The Way to London

by Alix Rickloff

  “Do we have to, Lucy?” Bill asked plaintively. “They was going to buy me a lemonade.”

  “Sounds a treat, but you and I are in a bit of a hurry. Remember?”

  “You don’t want to deny the kid a lemonade, do you?” Roger coaxed. “Besides, we’re still learning our way around, and we could sure use a friendly face. Why don’t you and Bill join us? We’ll treat you both to lemonades. No chewing involved.”

  “A tempting offer, but we really can’t.”

  “We’re going to London,” Bill piped up. “To see me mam.”

  What she wouldn’t give for a nice hefty gag. Lucy shot Bill a nasty look as she grabbed him by the elbow. “Good luck battling the Hun, boys. Thanks for the candy.”

  “But—” Roger protested.

  “Cheerio!” She tossed the men a finger wave over her shoulder as she marched Bill into the station.

  “What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Bill complained.

  “The idea was to be inconspicuous. Not broadcast our plans to the entire US Army.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “They know who we are, they know we’re headed to London. Why not just tell them we stole a car and a . . . a bag of apples . . . in the process?”

  His face fell as he scuffed the curb. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I didn’t mean to give it away. They were just being so nice.”

  “Men are always nice until you get to know them.”

  “You don’t like men much, do you?”

  “Unreliable rotters . . . remember?”

  “I’m a man.” He puffed out his chest.

  “Then you, sir, are the exception that proves the rule.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means, William Smedley”—she hooked her arm through his—“you’re the only man for me.”

  So far, so good. With a blow of the whistle and a chuff of steam, the train moved slowly out of the station. Lucy let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. If all continued to plan, they’d be in London by this evening. That gave her four days to insinuate herself into Mason Oliver’s good graces. If she couldn’t get herself “discovered” by then, she’d lost her touch.

  The train was full, but Lucy managed to find two rather stained and musty-smelling seats in the third-class compartment across from a middle-aged gentleman reading a newspaper. Seeing his privacy being invaded, he made dismissive harrumphing noises that Lucy chose to ignore as she made herself comfortable.

  “You suppose they have a restaurant car on this train?” Bill asked as soon as they were settled.

  “You just ate a sandwich. And a candy bar. And four apples. You’ll survive.”

  Bill grumbled and looked out the window.

  The businessman grumbled and rattled his paper.

  Lucy chose to ignore them both.

  The train inched its way through the lush green Cornish countryside before pulling into a siding outside Luxulyan and coming to a lurching, steam-filled stop.

  “What now?” the gentleman growled, glancing up from the stock reports. He checked his watch. “This better not take all day.”

  Lucy couldn’t have agreed more. She was already beginning to regret her impulsive departure. Given a bit more time to plan, she would have found a better way to reach London—some officer’s chauffeured car perhaps? She pictured herself whizzing past a blurry landscape in dark sunglasses and a trailing scarf with a handsome colonel at her side. Betty Grable, eat your heart out.

  She glanced at Bill, who was writing his name in the soot on the train’s window.

  Not exactly a traveling partner on par with a dashing Don Ameche.

  “Look, Lucy. A Spitfire.” He grinned, dimples carved into his narrow face as he showed off his drawing.

  She felt a sudden stab of empathy. She knew what it was like to be thrust into a strange new world, alone, frightened, and homesick. One learned resourcefulness and self-reliance in order to survive. One also learned skepticism and to remain detached lest one get one’s heart stomped on.

  Lessons difficult to forget.

  Lessons Bill might have learned all too well had he remained with the Sayres much longer.

  She smiled back.

  Don Ameche was overrated anyway.

  As they sat, goods trains rattled past on their way south toward Falmouth. Line after line of cars with barely a break between one train and the next. The compartment grew stuffy. Sweat trickled down Lucy’s back and her heavy stockings clung uncomfortably to her legs. What should have been an hour’s journey had already stretched to two.

  “Rummy?” Bill had his cards out, shuffling them with the skill of a Monte Carlo dealer.

  Anything was better than sitting and stewing. But after three losses in a row, it was clear her concentration wasn’t up to games of skill. Refusing to be bested by a twelve-year-old, she forced herself to focus as Bill dealt out a new hand.

  “Hold on.” She smacked her palm on the top card. “What’s this?” The upper right corner had a slight crease. “Let me see these cards.” She fished through them: a nick here, a smudge there. Subtle, systematic, and highly dishonest. “You’re playing with a marked deck.”

  “A bang-up jug, ain’t it? The boys at the Lion back home taught me how to do it.”

  The newspaper twitched in agitation, and Lucy thought she heard a distinct snort of repugnance.

  She handed the deck back to Bill. “I think we’re done playing cards for today, thank you.”

  That entertainment lost to him, Bill grew squirmy and impatient. He fiddled with his seat, the latch on the window, the scab on his knee. He knocked over the man’s briefcase, squashed his hat, almost coldcocked him in a monkey-like attempt to inspect the luggage rack.

  “If you can’t keep that damned hoodlum under control, I’ll call a conductor to throw you both off this train.”

