Fragments (Out of Time)

by Monique Martin

  He popped a cube of SPAM into his mouth and strained to make out the Queen’s English in the garbled mess the woman was making of it. He heard the door to his office open.

  “Mrs. Quick,” he said as he reached for the phonograph needle in frustration. “I have told you not to disturb me while I’m working.”

  “Mrs. Quick is out,” a tall man said. “I let myself in.”

  “Did you? Impudent. Then you can let yourself out as well.”

  “I just need the answers to a few questions,” the man said.

  Professor Morley stared at him in confusion. “Can’t you see I’m working?”

  “This won’t take long, Professor.” The man walked over to his desk, as though they were old friends. He perched on the edge of it and picked up a paperweight. “You had visitors yesterday.”

  “Yes,” he said, yanking the paperweight from the man’s hand. “What of it? Get off my desk.”

  “What did they want?” The man smiled, but there was no warmth in it. He stood and walked around to the side of the desk.

  Morley’s orders for the man to leave died on his lips. He squinted at him. “Say that again.”

  “What did they want?”

  Morley’s throat went suddenly dry. “Voiced labiodental fricative. Very mild.”

  “What’s that?”

  Carefully, Morley placed his pencil into his notebook and closed it. “Your English is excellent. Where did you learn it? Munich? It is slightly Alemannic. Düsseldorf?”

  Morley tried to move his chair back from the desk and stand, but the man shoved him back into his seat.

  “What are you doing?” Morely protested.

  The man sighed heavily and pulled something from his pocket. The blade made a clicking sound as it slid into place. Everything, even knives have a language.

  “What were they looking for?” The pretense was nearly gone. The labiodental fricative “w” becomes “v”, the phoneme “th” becomes “z”, the consonant devoicing “g” becomes “k”. Vat vere zey lookink for? Curious and very, very German.

  Professor Morley had never considered himself brave. He was generally regarded as a coward. An assessment he didn’t disagree with. He was too old and too fat to fight. He couldn’t bear the privations of austerity the way everyone else did. He liked the things he liked and he could afford them, no one was really being hurt by it. Despite how others saw it, dabbling in the market now and again wasn’t such a terrible thing. A crate of oranges one way or the other would hardly make a difference to the war. But, coward though he was, he wasn’t a traitor. Even he had his limits.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The same thing I’m going to tell you. Nothing. Now, get out.” His voice sounded so much calmer than he felt.

  “Just a simple question,” the man said. “A simple answer and I’ll be gone.”

  Morley stuck out his chin defiantly. “No.” He could feel his jowls shaking and tried to stop his trembling.

  The man’s knife dragged along the top of the desk, gouging a long gash in the surface. “You English will see that pride alone cannot sustain you after we have won the war.”

  The man’s knife inched closer to Morley’s throat until the tip dug into his neck. He felt a single drop of blood trickle down his skin. “What did they want?”

  Morley’s eyes went to the photograph on his desk of his late mother. He would be the man she’d always hoped he would be. Even if only for a fleeting moment.

  “Very well,” the man said. He lowered the knife and cut a large cube of SPAM and stabbed it with the blade. He pushed it into Morley’s lips. “Swallow it.”

  Morley tried to turn away, but the man was too strong and forced it into his mouth. He tried to chew it, but the man held his jaw closed. “Swallow it.”

  Morley shook his head, but the man moved around behind him, pinched his nose and covered his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved with breath that wouldn’t come. He tried to swallow, but it was too large. Desperate, he forced himself, but the meat stuck in his throat. Choking.

  He tried to pry the man’s hands from his head. He clawed at them and hit them. He grasped the man’s fingers and tried to pull them away, tried to get even a tiny bit of air. Panic welled in his stomach and spread through his body like fire. His chest burned as he convulsed, his body trying to save him from his soul’s folly.

  He fought as the darkness closed in. He fought as his muscles seized. He fought as the last bit of breath in his body was spent. He fought until he wasn’t a coward anymore.

