She froze in her chair. “My grandfather, my father, for that matter, was a gentleman.”
“Not a coal miner then, or a simple greengrocer?”
She shook her head. “I was orphaned young. I thought it best to make my own way.”
He frowned, and she realized she’d made a mistake. She forced a smile. “But then I met my Les. A whirlwind courtship.”
He smiled back, exposing a missing tooth on the top right side. His eyes drifted south. “Yes, he does appreciate what you have to offer.”
She felt a desperate urge to bathe. He made her feel unclean. But she couldn’t react. She was dependent on him to find Les so she could go home. Never again. Les was one thing, but his creepy friends were another.
“You are much too pretty to have remained unwed for long,” Mrs. Kozyrev opined. She then said something to her husband in Russian and rose to her feet, gesturing to Sadie. “Come.”
Reluctantly, Sadie followed her into the back of the restaurant. The small washroom was damp and icy. She watched the other woman pull a small mirror from her handbag and repaint her lips a vibrant shade of red. Her own lipstick was back at the hotel, forgotten in the basket on the top of her trunk. Since her grandfather didn’t like makeup, she hadn’t developed the habit of carrying any in her handbag. Now, with a man like Les taking her anywhere at any time, she needed to be better prepared. If she stayed with him, she’d be one of those women who carried a knitting bag with her everywhere she went, just to have something to do.
“You are smiling,” Mrs. Kozyrev observed. “Why?”
“I was thinking I should take up knitting like a proper married lady.”
The other woman frowned. “I do not knit.”
No, you’re too busy being avaricious. Sadie shivered as the woman put away her lipstick and powder. They returned to Semyon and left the restaurant, heading toward the docks. Even before they reached the bookshop where they were meeting Les, Sadie could smell seaweed and clay, with a faint tang of vinegar.
Les, standing outside the shop door, greeted them with a ready smile.
“Sell anything?” Semyon asked in English.
“I unloaded ten magazines that I had on hand, but I couldn’t persuade the man to take on any subscriptions.”
Sadie took his arm. “At least your case is lighter now.”
Les nodded absently. They turned a corner and Sadie’s nose was assaulted by the heavy stench of fuel. She could hear roaring sounds, which turned out to be a gathered crowd.
“Did we have the time wrong?” Les asked Semyon.
The man shrugged. Sadie began to be able to make out the words on the signs men were waving. “Solidarity” was a common theme. “Strike” was another. “Worker’s Rights” held great popularity.
She understood there was a lot of unrest around the coal miners. “Why are they protesting here?”
“It’s a regional transport hub,” Les said.
She clutched his arm tighter. “Why did we come here? I don’t like this.” The men looked so dirty, like they never washed their clothing or hair. The scent of coal in the warehouses, the trains, the sea smells, it all turned her stomach. She was a long way from Bagshot.
“Stay close to the Kozyrevs,” he said. He stared at his hand holding his case in disfavor. “I’d like to hear the speeches.”
“There are speeches?” she asked faintly. “I thought we’d take a look and then go back to the train station.”
“No, this will go on for a couple of hours,” Les said. “Come, let’s move closer.”
Semyon cleared a path through the crowd, leading them steadily through the protesters to a distant spot on the actual dock thrust into the Humber where a platform had been raised and a banner was held by two poles stuck into barrels. A man was imprecating the crowd from the platform. Sadie couldn’t hear a word but was struck by the man’s thick mustache and pointed beard. He looked like Lenin, the assassinated Russian revolutionary, although he spoke like an Englishman.
Or, as she listened to him shout from the platform, she realized he sounded like a Russian, but with an English accent. All his talk of worker inequality excited the crowd, but it meant nothing to her. At twenty, she had most of what she wanted, and knew the rest would come if she chose a husband wisely. She would fight for the right man, instead of hoping for one to choose her, like her sister had. Sadie Loudon wasn’t going to be a surplus woman, like so many a decade or so older than she were, thanks to the war.
“Stirring stuff,” Les muttered next to her. He sounded sarcastic. “Here, take this. I’m going to go right up front.”
