One London Night

by Denise A. Agnew

  The car and pump drew to a halt. Her heart raced as Alec and the other men hurried out of the car. She sat there a second too long before she noticed Alec, Felix, and Bink manned the hoses. She wished she had a camera, but her memory would have to do the trick, and maybe she could write some notes if the fire made it light enough. She hesitated, the fierce flames sending a primitive fear through her she’d only experienced once before.

  Her mind flashed back to being fourteen and hearing Alec’s cry of agony as glass tore into his right eye. Recalling that horrible experience hurt enough, but the flames…the flames dove into everything primitive inside her. She’d been prepared, hadn’t she? She’d imagined this scene before.

  She forced herself out of the car but stood near it, as if it would be a bastion of safety if things got out of control.

  Heat blasted her, and she took an involuntary step back. Glad for sturdy shoes and practical clothing, she directed her attention toward recording everything she could in her mind’s eye. Water spouted from the hose Alec and the other men pointed at the relentless conflagration. Streams of water came from another hose manned by other men. They’d hooked up the hose to a hydrant. She shoved aside all apprehension and allowed her senses to absorb the situation. She’d need all this for her article. Fear sliced like a knife through her, but she closed her eyes and listened.

  An angry roar and snapping sound told her the fire had no mercy. It was a beast without conscience or morals. Heat came in waves. Snaps and crackles mingled with the ping, plop, and zing of mortar popping and melting. Bricks crumbled and fell. The noise almost eclipsed the drone of Germans flying overhead and the ack-ack noise of anti-aircraft guns.

  She opened her eyes and matched what she saw with the hellacious sounds. Fire shot up from the center of the building and made the windows look like yellow eyes staring at her in condemnation. An element of helplessness overwhelmed Sylvie. She took out her notebook and managed a few perfunctory notes. She couldn’t fight this fire, and the men nearby put their lives on the line doing what they could to tame this beast. Shouts mixed with grunts of exertion. She was hot and tired already, and the night was certainly young. She remembered them explaining that if it was an oil bomb fire, they’d take care of it with a special foam. But this wasn’t that type of fire, apparently—she didn’t see any crew using foam. As time dragged on, the pumps at the fire started to make progress. She wandered away from the car but kept herself far away from the timber yard and other buildings.

  A roar came from somewhere nearby, and someone shouted.

  “Sylvie!”

  Alec’s voice reached over the horrible sound of hell coming undone, and she realized the building behind her was listing to the side and new flames had cropped up. Sparks had found their way over her head.

  “Sylvie, get away from there!”

  Alec raced toward her, and she darted toward him and what she hoped was safety.

  Alec reached for her hand, and she took it. He ran with her toward the car and pump, and as the night splintered into one of the loudest noises she’d ever heard, he pushed her down by the car and threw his body over hers. Suddenly she felt as if she’d fallen into a world of confusion where nothing made the sense it should. She didn’t have time to be afraid. When the loudest noises subsided, Alec lifted his weight from her. She sat on the ground in the wet and tried to see through the moisture blocking her goggles.

  She ripped off her helmet and goggles at the same time. “Alec.”

  He stared down at her, assessing through the cover of goggles and head gear. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Get in the car and stay there.”

  His voice sounded angry, but she couldn’t tell from his expression. He helped her up.

  “I will not.” She wouldn’t be bossed no matter what he said or did. “This is my job.”

  “Then at least stay near the bloody car. Put the goggles and helmet back on.”

  He returned to the line with Bink and Felix. Anger made her eager to ignore what he said. But the night grew hotter, the noise louder, and the confusion thicker. Because she knew it was wise, she put on the goggles and helmet and stayed nearer to the car. Damn him for putting the fear into her when she’d conquered it moments ago. To conserve her strength, she sat in the car sometimes and at other times she ventured out. The night went on and on…it seemed it would never end.

  * * * *

  “Sylvie. Wake up.” Alec’s distinct voice came through the fog of sleep.

  She groaned as her aching body recognized sensations. “What?”

  “We’re back at the station.”

  No one else was in the car, and Alec had opened her door and crouched down beside her, concern clear in his eyes a second before it turned to anger. Almost as if he didn’t want her to see his worry.

  Sylvie rubbed her eyes. Though she’d worn the goggles, she’d sucked in enough smoke and heat to last a lifetime.

  She half expected Alec to glare or growl at her, but instead his gaze now held sympathy. She reached for her hat and plopped it on her head. She fished hairpins out of her pocketbook and fastened the hat to her mushed-up hair. She knew she had to look like hell, but it didn’t matter to her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “How do you English say it? I’m shattered. I could use a good cup of tea.”

  He smiled, and Sylvie felt as if she’d survived the end of the world. She returned his smile and took the hand he offered. She eased out of the car and noted the aches and pains.

  A little groan left her lips, but that’s when she took closer note of the way he looked. A fine line of soot made a ring around his eyes. The goggles had protected his eyes and so had the face mask. Still, he was wet, mucked up with dirt.

  She laughed. “You look like hell.”

  Alec’s eyebrows went up. “So do you.”

  “I know. And I have to take the tube looking like this.”

