Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  “I’m not sure. The pile’s on the table there.”

  Then, before Sara could comment on the sudden heat flooding into Susan’s cheeks, she scurried up the stairs. All the while, she berated herself for being a liar, a thief and a coward—even as the envelopes burned at her hip, their warmth flooding into her in anticipation of what they might say.

  • • •

  And so began her daily ritual of deceit. In a show of dedication, Susan worked through her usual lunch hour at the ironworks, typing forms and letters which had been left on her desk after the morning’s sessions of dictation and departmental meetings. By three-thirty or four, Mr. Meade would come tutting into the outer office insisting she take time for a “cuppa.” Feigning surprise at the lateness of the hour, she would gather her things and walk sedately from the building—moving nonchalantly to the end of the block.

  But as soon as she was out of sight of the office, she would dash pell-mell to the Tube where she would catch the first train home.

  More often than not, she would arrive mere minutes before the postman. After snagging an apple or a handful of carrots, she would sift through the letters and take any she found from Paul. Then, heart pounding, she would race back to the Tube station again, arriving breathless at her desk mere minutes under her allotted break time.

  On those days when there were no letters, guilt and shame would burn within her. Nevertheless, by the following afternoon, she would begin her late afternoon pilgrimage all over again, stuffing the next envelope into the inner pocket of her purse to join those she had already collected. Soon, she knew she would either have to find the courage to deliver them to her sister unopened and confess her sins, or betray that final bond of trust and read them herself.

  Until then, the letters smoldered in her consciousness. Every waking moment, every thought, every action was colored by their presence. At times, she felt as if by resisting their overwhelming temptation, she was doing penance, enduring the ache of curiosity. With each day that passed, she felt more powerful in her ability to delay gratification, yet infinitely weaker since she knew that it was only a matter of time before she would surrender to their siren’s call.

  • • •

  Rouen, France

  Charlie woke to pain, a burning, ever-present pain that enveloped him like a blanket of nails. Panting, he moved carefully, studying his surroundings through half-slit eyes.

  Rex had pulled him into a thicket of bushes and covered him even further with broken branches and leaves.

  Charlie lay still, waiting, listening. But there was nothing. He didn’t know if Rex was nearby sleeping or had gone to scout the area. Except for the distant sounds of chickens, the idle barking of a dog, and the faint clang of a tram bell, Charlie heard nothing, certainly nothing to signal that the Germans were within spitting distance.

  Squeezing his eyes shut against a fresh jab of pain, he reached into his pocket, touching the packet of letters yet again.

  RueAnn.

  It had been a year since he’d seen her. A year since he’d stroked her hair, touched her cheek, gazed into eyes as deep and dark as midnight.

  He’d wronged her, used her for his own selfish purposes in order to evade the dark-haired man who’d been following him in Washington D.C. And yet…

  In the scant hours they’d spent together at Sweet Briar, he’d grown to care for her, so quickly, so completely, that he hadn’t been able to believe in his feelings himself. He’d instinctively felt the need to protect her and mark her as his own. But upon leaving the States, he’d begun to believe that day, those emotions, were nothing short of an aberration.

  So he’d left her to fend for herself when she’d needed him most. Worst of all, he’d violated her trust and her privacy.

  Because he’d taken her letters. Letters so blatantly vulnerable that she must cringe at the very thought of their being in another person’s possession.

  Worse yet, he’d read them.

  Re-read them.

  Memorized them.

  And with each reading, he’d become more desperate to see her again. If only to say he was sorry.

  The trembling began, a feverish chill that wracked through his body, sapping him of what little strength he had left.

  But he had to hold on. He had to find the strength to return to RueAnn and make things right.

  • • •

  London, England

  “Louise, we’ll have tea at five.”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  RueAnn didn’t even bother to look up from her weeding. As much as it clearly vexed Mrs. Tolliver—who didn’t feel it was proper for Charlie’s wife to be “grubbing about in the dirt”—RueAnn had at least found a way to offer some small measure of help in the household chores.

