London Dawn

by Murray Pura

  “Let Winston make the speeches. He’s jolly good at that. I’ll do the little things.”

  “Hardly a little thing to be fetching soldiers off a beach that’s being bombed and shot to pieces by Stuka dive-bombers, Dad.”

  Lord Preston put a hand to his son’s cheek. “I thank God you’re alive. I prayed day and night. And somewhere in another part of England another father is thanking God because the son we hauled aboard Pluck is standing alive before him now too. So no more of this. Your return is a cause for celebration, not recrimination. Look at my crew.” He extended a hand toward Owen and Skitt and Eva and their grimy faces and clothing. “They have been at Dunkerque with me. They have been saving the lives of the soldiers on the beaches. They have never left my side or let me down. Honor them.”

  Robbie hesitated. Then he nodded. “You’re quite right.” He looked at Eva and the two men. “Thank you for bringing my father home alive. And thank you for bringing the boys back to Britain in one piece. God bless you.”

  Skitt bowed. “Our pleasure, Lord Robert.”

  Lord Preston rang up his wife while the others scattered to various bathrooms in the large house and scrubbed a week’s dirt off their bodies. The cook hustled about in her kitchen preparing a hot meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Robbie called army headquarters and was granted leave to stay on at Dover Sky with his father for forty-eight hours. Clean clothes were found for everyone, and Robbie dressed in tennis whites while his colonel’s uniform was laundered and pressed. After high tea they sat together in the library. Robbie spoke about the fighting that had begun like a lightning flash on May 10 and the mad scramble of retreat that followed the ferocious battles. The others told their stories about sailing Pluck to and from the beaches at Dunkerque and the different soldiers they had taken on board. Lord Preston made his way to his bedroom after several hours of talk, but the others fell asleep in their chairs.

  Eva and Owen were the last two awake.

  “All my lights are going out,” whispered Eva, fighting to keep her eyes open.

  “Linger with me a bit longer,” urged Owen.

  “I can’t, you know.”

  “May I come over there and kiss you goodnight?”

  “Aren’t you too tired to budge? I fear I am.”

  “No. My motivation is high.”

  “Well then, pay me a visit, my darling Englishman.”

  “I will do…shortly.” But Owen never pushed himself out of his chair.

  Toward dawn, light lanced between two curtains and found its way to Eva’s legs, up to her hands loose in her lap, and to her face. Owen woke about the time it had flowed over her fingers to her dress. He watched it move until it finally caught fire in her hair and leaped into the air and was gone. She seemed to feel his gaze and opened her eyes, looking directly at him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “Dreaming.”

  “With your eyes wide open?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I just have. Lawrence of Arabia said it made a man that much more dangerous, you know, for him to dream with his eyes open, because he was far more likely to make his dreams come true.”

  “Yes? And what are your dreams?”

  “You.”

  “Me what?”

  “Just you. That’s the sum of my dreams. Well, that and going to sea on a great ship.”

  “Pluck was a great ship.”

  “She was. But I’m thinking of something a bit larger.” She shook her head. “Don’t talk to me about the war. I want the war to go away or at least have the good sense to remain on the other side of the Channel.” She stretched out her hand. “Come, poet laureate, take me out for some air. I want to hear the robins.”

  Owen and Eva stepped through the doors and began to wander over the grounds of the summer estate. Fairburn saw them from a distance and lifted his cap. They followed the slope to the swan pond, where several of the majestic birds were drifting about on the water.

  “I wish I had breadcrumbs,” she said, watching them.

  “I can fetch some from the house.”

  “Don’t you dare.” She closed her hand over his. “I want you with me every minute.” She smiled. “You may have dreamed with your eyes open like Lawrence of Arabia, but mine were shut tight. It was frightening. Faces and red streaks of flame, planes swooping and firing their guns, ships blowing up. No, you stay with me, Sir Owen. The rest of the world will rush upon us soon enough and snatch you away like high tide.”

  “That’s not likely to happen.”

  “Of course it is. Now it’s a war. The German fleet will be scratching and scraping to get out to sea and the British fleet will be only too eager to come to blows with them when they do. And where will you be? Right in the middle of it. So indulge me and walk with me and let’s keep the mad rush of a world war at bay for as long as possible.”

  “Right.”

  “But before we move off.” She glanced about them and put her arms around his neck. “A kiss, my darling man, my hero of Dunkerque.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  She brushed his lips with hers. “You were.”

  As the kiss ended, Eva asked, “Do you ever wonder if other lovers have met here by the pond and done just what we’re doing?”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it. Dover Sky has been here quite some time.”

  “So here we are, the latest in a long line.”

  “Albrecht was here. Before he married Aunt Cathy. So other Germans have preceded you.”

