“Eve?” He looked as stunned as me.
“See if you can get him to sit up a bit. He doesn’t believe me that he can,” the nurse said briskly and spun away to her other work. “Do ring if you need me,” was her final word. It had all happened in less than a minute and I stood rooted to the lino, unable to process anything.
“Thank you, nurse,” Alan spoke up, breaking our stare. When he looked back to me I realised I hadn’t even smiled for him yet. I tried one, but it was more pity than anything else.
“Oh, Alan…are you alright?” I asked. My eyes wouldn’t stay on him. His bruised and naked shoulders made me feel ashamed.
“Nowt but middling,” he said returning my smile. “I can’t believe you’re here. How did you come so fast?”
“What would have kept me away?” I asked stepping near to touch his hand. “What happened?”
His fingers responded to mine, closed around them with much less strength than usual, but still firm. “You might ask your rich friend,” he said with a bit of a sneer. “I’ve barely been awake to know.”
“Jonathon?” My voice fell away from me in confusion. How could Alan know I’d come with him?
“Nah. T’ yoong one with t’ girl’s name.”
“You can’t mean Marion?”
He tried to reposition himself and flinched in pain.
“What is it? May I help?”
“Just smarts. The doctor said one piece went straight through but two more stayed in and they had to scrabble ‘em out. A fine mess.”
His face bubbled and swam as tears filled my eyes. “That’s horrible. But whatever does it have to do with Marion Doran?”
“His squad,” Alan’s voice wheezed a bit as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. “He was FOO of the hellions that misfired. They ‘it the storage shed where I was ‘eaded to put away supplies and the sum is this.” He gestured toward himself. “Good job I weren’t in it yet.”
“You could have been killed,” I cried, realising from his story how close he’d come. “Oh, Alan.” I lowered my head to his face. “What would we have done?”
“I thought of the farm, Eve,” he said softly. “I woke up in the medic lorry and I couldn’t breathe. I tried but nothin’ happened. And I thought…of the farm. I could see the sunlight over it and the sheep grazing. I thought it were ‘eaven. ‘Ow are the sheep?” His voice weakened with every sentence as if he still couldn’t catch his air.
I put my lips on his, the kiss tasting of tears and stale breath. “I love you,” I whispered, our lips still touching.
That made him smile, his face still wearing his memory of the farm. “I’m so sorry I scared you. You do look so scared.” He sounded like he meant to laugh, but a cough took him and his face went red with pain as he tried to absorb the force. He rocked silently a moment, panic making his blue eyes shallow puddles of fear.
“Nurse,” I cried, my hands raised to my chin in balled fists. “Please!” My plea was shockingly loud in the room and she walked quickly, but I wanted to kick her for not running.
After a fast survey, she looped one hand around his neck and pulled him a bit forward. “It’s no summer holiday,” she murmured. “Try to relax, Canavan. I promise you can breathe. You needn’t fear that again. Give it a moment and take a small breath, like a sip. Don’t gulp it.”
Alan tried to obey but his hand gestured to the oxygen machine.
“He needs air,” I shouted. “Please.”
The nurse shot me a withering look and I took a step back, obeying her unspoken command to keep silent, but I couldn’t check my tears.
“I’ll give you the oxygen, of course,” the nurse reassured him without a trace of alarm. She placed a mask over his nose and cooed a few instructions before his face relaxed and he sunk down, closing his eyes. “Now you’ve gone and scared the poor girl,” she chastised him. “I think a bit more morphine and some rest before you try a reunion, shall we?”
Alan nodded obediently and looked at me in apology. I took a step backward, worried I caused it all by making him talk. The nurse injected something into the tube in his arm before she turned to me. “He’ll be sleepy and might not make much sense, but it’s short-lived. As bad as these lung injuries seem, they heal at a good clip. I’d come back this afternoon if I were you. A few hours can make a world of difference.” She gave him a sorry cluck of her tongue and rustled away, her starched dress snapping around her knees.