  Truth be told, she enjoyed the few hours spent outside each day. The yard was peaceful and she had always been good with plants. Moreover, it gave her a respite from Edna’s hypercritical gaze. At least tomorrow, she could look forward to tea at the Blunt’s home. Edna, it seemed, would be too busy to attend.

  Thank the Lord for small favors.

  Pulling the basket closer, she filled it with the weedy bits she’d pulled from the loamy earth. On her way into the house, she would drop them into the bin she’d devised. With luck, by next spring, she’d have rich compost she could fold into the dirt to make the seeds flourish.

  Next spring.

  She wasn’t sure if she could envision a time so far away. Where once she had thought she was finally free to plot her own future, she now discovered that there were things beyond her control that made even tomorrow too far away to count on with any real certainty.

  After glaring at her from the kitchen doorway for several long minutes, Edna disappeared into the house again.

  RueAnn sighed. The past few days had been filled with a flurry of cleaning. The WVS had met once already this week, but another meeting was scheduled for tomorrow. Lord help anyone who brought a speck of dirt into the house on her shoes.

  “Mrs. Tolliver?” Louise called from the door. Then more softly, “Miss RueAnn?”

  RueAnn looked up to find Louise beckoning to her. Flushing, she realized the “Mrs. Tolliver” Louise had been referring to, was RueAnn.

  Tucking the gardening tools into the basket, she stood, brushing the dirt and grass from her knees. Of everyone she’d met here in England, Louise and the Blunt sisters from next door had treated her with the most kindness.

  “Sorry,” she said with a laugh. “I’m afraid I’ll always think ‘Mrs. Tolliver’ is Charlie’s mother.”

  “It won’t be long before Charlie returns and then perhaps then the two of you can have a home of your own.”

  If Charlie returned.

  RueAnn wasn’t sure what she would do if the war dragged on without any word of his condition. She supposed she would stay as long as she could, but if she received word of his death, she doubted she’d be welcome to stay with Mrs. Tolliver. The woman’s antipathy toward her grew with each hour that passed.

  “I managed to collect a few things from the garden.”

  Louise beamed. “Wonderful! I’ll wash them up for later.” She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. “I wondered if I could impose on you to pop down to the local shops to pick up some things.”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you sure you can find your way? You’ve only been there once, and I’m sure your mind was spinning a mile a minute.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can remember.”

  “Wonderful!”

  As she took the proffered list, RueAnn barely managed to keep the eagerness from her tone.

  “And dearie,” Louise bent close to whisper, “there’s a little tea shop just a few doors down from the grocer’s. There was a sign in the window this morning advertising for a position on the wait staff. If you’re still looking for employment…”

  “Yes…yes!” RueAnn laughed, impulsively kissing Louise on the cheek. “Thank you, Louise!”

&nb
sp; Rushing into the house, she quickly washed and changed into the same crepe frock she’d worn her first day in England. How many days had it been now? Four? No, five. The dress was nice without being fussy and should prove suitable for an interview. She combed her hair until it gleamed and drew it away from her face into a crocheted snood, then topped it with her hat. Grasping her purse and a pair of gloves, she hurried down the stairs again.

  Louise was at the door. “Here’s the ration books and the market money. I’ve clipped a little note inside for Mr. Greeley. All you’ll have to do is hand him the books.”

  “I can do that.” RueAnn tucked them safely away in her pocketbook.

  “Then good luck to you, dearie,” Louise whispered as she opened the door for her.

  “Thank you, Louise.”

  Although RueAnn had trailed behind Edna and Louise on her second morning in England, this was the first time she’d had a chance to go on her own. Under other circumstances, she would have dawdled and explored, but with only a few hours until tea, she didn’t dare do anything which might delay her return to the house.

  The sun was hot on her shoulders as she quickly navigated two blocks south and three blocks east. There, close together, was the grocer’s, a butcher shop, a tailor, a toyshop, and Grimshaw’s Tea House.

