by Garry Ryan
Sharon looked at the soccer ball tucked under her arm. “Late for a birthday party.” She tried to smile.
“That was the only lucky thing about what happened. The plane crashed about an hour before Sean’s party was to start. All the children ’round here were invited.” The woman shifted her bag to the other arm.
“Has anyone seen Sean?”
“His mother, Hazel, was just outside the front door when the bomber crashed. She was thrown out into the street. They took her body away. Sean was inside. I don’t know how Patrick will take the news.”
“He’s dead.”
The woman put her free hand to her chest just below her throat. “The whole family is gone, then?”
Sharon looked at the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Margaret.”
“Was Sean’s body found?”
“What’s your name, then?”
“Sharon.” She looked down at her flight suit and realized for the first time how out of place she must appear.
“Patrick’s Sharon?”
“That’s right.”
“Sean was so looking forward to meeting you. He talked of nothing else this past week.”
Sharon handed the soccer ball to Margaret. “Will you hang onto this for me?”
Margaret took the ball. “What are you going to do?”
“I think my father would like to be buried with his son and his wife.” Sharon walked closer to the rubble. She turned to Margaret. “Where was the kitchen?”
Margaret moved closer, put the packages down on the sidewalk, and walked past Sharon. “This way.”
Sharon followed.
“Why the kitchen?”
“If there was a cake, and Hazel went outside, well, he probably went for a taste of the icing. I know that’s what I would have done.”
Margaret lifted her skirt to her knees and stepped over a pile of debris. “Right about there, I should think.” She pointed.
“Thank you.” Sharon unzipped the top of her flight suit, pulled her arms out, and tied the flight suit arms around her waist. Then she loosened her tie and pulled it off. Sticking it in a pocket, she said, “No time like the present.”
Sharon bent and took a brick in each hand, tossing them into what had once been a back garden. One of the bricks bounced and banged up against the Dornier’s fuselage. It made a satisfying thunk.
“Fucking Nazis!” She picked up a brick, aimed at the swastika on the tail, and fired. The brick flew overtop of the tail. “Goddamned cancer!” She picked up another brick and threw it. It missed to the right and swished though a bush. “Shitty war!” Sharon picked up a third brick.
“Does it help?”
Sharon turned.
“Nigel Brown.” He held out his right hand. His left was tucked in the pocket of his grey work pants. His tan work shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. He was over six feet tall. He had a five o’clock shadow and a round face.
Sharon stepped down off the pile and felt the calluses on his hand as she shook it. “Sharon Lacey.”
Nigel looked at the wreckage and kicked at a brick with his work-boot. He rubbed a hand over his bristles. “You were saying?”
Sharon shrugged. “Nothing useful.”
“You’re a pilot, I see,” Nigel said.
“Yes.” What does he want?
“Patrick told me you were coming today. Your father and I were neighbours.” Nigel surveyed the wreckage.
“Where’s your house?” Sharon looked over to the houses still standing.
“Next-door neighbours.”
“Oh.” Sharon looked at the rubble. “Did you live alone?”
“Margaret’s my wife. She wasn’t home at the time. I was at work.” Nigel shook his head. “Fucking war.”
“Yes.” Sharon turned, bent at the waist, and picked up a piece of wood. She tossed it into the backyard. It made a clunk as it hit the swastika on the tail of the Dornier. “Fuckers!”
Nigel moved to her right and grunted as he picked up a section of roof. “Give us a hand.”
Sharon grabbed the opposite corner, and they dragged the weight into the backyard.
“Margaret says you think Sean was in the kitchen.” Nigel wiped his hands across the front of his pants.
Sharon nodded. “It was his birthday. When I was eleven, if my mother went outside, I’d be in the kitchen getting a taste of cake.” She closed her eyes with a memory of her mother handing her a bowl with the remains of the icing. She licked her lips and smiled.
Nigel chuckled. “If memory serves, that would be my objective as well.”