She took the case on autopilot, distracted by a woman, obviously pregnant, begging her husband not to raise a sign into the air. They were better dressed than most, and she imagined the man might work for the train company rather than as a miner.
Les had moved away from her by then. She pushed deeper into the crowd in front of the dock. She couldn’t risk losing sight of him. When she saw him again, he was speaking to an unusually tall fellow. Another speaker came onto the platform and orated about wage slavery. The crowd around her rallied to his cry. She pressed forward again, trying to keep the tall fellow in sight. Off to the right, where the warehouses began, a row of cars pushed through the crowd. Uniformed police constables poured out of them as they stopped.
Woman were more prevalent close to the platform. Some had the light of holy fire in their eyes, true believers in the cause. A couple even had children in tow, picnic baskets, like a cold January day on the river was a good excuse for an outing. Had Les imagined something like this for their date? A picnic?
Someone groaned.
Sadie stopped her forward movement when she saw another pregnant woman, breathing hard, clutching a basket. She dropped Les’s sample case and grabbed the woman before she doubled over.
“You need to leave here,” she told the woman, trying to speak under the roar of the crowd. “The police have arrived.”
The pregnant woman frowned, shaking out her skirt. Spots of tar had smeared on it. “The fabric is going to be ruined.” The distant expression on her face intensified and she put her hand to her belly.
“Are you in labor?” Sadie asked, disbelieving. She set the basket down on top of Les’s case and grabbed the woman around the waist, just as the crowd surged forward. They were carried several feet closer to the platform.
Sadie craned her neck, trying to see what was going on. The police were still on the edge of the crowd but she couldn’t see much. On the platform, the man had spittle in the corners of his mouth as he screamed something about lies and freedom and revolution.
She turned around, trying to protect the woman’s belly. Her eyes scanned for Les, for the tall man who’d been next to him. “Oh, thank God.” She spotted the tall man. Despite his height, he looked like a boxer, with the characteristic reset nose and damaged ears.
“Let’s go that way,” Sadie said, pointing. She tried to walk at a diagonal, very hard to do moving backward. The crowd pushed again, shouting. Signs waved in the air all around her. The wind whipped one out of a slight man’s hand. It hit another man a couple of feet away from Sadie, knocking the cap from his head. The man went to his knees. Sadie stumbled against someone else. She grabbed for the pregnant woman, whose eyes were vague as she focused on whatever was happening inside her body.
Someone ripped her handbag from her arm just as she saw the tall men. “Les!” she screamed.
A hole appeared in the crowd. She saw Les, still dapper from tie to the tip of his head, though his coat was inexplicably filthy. He pointed at her and called something out, but she couldn’t hear him. She turned sideways, trying to pull the woman along in her wake. Les pushed forward, his arm out, blocking men from moving forward.
She heard whistles, police whistles. The crowd moved in a new direction, almost a spiral. Some were trying to leave, some were trying to get closer to the platform. Les reached them.
“I think she’s having a ba
by,” Sadie cried, gesturing to the woman’s belly.
“Go toward the police,” Les said, his expression determined as he came to help.
The wind brought sprinkles of rain, or maybe sea water. It sounded like thousands of pieces of paper rustling. She couldn’t be sure, but the sky had gone charcoal. With Les at the woman’s front and her at the woman’s back, they began to propel her toward the constables. Thanks to the crowd, they made little headway. They went in the direction of the police cars, but also even closer to the platform. The banner whipped in the wind. She heard the planks creaking. Waves dashed against the pilings, sending sludge over the dock. The speaker gripped the book in his hand and waved it over his head. The wind grabbed it, sending it flying into the crowd. The man stumbled and another man grabbed for his arm.
The pregnant woman groaned, recapturing Sadie’s attention. She caught Les’s gaze. He glanced over the woman. She knew he was trying to decide if he could carry her, but the woman was already bulky without her pregnant condition.
“Where’s Semyon?” she called. Even better, she wondered where the boxer was. He could carry the woman.