  RueAnn’s heart pounded in her chest as she quickened her pace. Silently, she prayed that the job hadn’t already been filled. To be able to work so close to the house would be convenient and allow her to save on bus or Tube fare.

  As soon as she saw the neatly printed placard in the window, RueAnn felt a tug of relief. Slowing her pace, she glanced in the windows she passed, checking to make sure she still appeared neat and tidy. Then, pressing a hand to her thumping heart, she stepped inside.

  The shadowed interior of the little shop was cool and welcoming. A floor of tiny gray and white tiles gave the narrow property a feeling of spaciousness that it didn’t possess. Delicate wire tables and chairs—like one would see in an American soda shop—were draped with matching linens and hurricane lamps.

  A portly woman with pin curls hurried forward with a menu. “Just one?” she asked breathlessly.

  “A-actually, I’ve come about the job,” RueAnn stammered, suddenly nervous.

  “Oh! Oh, my.” The woman studied her stem to stern. “Have you ever served tables before?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I worked for nearly a year as a waitress in New York before coming to England.”

  “Did you now,” the woman murmured. “What kinds of duties did you have?”

  “I helped prepare the tables before the diner opened, stocked salt and pepper shakers, cleaned and bussed tables, as well as serving food. A few times I stood in for the short order cook, but that was rare.”

  The woman blinked at her for a moment and RueAnn wondered how many American terms she’d used. Did they have diners in England? Short order cooks?

  “Can you brew a proper pot of tea?”

  “I think so. If not, I’m a fast learner.”

  A crash from the direction of the kitchen caused the woman to wince.

  Sensing she was about to lose the woman’s interest, RueAnn hurried to explain. “Please. I’ve come all the way from America to be with my husband, only to discover that he’s been declared missing somewhere in Europe. I won’t leave until I know for sure if he’s…he’s…when he’s coming home. So I need a job. I’m a hard worker and a quick study and I’m willing to work a week without pay to prove that I’d be a help to you, if you’d like.”

  The woman’s expression eased into one of sadness. “No need, Mrs…”

  “Tolliver. RueAnn Tolliver.”

  “I’m Mrs. Buxton. Be here tomorrow at seven please. You’ll need a dark dress, but I’ll supply the apron. Come in through the back entrance at the alley. I’ll go over my rules and the menu with you in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Buxton.”

  Another jangle of dropped crockery had the woman turning on her heel and hurrying toward the kitchen in the rear.

  “Remove the sign, please, on your way out, Mrs. Tolliver!” she called.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Elated, RueAnn snatched the sign from the window, folding it in half, then in half again. As she stepped outside, the bell over the door chimed in congratulations.

  A job. She had a job!

  She was just stepping up onto the sidewalk when a low whine spooled into the summer air, growing higher and louder, building up to a shrill squeal before dropping again.

  In the few days that she’d been in England, RueAnn had grown intimately aware of the warning system. Most nights and intermittently during the day the siren would go off. In the past weeks, air bases throughout southern England had been hard hit and the radio had been filled with dire reports of casualties. But Edna insisted that the RAF were rallying and the Germans were being given “what for.” In late August, when a German plane had managed to pierce the lines and drop a bomb on London, the gallant boys in blue had retaliated with an answering raid on Berlin—something Hitler had sworn would never occur.

  As the siren ramped up again, RueAnn stopped, suddenly indecisive. Should she seek shelter or hurry home?

  There weren’t many people on the road. A few folk scurried indoors, but most of the passersby were intent on completing their own business. It was daytime. It was hot. The last thing most Londoners wanted was an hour or two hunkered down in one of the shelters for another false alarm.

  Unconsciously, RueAnn turned and began walking toward the Tolliver residence. But she’d only gone half a block when a prickling began at the base of her neck and she felt suddenly uneasy. As if she’d stumbled upon a hive in the woods and had caught the first angry grumbling of the disturbed bees.

  Bees.

  She was not imagining the sound.