“Eve,” he whispered after she left, the sound muffled beneath the mask. He tilted it up to make sure I’d hear. “I’m out of the weeds. Don’t fret.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, wiping the last clinging tears from my cheek. “I’m not scared at all. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
That made him grin before he winced and closed his eyes.
“I’ll be back later, Alan,” I promised him and left. I took the fastest, most surreptitious glances at the other men in the room as I walked out. Most of them laid quietly, but one rolled an unlit cigarette in his hand, studying it like a work of art. “For good behavior,” he said with a wink when he caught me watching. He didn’t look like someone who had much good behavior in him. I blushed and thanked the nurse without looking at her. I don’t know how she bore it, being alone with so many men in such vulnerable states.
“Done already?” Theo asked when I made it to the lobby, but I walked on, not wanting to have a conversation inside those white walls. She and Jonathon followed me outside into the hot summer air. It washed over me like a unpleasant flood.
“It is warmer in the south,” I complained, still walking. I fanned away the stifling air.
“Eve, stop.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a halt. “Was it terrible?”
She doesn’t often get serious and sympathetic so I wasn’t ready for my reaction to it. My chest thrummed like a bad chord on a cello. “They say he’s fine. He was talking.”
Jonathon watched me very closely. I looked past Theo and spoke to him. “He said Marion was involved. Apparently it was a misfire from some of his men. Alan was nearly killed.”
Theo made a quiet gasp and Jonathon’s worried frown furled into a an angry compression of his eyes. “I’ll find out,” he said, as if he could administer some punishment that the entire British Royal Army could not.
Uniformed soldiers passed us on the road, walking briskly in small packs. “He’s all in pieces down there and the war hasn’t even started.” I wanted to stop talking. I hated the sound of my own voice. “Besides,” I continued. “I need to go shopping.”
“Shopping?” Theo asked. “Whatever for? I thought you didn’t want to leave Alan’s side.”
I refused to confess the real reason in front of Jonathon; didn’t want him to know how desperately I wanted to look like the girl Alan had seen in the yellow dress. “Are there shops anywhere nearby?” I asked him.
His eyebrows had not yet untangled from their worried, dark knots. “I can take you to Wellington Street or Ordnance Arms. There are plenty of shops if you want to get him a gift.”
That took care of it nicely. They probably thought I wanted a nice pair of socks for him or a new book for him to read while he convalesced. Apparently Jonathon hired the car for the day because the driver was waiting for us beside it, reading a paper.
“You ladies go do your shopping,” Jonathon said, squinting into the distance as if searching for something. “I’ll stay behind. I’d like to try and track down Marion and find out more. I’ll leave word how to reach me at the front desk of the hospital.” He saw us into the car and gave the driver directions.
The driver let us off at Beresford Square, which was much more industrial than anything I am used to. I could smell the Thames, an interesting change from home where the only water is the beck unless you drive hours to holiday at the shore. I kept up a façade as we milled through three shops and a confectionery, making believe to hunt for a gift for Alan. Theo insisted I get him a pair of plaid, flannel pajamas so soft they
melted against my hand, but I worried it wouldn’t leave me enough to rent a room, purchase meals, and get a dress. I pretended not to care for the dark blue and chose cherry sours instead for him to suck on. I needed the brass because I would not sleep in Jonathon Doran’s bed a second time and I would not see Alan again until I looked as well as possible. Theo stole one of the sours before she begged me to stop for some fish and chips because the smell was wafting inescapably down the street.
As we followed the scent of food I spied a dress shop on the other side of the square. It was so small the front window barely fit two overlapping dresses. Something about the way it squeezed between the businesses around it, compressed and nearly hidden in the shadows, beckoned me. “I’d like to look at something and I’m not hungry at all,” I lied. “You go have a bite and meet me after.” She tried to argue, but I would not be dissuaded. I told her a moment alone would do me good, and I think it was a relief for her because she was trying hard to keep my spirits up, but now that I looked I could see she was terribly worried about Marion. Sometimes we must stop trying to behave as we ought and behave as we feel. We parted and, rid of her and Jonathon for the first time in what felt like days, I rolled my shoulders back and approached the dress shop, praying silently the prices were not ruinous and the proprietor not brash or insistent.