  Chapter Twenty

  With nothing to do but wait until the evening’s fundraiser, Simon and Elizabeth spent the afternoon walking around Bath. It was like walking through two thousand years of history — from the Roman baths to the Royal Crescent and the Circus. Nearly all of it, buildings that had survived hundreds, even thousands, of years, bore fresh scars from the war.

  The Baedeker Blitz in the Spring of 1942, well after the original Blitz, was a series of retaliatory bombing runs. Filed under War Stinks: The RAF had conducted raids earlier in the year in Lübeck, famous for its wooden medieval architecture, aimed at demoralizing the civilian population. Not to be outdone, the Germans retaliated by, supposedly, using the Baedeker Tourist Guide to Britain to choose sites not of military significance, but historical and emotional. Bath had been hit hard.

  Part of the amazing Georgian Royal Crescent was crushed and set on fire by incendiary bombs. Dozens of homes and other buildings were leveled to the ground. Evidence of the raid was everywhere.

  Large coils of barbed wire stretched between sawhorses ran down the middle of the street in front of the Circus and along most of the main thoroughfares. Despite the piles of rubble and the fresh wounds, the city was vibrant and the people went about their daily routines undeterred.

  Elizabeth hated to admit it, but part of her had always felt like the British were stuck in the past, reliving glory years of days long past. But now, she understood it, and she didn’t blame them one bit. What the people of England endured during the war and the way they’d shouldered their burdens couldn’t be taught in a textbook. Mrs. Miniver was a flickering shadow compared to the real thing. It had been so hard to understand what the people of Britain went through. She didn’t dare even think about the rest of Europe. There was no doubt Americans suffered as well, but they hadn’t had to send their children away to Canada to keep them safe. No foreign armies marched through the streets of New York. The fears and hardships of war weren’t echoed in air raid sirens night after night.

  Elizabeth looked around the streets of Bath, at the people whose spirit wouldn’t be broken, and was humbled by it. There was a selflessness that she wasn’t sure even existed anymore. A quiet everyday courage. It was a feeling she would never forget and one she’d call on time and again when the world grew dark.

  Simon squeezed her hand and led her past the enormous Abbey and along the Grand Parade. The concourse ran through the center of town, alongside and just above the River Avon. Once they crossed the bridge it was only a few steps down into the park that ran alongside the river. They found an empty bench and sat down as the sun began to set behind Pulteney Bridge.

  Simon slipped his arm over Elizabeth’s shoulder and kissed the edge of her forehead.

  Elizabeth rested her head on his shoulder. “This is nice, isn’t it?”

  “Perfect.”

  “The river, the bridge; it’s a definite Kodak moment.”

  “It is, but that isn’t what I meant,” Simon said. “I meant this. Us. Together.”

  The butterflies that had been hibernating in Elizabeth’s stomach morphed into a squadron of Spitfires. “Our we is better than my me.”

  Simon cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is. Elizabeth, will you—”

  “Show me your papers.”

  “Will I…what?”

  “Papers,” the man behind them said again. He walked around in front of them. “ID Cards, if you ple
ase?”

  Simon looked like he wanted to throttle the warden and Elizabeth would have gladly held the man down while he did. But, Simon merely grunted and handed the warden their papers.

  “Long way from home,” the man said as he peered at Simon through dirty wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “We’re just here for the night. Going to the Spitfire Fundraiser.”

  “Hmm.” The warden handed back their papers. “Best move along then. This is no place to be after dark.”

  “Of course,” Simon said in a voice so tightly polite it could have snapped. “Thank you.”