  It was one thing for her to have fantasies of gags and handcuffs, but quite another for some stuffy middle-aged bore to start spouting threats. “He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s bored.”

  “I don’t care. Keep him quiet and chain him to his seat or I bloody well will.”

  Bill puffed up like a cockerel, his long face drawn tight into a scowl. “Oi, guv. Don’t talk to her like that.” He turned to Lucy, a vision of injured pride. “He can’t say those things to you. It ain’t proper. You’re a lady.”

  “There are those who may dispute you, but your gallantry is noted.” She dragged Bill back into his seat, where he decided to kick at the wall while humming a monotonous tune that grated on her nerves.

  The gentleman’s grip on his newspaper became increasingly white knuckled.

  Bill’s humming became singing. “There were four old whores from Baltimore—”

  “Bill!” Lucy swung around. “Maybe now’s not the best time for a song.”

  He dipped his hand back in the soot, smearing pictures in the window glass. “How much longer until we’re in London?”

  “We only just left Newquay.”

  “I know, but I’m bored.”

  “We’ll get there soon enough.”

  “Where you suppose that train over there is going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How many cars you think one engine can pull? Fifty? Hundred?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think—”

  “Not while you’re pestering me with all these blasted questions, I can’t,” she snapped.

  Bill’s face took on a mulish cast.

  The gentleman tossed aside his paper on one long disgusted harrumph, got to his feet with further grumblings under his breath about the shortcomings of the next generation, and left the compartment, probably hoping to find some peace and quiet with the ten RAF lads whooping it up farther down the carriage.

  The shadows lengthened. Bill’s stomach growled. Lucy would have sold her virtue for a cold martini if she’d still had it to sell.

  Bill draped himself over the seat like a fainting diva and s
ighed dramatically. “I’m positively gutfoundered.”

  “Hush. You’ve eaten plenty. We shouldn’t be much longer.” As soon as she said this, another train bumped its way past their siding. She could imagine the engineer smirking as he sped past the poor stranded passengers with a blow of his whistle. Bloody cheek.

  Bill pulled out his deck of cards. Lucy checked her watch—again.

  Finally, with a grunt and a huff, the train moved on, slowly creeping into the station at Par. It had taken them three hours from Newquay, but saints be praised, through the grime and soot of their window, she spied their London connection on the opposite platform. It must have been held up by the same delays on the line that kept them stranded. Maybe someone upstairs was looking out for her.

  As they gathered their belongings, the compartment door slid open with a crash. The gentleman was back and towing a portly conductor with him.

  “That’s the thief,” he growled.

  Lucy’s heart skittered alarmingly, but a lifetime of youthful indiscretions had hardened her to accusations of crimes and misdemeanors. She barely twitched when the man pointed a wrathful finger at Bill. Instead, she flashed them her most innocent smile. “Is there something the matter, sir?”

  “You better know there is. That lad there stole my money.”

  “I ain’t never,” Bill argued, the slightest tremble in his squeaking voice as his panicked gaze swung between Lucy and his accuser.

  The conductor cleared his throat. “Mr. Emory here”—he nodded toward the businessman—“believes the lad might be responsible for the disappearance of a half crown from his change purse.”

  “Then Mr. Emory is mistaken.” Lucy squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, channeling Amelia’s version of upper-crust-y outrage. “William Smedley is one of our most well-behaved boys at the evacuee home.”

  “And I suppose he got that shiner polishing his good-conduct medals,” Mr. Emory sputtered. “I heard him acting the card sharp on you earlier, miss. He’s a sly customer.” He glared at Bill. “Turn out your pockets, boy, or I’ll shake you until your teeth rattle.”

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong, guv,” Bill whinged. “Honest. You believe me, don’t you, Lucy?”

  “Of course I do. We’ll get this sorted.”

  She cast a swift glance across to the London-bound train making ready for departure with much slamming of doors and the shouts of harried rail guards. If she didn’t comply, she may as well wave her one-way ticket to Hollywood good-bye.

  “Do as he says, and we’ll prove to this odious man that we have nothing to hide,” she said, praying that if Bill was stupid enough to steal a man’s money he was clever enough not to get caught.

  “But . . .” Something in her expression must have warned him it was no use arguing. “I’ll do it if you say I must.”

  Two rounded beach pebbles, an apple core, a wadded handkerchief, a pencil nub, a bit of string, a fuzzy peppermint stuck to an equally fuzzy button.

  “Satisfied now?” she asked when Bill stood with all his pockets pulled inside out.

  “He’s hidden it.” Mr. Emory’s face had gone a violent shade of red, as if he might explode on the spot. “Or you have. You’re both in on it.”

  The London train gave a long blast of its whistle. It was now or never. Lucy played her last and riskiest card. “I’ve been polite until now, Mr. Emory, because I sympathized with the loss of your belongings, but my patience has come to an abrupt end. If you wish to continue this interrogation, you may call my cousin Lord Melcombe and explain why I was unable to meet him in London for a dinner honoring the king of Norway.”

  The conductor began to look distinctly uneasy. Mr. Emory was a tougher nut to crack. “I don’t care if your cousin’s bleeding Churchill and you’re headed to London to visit George VI, I want my brass and I know you two had something to do with it.”