Sharon felt sweat trickling down her back as she bent to pick up more debris. “Why are you here?”
“Margaret and I have no children of our own. Sean and I were friends. When he wanted to chat, he would often come over to our home.”
Sharon hefted a clump of four bricks still held together with mortar. She heaved the load, then looked over her shoulder to see it whiz past Nigel. “Sorry.”
“Why are you here?” Nigel asked.
“Sean’s birthday!” She bent back to grab another brick. Don’t be angry with him. He’s trying to help.
“No, why are you in England? You sound American.”
“Canadian. My mother died. I came to meet my father and my mother’s family. So far, it hasn’t worked out very well.” Sharon threw more bricks on the pile in the backyard. At this rate, we might find Sean in a week. She stretched her back and looked at the sky, where vapour trails etched the course of another air battle. Every so often, she could hear the chatter of machine guns.
An hour later, she stood and closed her eyes as a swell of dizziness washed over her.
“Margaret has organized some tea for us.” Nigel put his hand on her shoulder.
Sharon nodded and went to sit on the curb next to the front step — all that remained of her father’s house. She saw a puddle of dried blood in the middle of the road. Must be Hazel’s. This was followed by a flashback of blood pooling under the nose of her Spitfire. And next to that, on the concrete, her father’s blood.
She looked up and saw that a dozen people now worked on the rubble. “I didn’t realize so many people came to help.”
“What’s that?” Margaret carried a basket and was followed by two other women. “My sisters, Maxine and Geraldine.”
Sharon nodded at the pair of women, who smiled at her. They both wore dresses. “Thank you.”
“Where’s Paddy O’Malley? Down at the pub while all of you do the digging?” The voice came from behind the sisters.
Sharon turned in the direction of the voice.
A man and a woman stood arm in arm. He wore a new green army uniform and she a blue dress. “Is he stuck in a bog somewhere?”
Sharon stood.
Margaret set down her basket and stood next to Sharon. “He’s dead. Killed during today’s raid on Biggin Hill.”
The woman in the blue dress pulled at the soldier’s arm, but he stood his ground. “Won’t get any sympathy from me. Bloody RAF left us at the mercy of the Luftwaffe at Dunkirk!”
Maxine took Sharon’s hand. “Every town has one. Goes to the pub in the afternoon and in the evening comes out looking for a fight. Sit down and have summat to eat.”
“Time for tea.” Geraldine lifted a red-checked tablecloth out of the basket.
Maxine and Margaret spread the cloth on the sidewalk and set out plates of sandwiches.
The soldier said, “Leave the Irish bastard to rot!”
Rage blossomed in Sharon. Leave it alone.
“The bastards were cannon fodder in the last war. Let the Irish do the same in this one!” The soldier made a fist and shook it at the women.
Sharon shook off Maxine’s grip and covered half the distance to the soldier before anyone had time to react.
The soldier’s girlfriend turned when she heard Sharon’s approach. “Peter!”
The soldier turned. He stumbled back when he spotted Sharon.
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sp; “Asshole!” Sharon cocked her right arm and kicked with her left leg.
Her fist caught Peter on the nose. Her left foot caught him square in the belly. Peter hit the ground. She found herself sitting on his chest, her fists mechanically driving blows into Peter’s face. “You son of a bitch!” She smelled the alcohol on him. It was fuel for her rage.
Someone grabbed her around the neck and shoulders and pulled her back. She kicked at the soldier and missed.
Nigel said, “That wanker’s hardly worth it. But it was fun to watch. You’re a tiger, Sharon. Patrick would be proud of you.” He dragged her back. “We don’t have time or energy for this. Look at your hands. How are you going to get Sean out if you waste all of your anger and strength on the likes of Peter here?”
Sharon looked down at her fists. The knuckles were smeared with blood. She hung her head.
“Bitch broke my nose!” Peter stood up, supported by his girlfriend. “I’m gettin’ the constable!” He pulled away from his girlfriend’s hand and marched down the road. His ankle turned and he fell sideways into the gutter.