  With a sigh, Simon held out his hand and helped Elizabeth up. They both nodded to the warden and hurried toward the path to the stairs. By the time they reached the bridge, the sun and the moment were gone.

  ~~~

  The walk to Guildhall was quiet. No matter how much Elizabeth wanted to rewind or just tell Simon “yes,” she had to find the patience to let him do this in his own time and his own way. So, they both pretended he hadn’t just almost proposed. Again. But he had and Elizabeth’s heart swelled to match the smile she was trying so desperately to hide. She tried not to think the words “Mrs. Simon Cross” or “Elizabeth West-Cross” or “Elizabeth West, wife of Professor Simon Cross” or “The Professor and Mrs. Cross”, but those and a dozen of others clouded her mind.

  The Spitfire Fund Gala was held in the main ballroom of one of Bath’s gorgeous Georgian buildings. They bought tickets at the door from the ladies manning the entrance on the ground floor, and climbed the grand staircase to the first floor into what felt like an indoor fair. The near part of the room was cordoned off for games and challenges, while the far end served as a dance floor. Big band music gave the elegant room a fun, raucous edge.

  Elizabeth’s skin prickled with anticipation. The book they’d spent the last few days searching for was here. Somewhere.

  “Let me see what I can find out about the auction,” Simon said, as he excused himself and went off in search of someone in charge.

  Unable to stand still and wait, Elizabeth wandered amongst the small game stalls. There was even a caricature of Hitler without ears and crying like a baby. For merely 5p, people could pin the donkey ears on the Fuhrer. Elizabeth had spent 10p and got him right in the kisser, twice, much to the pleasure of the crowd, before Simon returned.

  “We’re supposed to look for a Mrs. Abbott.” Simon explained as he came to her side. “She’s in charge of the auction. They wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

  “Any idea where to start?”

  A voice came over the loud speakers and the music faded. “May I have your attention, please?” the woman said. “Over here. Next to the kissing booth! “

  Elizabeth stretched onto her tiptoes to see who was talking. A beautiful woman in her early thirties stood on a small makeshift stage and waved to the crowd. “Thank you,” she said in a perfect cut-glass accent. “Thank you so much for coming and supporting our boys. I’m Mrs. Abbott.”

  There was a round of applause from the crowd. “I’m guessing we start there,” Elizabeth said.

  “I’d like to thank the gentlemen who normally use this lovely historic space for allowing us to usurp it for the evening.” She winked at a man in full Naval dress. “And of course, to the ladies auxiliary for their help with the refreshments and the young Americans, where are you?” She scanned the floor.

  A small group of US army enlisted men whistled, waved and said things like “over here baby!”

  “Right there, yes.” She read from a small index card. “From the 1st Battalion, 16th Infantry Regiment, 1st Infantry Division for their help with our many booths.”

  Another round of applause bubbled up from the crowd.

  “Remember, every shilling you donate, every ticket you purchase brings us that much closer to reaching our goals. That much closer to giving our brave troops the tools they need to win this blasted war!”

  The room nearly exploded with applause.

  “Together we can see this through. I’ve never been so proud as I am tonight, to be part of Bath. Part of Somerset. Part of England!”

  Elizabeth had to hand it to the lady; she was a pro. She waved to the crowd as the applause continued until the music started again and she stepped down.

  Elizabeth and Simon walked toward her before they lost her in the crowd. She was even more beautiful up close. Mrs. Abbott’s skin was pale and perfect, and her dress actually shimmered. Elizabeth tugged on the collar of her own plain dress. All that could be said for hers was that it was finally clean.

  Simon smoothed down his hair and straightened his tie. “Let me handle this.” He stepped forward.

  Mrs. Abbott made charming small talk and whirled about to accept the adulation of many admirers. She even schmoozed gracefully. “Oh, thank you. Such an important cause. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Mrs. Abbott,” Simon said. “Very rousing speech.”

  “Thank you,” she said and was about to spin away and be willowy to someone else, when she did a double take. An actual old-timey movie double take and her engaging smile, engaged fully on Simon. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” she said extending her hand like a drooping flower.

  Elizabeth cocked her head slightly to the side, surprised, but not really, at the small stab of jealousy that poked through. Anything for the cause, she reminded herself.

  “Forgive me.” Simon took her hand gently. “Sir Simon Cross.”

  He whipped out that title like a…like a person with a title would. Mrs. Abbott’s pale gray eyes visibly sparkled at the mere mention of his sir-iness. She took a quick measure of Simon and must have liked how things added up. She slipped her arm into his and without so much as a how do you do, took him off into the crowd.

  Elizabeth stood there, mouth open, like a giant pile of dumb. Finally, she managed to snap out of it and trailed after them like a piece of toilet paper stuck to one of their shoes.

  He was just trying to get information; that was all. This was just a recon mission. She trusted Simon. It was that snooty vamp she didn’t trust. No one had that much going for them without a pact with the devil or a lot of air brushing. Possibly both.

  After a few minutes, Simon eased away from her clutches and pulled Elizabeth to the side. “The silent auction won’t start until ten. They’ll open the viewing room for half an hour before that. I think though,” he said with a glance over his shoulder, “with a little work, I could get in early.”

  Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “I bet you could. Sir Simon.”

  “Now, Elizabeth—”

  She couldn’t help it. She was feeling extra stabby. “Don’t now Elizabeth me. I saw how she looked at you.”

  Simon laughed.

  Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. Under normal circumstances she didn’t consider herself a jealous person, and she wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t. She was insulted, riled. Simon continued to laugh and Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Oh hell, she was jealous. “It’s not funny.”

  “Trust me, it is,” Simon said. “I don’t think we’ve ever been anywhere where some man hasn’t hit on you. And for once, the shoe is on the other foot.”

  “I’d like to ram my foot—”

  “Elizabeth!”

  “I’m sorry.” She was sorry. A little.

  Simon smiled and gently touched her cheek. “You’ve nothing to worry about. Let me see if I can charm her into viewing the items early.”

  “Just make sure that’s all she shows you.”

  Simon looked around the room and found Mrs. Abbott. “She is quite attractive.”

  Elizabeth knew he was teasing her, but her petulant gene spliced with jealousy anyway. “Maybe you should take off your wedding ring.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, turning the ring on his finger. “I think it excites her.”

  “And on that note,” Elizabeth said. “I need a drink.”

  Simon started to say something, but Elizabeth beat him to it. �
��No scrumpy.”