  “It’s war. I don’t think anyone cares, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. Let’s get that tea before it’s gone.”

  Once inside the station, Sylvie ran into Sally, who ushered them to the back room for tea with the men. Naturally they all turned and looked at Sylvie, their eyes curious and maybe even surprised.

  “So the lady reporter made it through, eh?” one of the men said.

  Sylvie cupped her hands around the teacup Sally handed her. “Of course. Did I have any choice?”

  “Would have thought a woman would run screaming from all that,” another man said.

  One of the older men chimed in with, “My wife would have, and rightfully so.”

  “Sylvie never runs from anything.” Alec’s solid, deep voice came from behind her.

  She appreciated his support. Whether they approved of what she’d done, she didn’t care. “Rest assured, my story will shine favorably on the AFS.”

  After chatting with the men and indulging in more tea and even cookies, Sylvie felt somewhat refreshed. Still, she was bone tired. The men dispersed to get some sleep.

  “What time is it?” Sylvie asked, realizing she’d lost her wristwatch somewhere. “My watch is gone.”

  The watch was cheap, but she hated not having one.

  Sally frowned. “Ow. That’s not good.” She checked her own watch. “It’s past six a.m.”

  Alec came up next to her. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

  “I thought you had to stay here,” Sylvie said.

  “My shift is over,” he said.

  Sally waggled her eyebrows at them as they left. “Have a good sleep now.”

  Alec grasped her elbow as if he expected her to fall over. They took the sidewalk and soon after realized they wouldn’t reach the Savoy in quick time. Though most people had left their shelters after the all clear, daylight hadn’t awakened London all the way. Despite their weariness, they walked toward the tube station with determination. They’d reached a housing area where one buildi
ng had been demolished, and Sylvie came to a dead stop.

  She made out a girl’s dollhouse…a pristine Tudor style, half-timber house sitting among the ruins. “Look at the doll house.”

  “I see it.”

  A lump grew in her throat. “I wonder if the child who owned that…”

  “Don’t think on it.” He took her elbow again and steered her down the street.

  “I won’t forget about it just because you urge me away, Alec Kent. My mind doesn’t work like that.”

  “I know. Maybe it’s me. I don’t want to think about it.”

  She’d write a story about the house. Most definitely. A woman sat at one corner where men worked on trying to excavate bodies from rubble.

  “I’m stopping to talk to this girl,” Sylvie said, half expecting he’d try and stop her. He didn’t.

  “Excuse me, miss.” Sylvie knew she couldn’t see to write up a story, so she approached the woman knowing she would have to commit things to memory.

  “Are you all right?” Alec asked the young woman clutching a blanket around her shoulders.

  The twenty-something woman smiled, a genuine fortitude in her eyes. “Very good, sir. Thank you.”

  “I’m a journalist with the New York Herald Tribune. May I talk to you a moment?” Sylvie asked.

  The woman nodded. “Of course.” Before Sylvie could ask a question, the woman continued with, “I’ve been doing a might bit of thinking. The good Lord or angels must be looking out for me. I was in the rubble but a few moments ago. No one else made it out of the building. Sometimes I feel guilty.”

  “Why?” Sylvie asked.

  The young woman looked up, her face grave. “I go to work, cope with shortages, but I’m thinking about our poor boys over there fighting. They’re miles away from their loved ones. God knows what horrible things they’re enduring. I don’t dare complain about my lot. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “I see.” What else could Sylvie say to that? What questions could she ask? Sylvie rubbed the back of her neck, still feeling as if she’d been run over by a truck. “Thank you for your perspective.”

  The woman nodded, and Sylvie and Alec continued down the street.

  “Well, that says it all,” Alec said.

  “It certainly does. She has such a good attitude.”

  “What other choice does she have?”

  After they’d traversed a few more blocks, Alec said, “I’m looking forward to a powdered egg omelet. I’d eat bully beef in a tin if it was offered.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what that is.”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Don’t tell.” She laughed.

  His laughter mingled with hers, light and airy and almost foreign to her ears. As they made their way through the darkness, she could almost forget she was walking through a war zone where anything could happen and already had.

  * * * *

  As Alec and Sylvie staggered into the Savoy after a long tube ride, Sylvie felt intense relief. Hardly anyone moved this early in the morning except staff, and they didn’t pay much mind to Alec and Sylvie.

  She stopped in the lobby. “I have to get clean before I eat.” She made a quick command decision. “Come up to my room and rest while I change clothes and splash water on myself.”

  She saw the hesitation mix with intense interest in his eyes. A wild, odd tingle darted through her belly. Oh, my.

  “All right. Lead the way,” he said.

  They took the stairs, half afraid the elevator would fail at some point. She dragged her feet up each step.

  When she reached her room and used the key, he said, “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  She turned to face him and kept her voice low. “What isn’t a good idea?”

  Alec looked uncomfortable. “Me. In your room.”

  Sylvie hadn’t thought about that at all, but now that he’d mentioned it, she threw it aside. “No one has seen us. Are you worried about sullying my reputation?”

  “Of course.”

  She turned back to her door and opened it. “I don’t care. I’m too tired to care at this point.”

