tried to answer without saying too much. Julia finally told him he could ask more questions later, but his father needed to rest.
“I’ll be here,” he assured Henry again, then looked at Doris. She kept her eyes on her plate.
When the meal was finished, he begged off of more time with his family, telling them he was tired, which was true. It had been a very long day indeed. He climbed the stairs one more time and crawled into bed, not bothering with undressing. He rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling until his eyes drifted closed, still disquieted by the sounds of the city and his family downstairs.
He awoke to a nightmare sometime in the night and rolled onto his side, curling up around a pillow and only slowly falling back asleep.
The next few days were quiet as he tried to fit back into his old life. The uniform was washed and pressed, then went into the back of the wardrobe. Julia returned to her factory job. Frank spent a little time with Henry, but he had to return to school sooner rather than later. Doris was working as well, which meant Frank was alone during most of the day.
He took to wandering the city like he’d wandered the hospital halls. Going back to work wasn’t possible yet, and he did need the exercise. It was all too quiet and it felt strange to see men, women and children hurrying about in their daily lives. Sometimes a loud noise would startle him, and he’d reach for a rifle that wasn’t there. Sometimes he would see another man with haunted eyes, and they’d nod in understanding as they passed one another.
Late one afternoon, when rain had driven him back indoors, he sat in his room and tried to write a letter to Archibald. He and Julia still hadn’t spoken much, and he found himself wondering if they were broken beyond repair, if too much time had passed. If too much had happened to each of them.
He tried to at least tell Archibald what had happened in the hospital, what London was like, how the children were doing. But it felt hollow. The words he wanted to write burned just beneath his skin: I miss you. I love you. I ache to be with you.
Giving up, Frank crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it into the fireplace. He watched it burn and rubbed the watch on his wrist, wondering if anything would ever be okay again.
Chapter Forty
Archibald kept working hard as winter gave way to spring. At one point, Basil offered to send him to inspect the hospital where Frank was recovering, but Archibald had refused. He was certain that if he’d seen Frank again, he would have simply stolen him away and never returned.
He hadn’t taken another aide. He’d never used one before Frank and had no interest in doing so now. There were plenty of soldiers here that could run a message or take care of some small task for him. Collins came in every few days to check if he needed anything, and he could feel Basil’s presence, even if they didn’t see each other every day. Mostly, he kept to himself. Loneliness had been his shield before, and it could be so again.
The German counterattack came in March, before the Americans were fully arrived and settled. Archibald barely slept as he worked, part of him wanting to pick up a rifle and go to the front himself, no matter how absurd the idea.
Instead, he did what he did best, gathering information, putting it together, and sending out new orders. He worked closely with Basil and the others as they defended, fought back, and finally, threw the Germans off.
When all was said and done, Archibald returned to his room. Before he went to bed, he sat down and wrote Frank a letter. It had become a habit and a salvation. In a letter, he could express how he felt and tell him about his daily life. On the safety of the page, he could admit his thoughts and fears. And then he would fold it up and tuck it into the secret compartment he’d installed in the bottom of his trunk.
After hiding the latest letter, he barely bothered getting undressed before crawling beneath the sheets and falling into an exhausted slumber.
The nightmares came with all the fury of the attack they’d just repelled. He dreamed of blood seeping out from between his fingers, of the last rattling breaths of dying men, of artillery exploding everything around him until he was all that was left in a world gone dark. Archibald woke up gasping, reaching for Frank in the darkness.
Finding himself alone, Archibald gave in to his emotions, crying into a pillow. Foolish really, to miss anyone so much, but he couldn’t deny his own heart. Frank would soon be back in London, with his family, where he was supposed to be.
But as his tears subsided, Archibald made a quiet promise to himself. He’d find Frank when he returned. If he was happy with his family, then Archibald would leave him be. But if he wasn’t... then perhaps, there was still some measure of hope. He wanted Frank’s happiness above all else, but the selfish part of himself wanted to be the one to provide it.
He eventually fell back into uneasy sleep again, remembering Frank’s eyes.