  “How pleasant.” She kissed him again. “The nights in Dunkerque were magic. With all the fear and danger, they were still something out of a legend. Let’s add the morning of swans to that.”

  “I thought you wanted to walk.”

  “I did. But now I prefer the company of the swans. And you.”

  He ran his hands through her hair. “Like sunlight.”

  “I was a mess on Pluck.”

  “A fine and glorious mess, you were.”

  “I was dirty and unwashed and my hair was like strands of frayed rope.”

  He laughed. “How differently girls see things from boys. You were beautiful.”

  “I don’t like hearing about myself in the past tense.”

  “That’s easy enough to rectify. You are beautiful.”

  “Danke. Now speak to me properly. The way a poet does.”

  “ ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’ ”

  “Go on.”

  Owen continued to recite the sonnet.

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

  And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

  Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

  And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

  And every fair from fair sometime declines,

  By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed;

  But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

  Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

  Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

  When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.

  “Ah. Finish it, Owen.”

  “How do you know there’s more to the poem?”

  “The Nazis weren’t in charge of all my education. I know some Shakespeare. He always ends his sonnets with a couplet.”

  Owen stroked his thumbs slowly and gently underneath her blue eyes. “ ‘So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.’ ”

  “Do you believe that? That a woman can live on and on in a poem?”

  “Of course I do. Hasn’t she? Won’t you?”

  “I?”

  “Two poems with your name on them are flitting about England. Now that we’re through with Dunkerque, I expect there will be a third.”

  Eva leaned her head against him, and he embraced her tightly.

  “I look forwar
d to hearing your next poem about me,” she said into his chest.

  “I look forward to dreaming it up and writing it.”

  “Will it take you long, do you think?”

  “Oh, no. A few more minutes are all I need.”

  She laughed softly. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

  “I could substitute Shakespeare again.

  What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet;

  So Eva would, were she not Eva call’d,

  Retain that dear perfection which she owes

  Without that title. Eva, doff thy name,

  And for that name which is no part of thee

  Take all myself.

  “Ah. Do you not like Eva then?”

  “Eva is Eve. It means life. I love your name. The lines from Romeo and Juliet were merely to hold you over until I have come up with a better poem.”

  “You are a Shakespeare who belongs to me. I suppose a girl can wait for her Shakespeare.”

  A swan suddenly lifted itself up, spread its white wings wide, hung poised on the water a few moments as they watched, and settled itself back on the surface of the green pond.

  “I think that will be in the poem,” he said, pressing his lips to her hair.

  “I like the idea of being compared to a swan.”

  “I like the idea of a swan being compared to you.”

  “But how on earth can you do that? I don’t have wings.”

  “Of course you have wings.”

  “What a crazy Englishman you are. I would love to stay here all day, a thousand days, and listen to you say crazy, beautiful things to me.”

  “Let’s work on a plan, Eva.”

  “Ja, ja, we must certainly have a plan. Nothing goes ahead without a plan.”

  “You like to make fun, my German girl.”

  “They’re coming across the Channel, aren’t they?” she asked him abruptly. “The Nazis and SS and Luftwaffe will come across the Channel now, won’t they?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “They won’t let the Channel stop them, will they,” she continued. “What are a few miles of water to a plane? Or a ship?”

  He rubbed his hand up and down over her back. “We have some time.”

  Robbie was still with them, dressed in his clean uniform, when Skitt, Owen, and Eva sat in the library alongside Lord Preston, Fairburn, and the household servants and listened to the prime minister’s speech on Tuesday, June 4. The evacuation had been completed—more than three hundred thousand British and French troops had been rescued—and the whole country breathed a surprised sigh of relief and wonder. Churchill rose to the occasion in the House of Commons.

  The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength. Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

  7

  June, 1940

  Camden Lock, London

  Paris surrendered on Friday, June 14. Kipp and Ben’s squadron left France the following Tuesday, June 18. Their wives were informed that the two pilots were alive and well and had left the battle-torn French Republic. Victoria ran down the street to Caroline’s house, crying and out of breath, where she threw herself into the other woman’s arms.

  “Did they ring you?” Victoria could hardly speak. “Did they tell you?”

  “Yes, yes, thank God, Kipp’s alive. Is that what they’ve told you about Ben?”

  They hugged and kissed each other on the cheek.

  “It’s too good to be true, isn’t it? After so many weeks of this and that and not knowing the truth?” Victoria hugged Caroline as hard as she could. “I feel like a massive weight has been lifted off my heart.”

  “Come in, come in,” laughed Caroline. “We don’t need to make a scene in the street when we can make it perfectly well inside my house. I was just about to listen to the prime minister’s speech.”

  “Another speech?”

  “He’s trying to lift our spirits again, you know. France will fall any day now, we all expect it, don’t we?”