The window was etched only with the words “Fine Wares” so I hadn’t any idea the name of the establishment. Instead of a bell, strings of glass beads hung from the top of the door, clattering as I entered. The shop was so compact you hardly stepped inside before you were at the buying counter, which stood abandoned. Somehow, someone managed to arrange a surprising number of dresses around the tiny room. I cleared my throat for an attendant, but no one appeared. With quiet steps on the worn carpet I made my way to the wall in search of yellow. There were two prints with yellow in them, but the patterns were too bold. I fingered a blue satin pinstripe with a tight bodice and fluttering sleeves. I’d seen them in pictures and wondered if I got a better brassiere if I could look like the girls on the screen.
“That’s not the one.”
I turned toward the gentle voice and felt my eyes go wide with surprise. Looking at me with an intent smile was a short Oriental woman; her black hair was stroked with soft greys and pulled away from her face. I could not guess her age because it seemed any age would suit her. I only stared a moment but it felt like horrible gawking. It is only that one sees so few Orientals in Yorkshire. There are always some Indians about in bigger towns, but never those from the Far East. Her inky lashes fanned over dark, wide eyes. Though she wore an English dress, it was made of pink and orange silk that reminded me of exotic lands.
“I was just browsing for a dress,” I stammered.
“Yes. But not that one. Something nicer, perhaps?” Her face was gentle, but her eyes unabashedly direct.
I looked down at my lavender frock, complete with lace bib collar and ruffles. “Nothing like this. I’m looking for something modern and daring. Or yellow.” My thoughts mixed between Alan’s description of the flowing yellow dress in the sunlight and the knot of women in black suits on the London pavement. I didn’t know which one I needed to be. Certainly a tailored suit would be absurd on the farm, but if I ever went to London again or had a flat… I shook my head. “Yellow, I suppose.”
The woman slipped to my side, her sleeve brushed mine. The shop was so small there was nowhere else to stand. “There are modern cuts in dark colours and classic cuts in pastels. Perhaps two different dresses?”
I frowned, my eyes tightening. “I certainly don’t need two dresses. Just the right one.” I scanned the garments, willing one to overwhelm me with its beauty. If only I knew where to find that girl Alan had seen months ago. I’d buy the dress off her back. I took up one of the yellow florals, hoping it would get better when I held it. It didn’t. “Do you have any with a bit of…” I almost said romance, which made me feel like a loose woman, “glamour?”
“Plenty,” she promised. I followed her to the back corner where she slipped one off the hanger. It was white with large red poppies and a draping skirt, the bust smooth and fitted. “I imagine this a country picnic dress,” she said.
She was right. It would have been perfect for sitting on Jonathon’s lawn, even if it would look garish in the city. Alan would love it, surely. The woman showed me to her stockroom, which doubled for a dressing room. Boxes and shelves lined the walls leaving very little room for dressing. She pulled the curtain closed and after surveying the space I looked at myself in a tall mirror, swallowed back my distress at the state of my hair, and yanked off my own dress, feeling nothing but revulsion for it.
The new one made me suck in as I did up the zipper, but the effect was stunning. The fabric rode tightly up my ribs and let the smallest sliver of my bust wink out the fitted top. I turned several times to my left and right, surveying myself from every angle I could manage. I imagined Alan pressing his hand to my small waist, circling my ribs in his strong fingers, nothing but the thin sheet of fabric between us. I shivered and closed my eyes, thinking of his wounded face. Putting my hand to my own waist, I tried to believe it was his touch and ached with a numb hollowness in my stomach.
The woman didn’t ask if I was ready, but her hand appeared at the edge of the curtain, gliding it aside until she could see me. She didn’t look at the dress at all. Only my face. “You cry?” she asked, moving toward me.