  ~~~

  Evan had grown used to the little cottage. It had only been a few days, but it was so charming and peaceful, he’d quickly fallen into a routine and felt quite at home. He felt stronger too. Last night, he’d slept through the night without nightmares for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long.

  The foodstuffs were mostly edible, but he did venture down into the village earlier that day. He’d done a masterful job of blending in even if he did say so himself and to himself. That was the one thing he missed. Company. While he was in the hospital, he missed Lillian every hour of every day, but his mind was never fully clear. Now that it was, he felt that ache to see her even more keenly.

  He tried to remember the day he left, but the memory wouldn’t come. All sorts of others slipped into its place. The day he brought Gerald home. The day he proposed. The day he met her. He’d been on assignment in Chicago. It was 1871 and the night before the Great Fire. Together, they’d survived. Now, she was facing that horror again. But this time she was alone.

  Why on earth had he left? Now, it seems absurd that he ever left her side, even for a minute. What he wouldn’t give to have that chance again.

  He stabbed at the fire in the hearth. The poker brought the coals back to life. “Lillian.”

  A loud knocking on the door made him jump and turn toward it. Damn, it must have been the fire that gave him away. Why was it always the fire?

  The knocking came again. “Hello?”

  With the poker still in one hand he went to the door. “Who is it?”

  “A friend.”

  “You’ve got the wrong house.”

  “No,” the man said. “Simon Cross sent me.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Elizabeth didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one teeny tiny, itty bitty bit. Why did Simon and Mrs. Abbott have to look so perfect together, like something out of Vanity Fair? They both carried themselves with the easy grace that privilege and excellent breeding gave a person. Elizabeth had a whole lot of neither.