  “Nothing he could possibly say would lift my spirits more than the phone call from Captain Harrington at Martlesham Heath.” She followed Caroline into the townhouse and saw Matthew, tall and dark, bent over the knobs on a large radio set positioned against a wall. “Hullo, Matt! Such wonderful news!”

  He straightened with a grin. “Cheers, Aunt Vic. It’s astonishing, it really is.” He hugged and kissed her. “I heard you through the door. The RAF gave you good news about Uncle Ben too, didn’t they?”

  “The best news of all. Our families have good reason to celebrate.”

  “Where’s Ram?”

  “Oh, I told him about the telephone call and rushed out the door to come here. Call him up, would you, Matt? Tell him to join us for the broadcast and a bit of a party.”

  “Will do.” He left the room.

  Victoria collapsed into a chair. “I’m done in. It’s only five minutes and I’m done in.” She laughed. “I suppose I should temper my enthusiasm, shouldn’t I? It’s not as if they’re back in England yet. The Channel Islands, the man told me. That’s their base for providing air cover for another series of evacuations, did they tell you?”

  Caroline was in the kitchen brewing tea and putting biscuits on a plate. “From Brest and Cherbourg and Bordeaux…I can’t remember the names of all the ports, but it’s almost as many men as they took off the beaches and piers at Dunkerque.”

  “Good show is all I can say. We certainly could use them here if Hitler thinks of crossing over.” She sank her head back on a cushion. “Ben’s made it to the Channel Islands. Well, if he’s made it that close to home, he has no excuse for making it all the way. I don’t care what sort of bombers he has to shoot down or how many of those Messerschmitts he has to cut his way through. He can’t escape from that catastrophe in France only to crash into the sea now.”

  “They’re still much closer to France, you know, Aunt Vic,” said Matthew, coming back to play with the radio set.

  “Who are?” she asked him, head still back, and her eyes closed. “What are?”

  “The Channel Islands—Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, Sark, all the rest.”

  “I don’t care. They’re off the continent, so they’re practically in England to me.” She opened one eye. “Where’s Charles today?”

  “Don’t know. He’s a bit miffed that Eva’s taken up with Owen.”

  “Charles is a bit miffed about everything.”

  Caroline came into the front room with a tray bearing a tea pot, cups, cream and sugar, and the plate of biscuits. “I suppose eventually he’ll sort himself out. A mother can only pray and hope for the best.”

  “Amen to that.”

  There was a loud knock, and the front door flew open. “Did I miss it, Mum?” asked Ramsay.

  Victoria smiled. “Not at all. Come have a cuppa.”

  “All right.”

  “Where’s your brother?” asked Victoria.

  “Drawing some great awful picture. He didn’t want to come. Tim, the loner, you know.”
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  “Yes, I know.” Victoria lifted her head off the cushion and leaned over to pour herself a cup of tea. Caroline had set the tray on a table between their chairs. “At least he’s not mad to dash off and join the RAF like you two.”

  “Or Peter and James, Mum.”

  “Peter and James! The Wilde Twins!” Victoria poured cream into her tea. “And they’re supposed to be the sons of an Anglican priest. Even Jane with all her charms can’t keep those two on the ground. They’ve already enlisted.” She glanced at Ramsay sharply. “Something you won’t be doing anytime soon.”

  Ramsay stood with his tea and a handful of biscuits. “I’ll talk to Dad.”

  “I’ll talk to Dad, young man. If you want to work in a factory to support the war effort, that’s fine, but the RAF is out of the question.”

  “Work in a factory? Peter and James—”

  “Peter and James are in the Auxiliary RAF. It’s to be expected that they’d join up, isn’t it? Not to mention they have five years on you, Ramsay Whitecross, and hours upon hours of flying experience.” She sipped at her tea. “Our family does not need any more pilots.”

  “Our country does.”

  “Then our country can provide them. We’ve done our bit in both wars. They had your father in nineteen eighteen and now they have him again in nineteen forty, and that’s enough. Not to mention your Uncle Kipp and James and Peter—they all have their heads in the clouds. No, indeed, the family’s RAF quota is quite full.”

  Ramsay’s dark face darkened even more. “You make it sound like the war’s won. All we’ve done is snatch our troops from the jaws of disaster, Mum. We’ve been beaten in Europe. And they’re going to come for us next. Not with their Panzers or their soldiers. With their planes. If we get beaten this time we’re done—all Britain is done.”

  “Britain has enough pilots.”

  “But it doesn’t. We lost hundreds of planes in France. They don’t talk about it but I know it. I’ve heard the Dunkerque soldiers go on about it all. They saw our planes fall from the sky. Not just during the evacuation. From May tenth on. Britain needs more men, Mum. It needs more fliers.”

  “Britain doesn’t need you. There are plenty of others to choose from. Now that’s enough.”