I shook my head and pressed the back of my hand to my eyes. I hadn’t realised.
“You need tea,” she said in a firm manner despite the quietness of her words. I shook my head again, reaching out, but she took my hand before I could grab my handbag. I know I work among farmers and spend my days with lye soap and epsom salts and it shouldn’t surprise me some people still have soft hands, but hers felt of velvet. It reminded me of the spot at the bottom of a lamb’s ear. I was so fascinated by the touch I forgot to object, instead I looked at her golden fingers against my pink skin. I didn’t have a chance to replace my shoes before she led me to the front door. I was mounting a protest against going outside in my stocking feet when she turned the hand-lettered open sign to closed. “No interruptions,” she said mysteriously and then took us through the beige curtain behind the buying counter.
I burned with self-consciousness. “I should be getting back,” I said. She took an earthen teapot off of a tiny stove in the corner and carried it to a low table in the middle of the room. I tried to make another excuse but she didn’t seem to hear a word. Lowering herself to the floor, she rested on her knees in one sweeping motion, waiting for me. I didn’t want to, but curiosity and helplessness forced me to mimic her, less gracefully of course, but then grace has never been my particular charm.
“It was already steeping. You caught me at my tea break,” she said with a calm smile. She reached for the lid and pushed it down onto the overfull pot, purposefully sending rippling waves of stained water down the sides onto a brown towel. “You cry for you or for him?” she asked without looking up from the work of her hands.
“Him who?”
Her eyes rose to mine, a black challenge in the deep pupils. “You have more than one?”
I pulled up my dignity, rooting through my brain for a way to escape the close room and her questions. “I only meant, who…” One of her eyebrows arched and I stopped speaking. I don’t know any of the curious arts of the Orient and had a vague fear she intended to drug me and turn me into a daughter of pleasure, but I closed my eyes and inhaled, wondering if she might have some secret cure for misplaced love. “He was injured in an accident this week. He’s in the infirmary recovering from a terrible surgery.”
“You cry from fear of losing him?” Never did she stop her fluid motions with the tea. I’ve always thought the British the most obsessive people with our tainted water, but her motions amounted to ritual. How wrong of me to forget we brought it back from China. Perhaps some diplomat’s wife sat like this centuries ago and felt as hypnotical
ly compelled by the sight of it as I did. I shifted my foot to relieve my ankle. The drops of tea soaked through the towel and pooled on the table.
“What was the question?” I asked in confusion.
“You cry to lose him?”
“Yes. No. He is out of danger now. I won’t lose him.”
She lifted the pot, caressing one side of it before filling a porcelain cup with no handle. “Then why cry?”
“I don’t know.” Her questions exposed too much, loosened a few timid tears that blurred my vision so it looked like her hands were made of smoke.
“There are many ways to lose someone. Perhaps he loves another?” She raised the cup and placed it before me.
Even in its smallness it looked too heavy to lift. My fingers lay limp and heavy on the tabletop, as useless as my words. “He certainly doesn’t. He wants to be married.”
“That is so happy,” she said. “You are looking for a wedding dress?” She lifted her cup in two hands, drew it to her lips, and looked at me over the rim.
I nodded, unable to trace my tears back to their headwaters. I had no idea where they began. “Happy,” I repeated, just for a moment forgetting entirely what it felt like. I closed my eyes and noticed for the first time the spicy scent in the air. I mimicked her, lifting my cup in uncertain hands, and pulled the tea between my lips. It tasted weak at first, but after I swallowed the flavour spread to the bottom of my throat and warmed my chest. “I also wanted a black dress. A sleek one, for the city, just in case I ever wanted to leave my farm.”
She nodded. “One him. Two dresses.”
I thought for a moment of Jonathon’s face if I swept into his office in a fitted skirt, a netted hat half concealing one eye. In my mind’s eye I made him stare overlong, his mouth slightly open, his moustache concealing the beginning of a shocked smile. I took another sip and the image melted with the heat running down my spine.
To Move the World (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 18