Les shook his head then leaned over the pregnant woman’s ear, trying to speak to her. Sadie saw the boxer and waved her hand at him. Did Les know him? Would he help? She hadn’t seen the Kozyrevs for at least ten minutes.
The strong wind slapped at the banner. One side separated from the pole. The pole holding the banner tipped. The barrel and whatever was inside keeping the pole upright didn’t hold. It fell into the crowd.
Sadie screamed as she was spun around and covered her head with her hands to protect it. People pressed away in all directions. She pulled her hands from her eyes, unsure of how they’d arrived there. The pregnant woman hummed, holding her belly, uninjured, but Les had fallen face first onto the wooden plank of the dock, the pole over his back.
Sadie’s vision dimmed. Her diaphragm froze, cutting off her scream. Fighting black spots in front of her eyes, she ran forward, terrified, and tried to lift the pole off of Les’s back. It was so heavy. She could roll it. Would that hurt him more? Two men jumped off the podium and helped her. They heaved the pole to the side. It clicked on the wood as it rolled.
“What do I do?” Sadie sobbed, staring down at Les’s unmoving form.
“I dinna see a head wound, miss,” one of the men said.
“He’s lost his hat,” she said nonsensically. “Does he look cold?” She stripped off her coat and began to lay it over him.
“Make a pad and put it by his head. We’ll turn him over,” the other man said.
She did as he suggested and they rolled him over. He had livid scratches on his face from falling onto the dock. His eyes were half-closed. An older woman appeared and knelt by Les’s unmoving form. She put her cheek to his mouth.
“He’s breathing,” the woman reported. When she looked up, her attention was captured by the pregnant woman. “You have your hands full here. I’ll take the woman in labor.”
The man with the Scottish accent pointed. “They’ve ambulances behind the police cars.”
“Can we carry him to an ambulance?” Sadie asked. The nurse had already taken the pregnant woman by the hand and was leading her off.
The man with the Lenin facial hair walked up to them. “A comrade fallen for the cause. May I have his name, please?”
Sadie stared at the man. “We need to get him to the ambulance. Will you help?”
The Scotsman rolled his eyes. “Orville Percy makes speeches. He doesn’t lift.”
“His name?” asked the man impatiently. “Don’t let your husband die in vain, Mrs—”
The crowd roared off to the right. The policemen were moving.
“We need to get yer husband to the ambulance now, before some other fellow takes it,” said the Scotsman. “Help me with his shoulders. I’ll take his legs.”
Sadie thought frantically. What would Les want? She decided he’d come here for a reason and she should respect that. “Lester Rake,” she told Orville Percy as she pushed her arms under Les’s right shoulder, scraping her knuckles on the splintery wooden planks. “He’s a salesman and his name is Lester Rake. But he’s not going to die.”
* * *
Les could hear the crying. It seemed like every time he woke up, Aunt Tatty was crumpled into the arm chair next to his bed. He turned his head on the pillow, choking up himself, missing his mother, too. Something was wrong though. The pillowcase didn’t smell like lavender and it scratched his cheek.
“Les?” Rustling. “Nurse? My husband’s eyelids are fluttering.”
He heard a young woman’s voice, a Surrey accent, not Aunt Tatty’s middle-aged Hampshire tones, interspersed with sobs. Someone was talking about her husband.
He moved his head again, slowly coming to full consciousness, though he wasn’t ready to open his eyes. Hospital. He must be in hospital. Trying to remember why seemed like too much work.
“He’s moved his head,” the young woman said, as shuffling footsteps came to a stop nearby. “And blinked.”
“It’s been a long five days for you, dear,” said another voice, strained and tired, older and slower than Aunt Tatty’s. “It’s suprisin’ to have good news after all this time.”
As Les thought about losing five days, his thoughts moving at turtle-speed, the young woman said, “The doctor said he would wake up when the swelling went down.”
“It’s the Lord’s will,” the woman said.
Les identified her as a Yorkshire woman. West, he thought, working class, probably a nurse at the hospital. So he was in Yorkshire. That did ring a bell. Hull. He’d have sat up with the sudden remembering, but he felt much too weak. He settled for opening his eyes.