Margaret took Sharon by the elbow. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” They walked over to the bakery. The owner greeted them at the door.
“We need to get this one cleaned up,” Margaret said.
“Sink’s at the back.” The baker pointed with a white finger. “Makin’ a fresh batch of bread for you.”
“Thanks,” Sharon said.
They found the sink. Margaret turned on the taps. Sharon winced as the water hit her raw knuckles. “Ooh. Everyone is being so nice, and I get into a fight.”
“Actually, there’s not much you can do wrong in this village.”
“What?” Sharon looked at Margaret.
“Word from Biggin Hill is you shot down five Huns today. Two more people from the village were killed at Biggin Hill today. Add those to Hazel and Sean, and we’ve got a funeral for sixteen tomorrow at the chapel. People around here are happy to hear that someone is hitting back against the Nazis.” Margaret looked for a towel.
“Still, beating up one of the local soldiers is hardly the best way of showing my gratitude.” Sharon shook the water off her hands and took the offered towel. “Thanks.”
“Peter was a bully as a child, and he’s a bully of a man. He survived Dunkirk and can’t understand why the town didn’t welcome him as a hero. Sits down at the pub and expects everyone there will buy him drinks. Fact is, most of us still can’t stomach him.” Margaret crossed her arms. “Now, let’s get some food into you before you fall over.”
Sharon ate two sandwiches and, when she found there was coffee, drank three cups.
Maxine handed her another sandwich. “Try my cucumbers. Grew them in the back garden. A very good crop, if I do say so.”
“Thanks.” Sharon unwrapped the waxed paper and took a bite. There was a sweet taste of ripe vegetable mixed with salt, encased in fresh bread. “Very good.” She swallowed and took another bite.
“When did you eat last?” Maxine tucked her hands between her knees into the folds of her blue dress.
Sharon covered her mouth. “This morning.”
“It’s nearly eight o’clock,” Maxine said.
Sharon looked at the wrecked building and aircraft. “A lot has happened since this morning.”
“Sean was such a friendly boy. If I close my eyes, I can see him and his parents walking down the street. They were a happy family. Sean always looked up to his father.” The evening sun highlighted Maxine’s red hair.
Sharon nodded. “I would have liked to have met him.”
Maxine said, “He had hair your colour, and blue eyes. So much energy. That boy was going morning, noon, and night. Made his teachers earn their pay.”
Sharon looked at the sun as it touched the tops of the trees. The breeze had moved on and left behind still evening air. “I’d better get back to work. Thank you for the sandwiches.”
“Happy to do it.”
Four hours later, Sharon stopped and looked around her. She saw only Nigel bending to pull at a broken beam. They worked by the light of three lanterns spaced in a triangle around the rubble. They’d gotten used to working in half-light and deep shadow.
“Why don’t you go and get some rest?” Sharon’s body ached and the skin on her fingers felt like it had been peeled off.
“I’ll quit when you do.” He pulled a beam free and dragged it over to the pile in the backyard. Nigel disappeared into the darkness.
She heard the beam thump as it landed on the pile. “I can’t stop until I find him.”
He walked back into the light of the lanterns. “Let’s break for a cup of tea, then we’ll get back to it.” Nigel stepped over a twisted bed frame.
Sharon walked over to the curb and sat down. Every muscle and bone aches. She looked at her hands. She felt the blister bubbles on her palms.
Nigel sat down next to her, then reached for the flask and two cups Margaret had left for them. He handed her a cup and poured.
“Thank you.” Sharon took a sip. The tea was too strong and too sweet. Still, it tasted delicious in her parched mouth.
Nigel poured himself a cup and drank. “How’s yours?”
“Delicious.”
“Mine’s bloody awful.”
Sharon heard someone tapping on a stone. “Who else is here?”
Nigel turned around. “Ow.” He moved his head in a circle to work out the kink in his neck. “Just the two of us.”