  Stopping, she looked up, shielding her eyes with her hands as the sun was suddenly cast in shadow. As she looked up above the tumbled-block shapes of the buildings, past the tiled roofs and chimneypots, she saw a dark line of birds staining the skyline.

  No. Not birds.

  Planes.

  Hundreds and hundreds of planes.

  The swath of black grew larger and larger, completely blotting out the sky above. Huge bombers flanked with darting fighters.

  Instinctively sensing this was not a show of force by the RAF, RueAnn turned and began to run—even as the now familiar Spitfires converged on the wave and began to give chase.

  Her last thought as the bombs began to fall was that London had finally become a target.

  Sweetheart,

  I don’t know when or if I’ll have another chance to write. The wave of Gerry bombers this time is worse than I’ve ever seen. It could be a precursor to an invasion, so it’s essential that we’re up in the air as much as possible. As it is, I’ve already logged more than twelve hours flying time today. I’ve been given about twenty minutes for my plane to be rearmed, then I’ll be at it again. The crew chief has promised to see that this gets mailed.

  We’ve been hit hard. Can’t tell you where. My squadron is decimated—so much so, that I’m the “Old Man” of the bunch. Some of these blokes haven’t even been in a Spit before they’re posted. Others are used to the Hurricane.

  I can’t remember ever being this tired. Tired of everything. The adrenaline that used to give me strength has long since given out and I’m doing my job through sheer repetition, which is dangerous. Above all else, a pilot should be fresh when he gets behind the controls, but there’s no one to spell us off. The only thing that gives me any sort of peace is the thought that you’re out there, believing in me and I have to do my part to keep you safe.

  Have you written? Please tell me you have. Mail is sporadic, so I may find a letter from you on my bunk when I return. Send the picture you promised. I’ll tape it over my controls for luck. I need the luck.

  I’m being called, so I don’t have time for more. Just know that I would do anything to hold you one
more time.

  P.

  Chapter Nine

  Susan arched her back and removed the last letter from the typewriter, adding it to the others that Mr. Meade had dictated to her earlier that morning. Tapping the edges of the pages together, she carried them into the main office, leaving them in the center of Mr. Meade’s blotter.

  She’d only been working at the Ironworks for a short time, but already, she knew more about arc welding, pig iron, and submarine rivets than she ever would have thought possible.

  Glancing at her watch, she wondered what had delayed her employer. Punctual to a fault, Mr. Meade’s every movement could be predicted to the second—which meant that there must be a problem on the factory floor.

  Susan gnawed at her inner lip in frustration. She’d hoped to rush home for another “late lunch” and a check of the mail, but there probably wouldn’t be time now.

  Crossing to the window, she sighed when the distant whine of an air raid warning sliced through the muted din of hammers on metal, hissing welders, and sanders. Company policy demanded that machines be stopped, the work floor be cleared, and all assembly line employees evacuated to the basement storage area as soon as the warning sounded. As a member of the office staff, Susan was not required to join them. Several times in the past week, she’d ignored the air raid warnings in favor of completing her work. She’d always imagined that if the Germans were to appear, she would have plenty of time to rush downstairs.

  “Are you coming with us, Miss Blunt?”

  She glanced up to see William Cross, the projects manager, standing in the doorway.

  “In a moment, Mr. Cross. I need to lock up the ledgers first.”

  He nodded and disappeared in the direction of the stairs.

  Susan supposed there was no getting around it now. She’d have to go down. She reached for the keys kept in Mr. Meade’s top drawer.

  “Miss Blunt?”

  This time, it was Ed Naft, Mr. Meade’s errand boy, who called to her from the hall.

  “Mr. Meade has requested that you—”

  A giant hand slammed into her from behind, throwing her to the ground amid heat and noise, broken glass and masonry. Her jaw hit the floor with such force that fireworks exploded behind her eyes, then she was thrust into darkness and a strange, muted world where time crawled and everything around her moved with macabre slowness.