The woman at his bedside had her hand on his pillow. Her hand had his father’s V signet ring where a wedding ring ought to be. He recognized the ring, but who was the girl? She smiled tenderly at him.
“Les? It’s Sadie.” Her voice trembled a little. “Your wife? Mrs. Lester Rake?”
He wasn’t married. But, he considered, he was a spy. She must be his cover. Was she a spy too? She looked so young. “How old are you?” he asked, his voice sounding aged and raspy.
“Silly man. I’m twenty. Do you remember? We went to that party with Semyon on my birthday?” Her voice was light as she patted his arm, but her greenish blue eyes were troubled.
She was trying to tell him his history. Semyon. The full name, with autobiographical details, snapped into his head. Semyon Kozyrev, husband of Irina, labor organizer, funded by the Russians. He’d been attempting to develop the man into a source. No chance of turning him. No, Les remembered he’d been trying to infiltrate the labor organization. He’d been sent to Hull to deepen his connection to the Kozyrevs, introduce Sadie to Irina.
“Sadie?” Should he use a Russian accent? His usual accent. How his head hurt, like it had been squeezed like a sponge and left to shrivel.
“Yes, darling.” She smiled at him.
Awfully pretty, this blonde. Why had Glass wanted to inflict an assassin’s daughter on this appealing young English lass? For their great work, he supposed. Patriotism over the individual. “Five days? What happened to your job?”
“I couldn’t leave you. It was my fault. You had no money, no identification.”
He worked his throat, trying to sort it out. “Water?”
“Just a sip now,” the nurse cautioned as Sadie eagerly brought a smudged glass to his lips.
He was only allowed to drink an inch. “Have the Kozyrevs been helping you?” he asked slowly.
Sadie shook her head. Her head movement made the room spin around his eyes. “Yes, a little.” She leaned closer. “I’m afraid of them, Les. I couldn’t leave you. A wife wouldn’t. Plus, someone stole my handbag and I lost your sample case. Everything is gone. Your wallet, any money either of us had. Except your keys. No one stole those.”
Slowly, he lifted his hand to his head. The Kozyrevs. She was right to fear the
m. She had no idea who he really was; he remembered now. He’d somehow charmed this girl into pretending to be the wife of a commercial traveler. He’d promised to have her home and back to work by morning.
“You need to gather your strength,” the nurse said, pulling up his blanket. “Don’t worry about home quite yet.”
“Sadie? What about you?” he asked. “Five days?”
She smiled wearily. “I slept here, but Mrs. Kozyrev brought me clothes and food once a day. I’ve become quite a nurse these five days, tending to you.”
Which is why he wasn’t dead. She’d been force-feeding him. “You’ve kept me alive.”
“Of course.”
He ran his tongue along his foul teeth, trying to find moisture. “I am so sorry, Sadie.”
She patted his arm. “I couldn’t leave my husband, you silly man.”
What would she have done if he’d died? He hoped Semyon would have paid her way back to London. He could smell the scents of illness, the vomit, urine, and blood, hear the groans and wheezes and snores, as he came into full consciousness. No privacy here.
“Ah, here’s Doctor,” the nurse said.
“He’s awake, then, eh? Your faith was justified, Mrs. Rake,” drawled a young man with a tongue depressor tucked into a suit pocket. He stopped at the bed and stared down at Les.
Overwhelmed, he allowed himself to lapse into semi-sleep after the doctor poked and prodded him. Saving Sadie would have to wait for a little while. At least she looked a lot better than he felt.
“Well, well, well.”
Les heard the Russian accent sometime later, and fought his way out of brain fog. He heard the click of a woman’s heeled shoes on the floor. A heavy object was dropped by his bed.
“Mrs. Kozyrev!” Sadie exclaimed. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I am most happy for you,” the woman said.
“It’s been dreadful. Les has only just regained consciousness. What would we have done without you?”
He opened his eyes a crack to see Irina Kozyrev gazing down at him, a little smile playing across carmine lips. “So sick-making to see a strong man in his prime struck down.”
I Wanna Be Loved by You Page 6