  “Sylvie—”

  “Come in and clean up. I don’t plan on taking a bath. Just dabbing some water on my face to get this grime off.” Alec still didn’t look convinced, so she continued with, “Alec, it’s very sweet of you, but I trust you.”

  She entered and held the door open for him, almost expecting him to retreat. But he came into the room, and she shut the door.

  She headed for the bathroom, and when she entered and closed the door, Sylvie immediately looked in the mirror. She almost groaned. She looked as awful as she felt. Her nostrils were ringed with black—she’d sucked in smoke. The goggles had left rings around her eyes. Smudges decorated her coat, which had taken the brunt of her experience. She took off her hat. Everything fell to the floor in a heap. She was cold, hungry despite the cookies she’d eaten, and weary down to her bones. After doing her best to wipe down, she redressed and brushed her hair into some semblance of order. She left it loose, unwilling to pretty herself up more than that.

  When she came out, she found Alec asleep in a chair by the window. With his tousled hair and dirty face, his AFS uniform so messed about he looked like a street person, she wondered if they’d even allow him in the dining room. She almost walked over and touched his brow to see if he was real. Maybe she’d lay in bed after the wild night, dreaming of his scruffiness and his dear face. An ache started inside her, a building admiration that had never left her since the moment she’d met him. No matter where she went or what she did, Alec Kent would always generate these feelings. Tenderness. Certainty.

  She drew the curtains back, and the sound snapped him awake. He sat up quickly, obviously startled.

  He rubbed his jaw. “Lord, I was out.”

  “Hurry and wash up, and we can at least get some breakfast.”

  He complied, and before long they’d found their way to the River Room. In one corner a round man with a balding head and distinctly English round face sat with three other men. A waiter came up to them. “We don’t serve breakfast here right now.”

  “Looks like they’re eating.” Alec looked and sounded edgy.

  She touched Alec’s sleeve. “It’s all right, Alec.” She turned her attention to the waiter and put on a smile. “We know you only serve dinner, normally. We were hoping you might have some fruit or bread. Anything to tide us over until luncheon. We just came back from a fire. This gentleman is Alec Kent of the Auxiliary Fire Service. Surely there is something for him, if not for me.”

  The waiter’s imperious expression didn’t change. “I don’t believe that’s possible.”

  Right then the balding man turned in his chair, and she saw his face for the first time. She took a surprised, startled breath. It can’t be.

  The balding man snapped his fingers. “Waiter.”

  With the obedience of a well-trained dog, the waiter headed to the man’s table.

  “That’s Winston bloody Churchill,” Alec said in a hushed tone.

  Awed, Sylvie said, “It looks like it.”

  A short discussion ensued between the waiter and Churchill.

  “We’ll be thrown out on our butts now,” Alec said.

  The waiter returned to them. “Mr. Churchill would like to speak with you, and he’s offered to buy you both a meal.”

  “What?” Alec said. “That’s…”

  “Amazing,” Sylvie finished for her flummoxed companion. “We’d be delighted.”

  Actually, the reporter in her wanted a story, but she also knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything to jump at Mr. Churchill with an attitude.

  “Oh, my God. Churchill wants to speak with us?” Alec said under his breath to her.

  Before she could reply, the waiter gestured for them to follow. Nervousness filled her as they moved across the room.

  To her surprise, Churchill stood, but his six compatriots didn’t.

  “Sir,” the
waiter said, “this is Miss Sylvie Hunnicut from the New York Herald Tribune and Mr. Alec Kent of the Auxiliary Fire Service.”

  Churchill nodded and shook both their hands, his smile appearing genuine. “Very pleased to meet you both. Please have a seat at any table you like and order whatever you like.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Alec said. “Why us when no one else may eat here now?”

  “I see that you’re both very worn and obviously have had a difficult night. And you were fighting a fire, son. Harder work than I’ve had to do these many years.”

  Sylvie knew he’d served in the Great War, certainly nothing to denigrate.

  Alec smiled and nodded. “Thank you. We’re both tired and hungry, but so many others are too.”

  Churchill chuckled. “Then ease my guilt by taking a meal this morning. I can do little, but at least I can do this much today.”

  After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Sylvie and Alec found a table at the far end of the room out of the earshot of Churchill’s group. They both ordered eggs and discovered sausages were actually available. The waiter promised hot tea and water for them both.

  “Heavenly,” Alec said.

  After the waiter left, she leaned close to Alec and said, “Churchill is everything I imagined. His voice is an amazing combination of tough old angry man and dignified grandfather.”

  Alec chuckled. “That’s a good description.”

  They settled into the chairs, barely talking as exhaustion pulled them down. Sylvie believed she could fall asleep sitting up given half the chance.

  Alec sipped his tea. “They’re over there talking political strategy, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  “He sees paying for our meal as good public relations. To show he supports the AFS.”

  “Of course he would.”

  “Hmm.”

  His grunt irritated Sylvie a little. Even though she knew fatigue made her more easily upset, she spoke her feelings anyway. “He needs to keep people’s morale in place, don’t you think?”

  “Politicians are all the same, Sylvie. Even Churchill. Perhaps he thinks we’re poor and needy and wants it to look good.”