“Then what’s that sound?” She turned to Nigel. “Are you making that sound?”
“Not me.”
“Where’s it coming from?” Sharon got up. “Quick, before it stops!” Fear clamped its jaws around her heart and squeezed the breath out of her lungs. Her head spun. She had to concentrate to breathe. They walked side by side toward the corner of the partially exposed foundation.
Nigel pointed. “There, I think. You know, you may have been right. That’s where they had the kitchen table. It was next to the window. The table was a massive thing. It’s possible, if Sean got under it, that he could still be alive.”
Sharon pulled a stone away from the side of the pile.
“Careful now.” Nigel put a hand on Sharon’s shoulder. “We don’t want to bring the whole mess down on top of him or us. First, we have to move the lanterns.”
Sharon went to get one of them. The lamp hissed as she handed it to Nigel. He took it and found a spot to maximize visibility.
She left and returned with the next two.
“That should do it.” Nigel pulled tentatively at a bed frame, then dragged it away. “We work together from now on. Each move must be well thought out.” He handed the metal frame to her and she set it in the yard.
Every half hour or so, they switched positions. One would stand at the edge of the pile and hand the debris to the other, who would carry it away.
They worked and waited to see if the tapping would start up again.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
“There it is again.” Sharon held her hand up.
“We have to let him know we’re here.” Nigel picked up a small shovel and tapped it against a stone jammed low on the pile.
The tapping from inside came back faster, louder.
Sharon cupped her hands around her mouth. “Sean! It’s Sharon! We’re here. Nigel and I are here!” She felt something building in her. He’s alive! We need to get him out now!
The tapping stopped for a minute, then picked up again.
Nigel said, “We have to take some tea now.”
“What?” Sharon looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“We’re both exhausted. Just a short rest. We’re at risk of hurting the boy or worse if we make a mistake now. Our minds have to be as clear as possible.”
Sharon looked at the wall of rubble rising above them. One piece taken from the wrong place at the wrong time would bring the entire mess down on top of them. “All right.”
They drank and ate qu
ietly, listening in case the tapping started up again. After ten minutes, Nigel nodded to her and they stood.
This time, they worked with fingertips, brushing around bricks, pulling each one out slowly, waiting for a shift in rubble warning them of a cave-in.
The tapping started, slowed, and stopped.
Sharon looked at her fingernails. They were worn down to the quick.
They worked in the mouth of an opening just above the foundation. She and Nigel took turns holding the lantern as they tunneled toward where they hoped to find Sean.
Sharon touched a round, vertical piece of oak. “Can you bring the light a little closer?”
“What have you got?” Nigel eased the lantern in so they could see the exposed table leg. “Looks promising. Work slowly now. We don’t know how much room he’s got.”
Sharon tapped a stone on the table leg.
There was tapping from the other side.
She put her hand on the oak leg. She could feel the tapping being telegraphed onto the blisters on her palm. The pain focused her. “Sean?”
The words from the other side were too muffled to be understood.
Sharon lay on her belly, digging away on either side of the table leg. The dust got into her nostrils and she sneezed. There was the scent of earth and wood. There’s some other smell there, too. Urine! Did I wet myself?
Dirt and debris fell away under her fingertips.
Sharon sneezed in the cloud of dust particles illuminated by the lantern’s glare.
“Bless you.” The child’s voice was clear.
“Sean?” Sharon asked.
“Who are you?”
“Sharon.”
Sean asked, “Where’s my father and mother?”
“Sean?” Nigel had his hand on Sharon’s boot.
“Nigel?” Sean asked.
“Sharon and I are going to get you out. How much room have you got in there?” Nigel asked.
“I can move my arms and legs,” Sean said.
Sharon reached through the opening. “Can you touch my hand?”
At first, she felt a brushing, light as a sparrow’s wings, then a child’s hands gripped hers. She said, “Okay, let go of me. We’re going to move some more of this shit away and make the opening big enough.”
“Let me have a go,” Nigel said.