The nex
t few days were busy ones, filled with reports as they tried to make sense of what had just happened. Archibald compiled casualty reports, trying to determine just how many lives had been lost.
As he was going through the pages, one name caught his attention. Archibald sat back and read it again, feeling a strange sense of pity. Picking up the report, he made his way down the hall to Basil’s office and knocking.
“Come in,” called Basil, putting his own work aside as Archibald stepped inside.
“Wright was killed,” said Archibald, putting the report in front of him.
Basil picked up and looked at it. “Cornered with a number of his men and killed to the last,” he read out loud.
Archibald took a seat. “I certainly had my problems with him. and I know he didn’t like me, but I can’t say that I wanted him to die. And certainly not like that,” he said quietly. “I suppose it’s the way he wanted to go, though.”
“His family will almost certainly get a medal.” Basil handed the paper back and regarded Archibald. “I’m thinking of sending you home.”
Archibald frowned. “Why? The war isn’t finished.”
“The Americans will be here soon, and then it’s only a matter of time. It’s important for someone in government services to know what we’ve done here, the sacrifices we’ve made. You’re not a career soldier. We need men like you to manage the peace.”
Archibald looked at him, then out the window, weighing his options. “Not yet,” he said at last. “When the Americans are more settled in and things are more resolved.”
“I understand,”" said Basil. “Stay for lunch?”
“Thank you, I will.”
Archibald had more nightmares that night. Names without faces and faces without names. He gave up towards dawn, writing and hiding a quick letter before going downstairs and slipping out of the house. At least all the death and destruction might be over sooner rather than later. He walked down the path past the greenhouse and into the woods. The trees were showing signs of spring, of hope. With any luck, the next winter would pass without artillery, and then the next and the one after that. Despite all the terrible losses, it felt like peace might finally be achievable. The Germans wouldn't be able to make another effort like this.
He stood by the creek and watched the sunrise, allowing himself to feel hope for the future. The world at least might find peace. His own heart might be a different manner. He looked at the water, remembering Frank and their conversation here. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and turned back towards the farmhouse. Another day of work lay ahead.
The Americans started arriving at the farmhouse not long after. Their officers needed room to work, so three of them ended up moving into Archibald’s office. Two were loud and acted as though they knew everything, making it hard to focus. The third one was quieter and shared sympathetic looks with Archibald as they tried to get things done.
Archibald stuck with it for a couple of weeks, but as the American soldiers started taking over for the exhausted British and French, and the officers made themselves at home in what had once been Archibald's space, it was an easy decision to go back to Basil and tell him he was ready to leave.
Basil gave him an understanding smile. “I’ll take care of it,” he promised.
“Thank you,” said Archibald.
Basil hesitated only a moment, then picked up a file from the corner of his desk. “It’ll be a few days before I can make the arrangements, but I want you to have this,” he said, handing him a piece of paper.
Archibald looked at it, surprised. “Martin’s home address?” he asked.
“Yes. He’s been returned home and discharged. What you do with that information once you get back to London is up to you. But I do hope you take care of yourself, Archie.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “Thank you, for everything.” Archibald folded up the paper and secreted it in his pocket.
“Of course,” said Basil. “Do you think you can refrain from murdering the Americans for a few days more?”
“I’ve managed so far,” said Archibald. “But they are loud.”
“Bring your work in here for a while. They can’t take over my office.”
“Thank you.”
As promised, a few days later Archibald found himself in his room, packing up for the last time. It felt strange to know that this wasn’t another assignment to the front, but that he’d be traveling in the opposite direction. Eventually, he’d come back to France, he was certain, once the guns were silenced and the grass had begun to grow back. If God was kind, it would be with Frank by his side.
There was a knock on the door. Archibald closed the trunk and locked it. “Come in.”
Louis stepped inside. “Do you still have the icon I gave you?”
Archibald nodded and patted his pocket, where it was tucked next to Frank’s address. “I do.”
“Good. Write me, please?”
“I will,” promised Archibald, going to his desk. “This is my address in England. If you need anything at all, Louis, please contact me. If you’d like to attend school in England, or you need a recommendation, or a job, or, well, even if you’d just like to visit. I’ll make it happen.”
Louis smiled and took the paper, hugging him gently. “Thank you, Major Blythe. You have always been kind to me.”
“Well, you’re a good young man,” said Archibald as he hugged him back. “Keep taking care of your mother.”
“I will. May I take your bag for you?” he asked.
“You may,” said Archibald, letting him pick it up.
“I won’t let you down,” Louis promised Archibald.
“I know. And I will do my best to return the favor.”
Chapter Forty-One
By late spring, the house had grown claustrophobic, and all the more so as he healed and put aside his cane. Talking with Julia was full of uncertainties and unspoken things, neither of them quite willing to talk about what had gone on before or what should happen next. They ate dinner together in the evenings and perhaps spent time in the parlor, but they each went to their separate rooms at night. Doris was often out at her own social engagements, but Frank was aware she was watching them.
If Julia heard his bad dreams, or heard him sometimes get up and walk downstairs in the small hours, she said nothing. Doris caught him once in the parlor, sitting in the dark and staring into the fading embers of the fireplace. “Father?”
Frank stirred himself. “Doris. What are you doing up?”
She watched him and crossed to sit down nearby. “You have a lot of bad dreams.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” said Frank.
Doris shook her head. “I’m glad you made it home.”
“I’m glad to be here for you and Henry,” answered Frank. “You’ve grown into a young woman.”
Doris shrugged. “You miss being over there sometimes, don’t you?”
Frank was surprised by the question but decided to be honest. “Well, I don’t miss being shot at. But some of the people, yes.”
Doris glanced at the stairs. “Mum worked late a lot of nights.”
Frank smiled sadly. “Your mum and I need to work some things out between us.”
Doris nodded. “I did miss you. But I never knew what to say in my letters.”
“That’s all right. We’ve all got some time to make up.” Frank got to his feet. “Come on, we should both try and get some more sleep.”
Doris looked at him, then hurried over and hugged him tightly. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
Frank smoothed her hair. “Me too. Come on.”
Doris let go and led the way up. Frank watched her go into her room and looked at Julia’s door for a few moments. Then he went back into his own room to lay down until dawn.
Frank went back to his old job a few days later, bringing his cane with him, just in case. There were missing faces among his fellow coppers and a few new ones, but everyone welcomed him back.
He
found himself assigned to desk duty. He wasn’t quite up for running the streets of London just yet, so it made sense. To be honest, Frank wasn’t sure if he ever really would be again. He still got tired easily. Filing and doing paperwork reminded him of Archibald all over again, but if anyone noticed the ache he carried, it was easy enough to attribute it to his injury or the war itself, which was more or less the truth.
Frank got home that night to an empty house and cold supper left for him in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter and scrubbed his face in his hands, wondering where Julia had gone, feeling an echo of the same pain he’d felt before the war. Wondering where she was, wondering if she was safe. Wondering who she was with.
Leaving the food untouched, Frank climbed the stairs to his room. He thought about writing Archibald, but climbed into bed instead, curling up around a pillow and closing his eyes. As desperately lonely as he felt, the watch was a tether. As long as he was alive, there was hope they might find each other again one day.
The Friday after he went back to work, Travers, one of the men he’d known for years, invited Frank out for drinks after work. He accepted, knowing that it was important to try to reconnect with his coworkers. Besides, there wasn’t any reason to hurry home.
They went to the same pub they’d always frequented. Frank breathed in the place as he stepped inside. It looked and smelled the same. But something had changed, in a way he couldn’t quite name, as if his memories didn’t quite meet the reality before him. A sense of being just a step out of place.
A handful of other cops were laughing and joking, relaxing after a hard day. Frank put on a smile and walked over to the table, accepting the drink that was put in front of him. He leaned back, listening to the conversation, trying to remember how all of this was supposed to go, as if having a drink after work with his mates was a dance he’d forgotten.
They talked about cases and politics. The few times the war was mentioned, there were furtive glances his way, and the subject quickly changed. Frank said little unless he was asked directly, and they seemed content to talk around him.
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