  “Would you mind awfully, miss?” the conductor asked, his expression one of apologetic long-suffering.

  Lucy watched the train depart with a last wistful sigh. What had she told Bill? They’d be in London as quickly as tonight? Together, they’d not draw attention to themselves? She should have known better. This wasn’t the first time she’d made a bad decision after a night drunk on brandy. The last time she’d ended up with a tattoo on her . . . well, that was neither here nor there.

  She cleared her throat. “I would and I do mind, sir, but if it will stuff a sock in Mr. Emory, I’m happy to oblige.”

  Lucy opened her handbag for inspection, counting out the change in her purse. Then the conductor searched the entire compartment. No half crown.

  He offered Mr. Emory a beseeching look. “We’ve done all we can and no sign of it, sir. You can fill out a lost form in the office if you like.” He turned to Lucy with a tip of his cap. “I apologize for taking up your time, miss. And my regards to your cousin and His Royal Highness.”

  Mr. Emory was not to be placated. “That’s a load of bollocks. I want them arrested . . . questioned . . . I demand . . .” The conductor all but picked him up by the seat of his trousers and carried him out the door, his newspaper left behind in a flutter of wilted pages.

  Bill let out a whoop of success. “You showed him, miss. The old windbag.”

  Her headache sinking into her spine, her nerves frazzled down to a nub, Lucy finally exploded. “All right. What did you do with it?”

  Bill’s smile faded. “I didn’t take his blunt, miss.” His voice cracked and trickled into a lip-wobbling silence as his eyes flashed to her clenched hands. “Honest.”

  Damn Mr. Sayres and his quick fists. Lucy fizzled like a deflated balloon. There was no point in taking out her frustration on Bill. It was her own fault.

  What made her ever think she could help him?

  She could barely help herself.

  Chapter 9

  Exeter—finally.

  It had only taken most of the day and half the night.

  Just twenty-four hours after German bombers had let loose their high explosives on the city, the waiting room at the train station bustled with life. Harried soldiers on leave. Impatient civilians sporting official-looking armbands. A few dazed families, most with sleepy, petulant children in tow.

  Posters and notices firmly reminded civilians that food, shells, and troops came first, unnecessary travel impeded the war effort, and housewives should leave buses, trams, and trains free for war workers.

  The list of rules Lucy was breaking seemed to grow with every placard. She needed a smoke or she’d go stark staring bonkers.

  “A pack of Sobranies.”

  The pair of middle-aged ladies running the Salvation Army canteen wore their official armbands like generals’ pips. “We’ve none of that here, miss. Just coffee and jam rolls.”

  “Fine. I’ll take two—extra jammy.”

  She had ten short minutes before their train pulled out of the station. Lucy took advantage of the time to stretch her legs and escape Bill’s incessant prattling. Were all children so bloody chatty, or was Bill a special kind of irritating in that regard? She’d seriously contemplated a muzzle—or earplugs. Hopefully, stuffing his mouth—or her ears—full of sticky jam roll would work just as well.

  This had been the longest day of her entire life. Hours of sitting cramped in uncomfortable seats on overly hot trains relieved only by hours of sitting cramped in uncomfortable seats in drafty waiting rooms. It was nearly midnight, and they weren’t even halfway to London.

  As she waited for her change, a pair of station employees entered from an office at the back. Both looked grim and businesslike. “. . . air raid east of Taunton, track’s out and a bridge is damaged. Breakdown train’s on its way, but we’re looking at a twelve-hour delay at the least . . .”

  “Bloody Krauts,” the station official grumbled. “Don’t they know I have a schedule to keep?”

  “Least they ain’t bombing us tonight. Give thanks for small blessings that some other poor sod is getting his.”

&
nbsp; Twelve hours? What happened if it took longer than that? Was she just supposed to kick her heels in Exeter while Mr. Oliver found some other young woman to star in his next picture?

  The railway officials passed her by, still deep in conversation, and headed out onto the platform.

  Lucy followed, making her way down the line toward the passenger car where Bill waited.

  Amend that—where he should have been waiting. Instead, the seat was empty and Bill’s knapsack was gone. The tiny blue interior lights allowed during the blackout made the gloom thick as cobwebs, but she checked each compartment down the car, hoping he’d ducked in for a chat or a game of cards. No sign of him.

  She collared a passing rail guard. “Excuse me. I’m looking for a boy. About twelve. Gangly. Brown hair, brown eyes. He was wearing a blue sweater and a pair of brown trousers.”

  “Don’t know, miss. Sorry.”

  After another ten minutes of fruitless searching, she decided he must have scampered. Maybe he’d grown scared or suspicious or figured he was better off on his own after all. Maybe he’d received a better offer. Fine. She didn’t want him hanging about cramping her style anyway. And if he was better off on his own, so was she, damn it.

  She pulled her case down from the upper rack and sloped off the train, which remained idle in the siding. The platform’s crowds had thinned now that news of the delay had spread. Just a few passengers milled about, and the stalwart Salvation Army ladies with their cups of strong tea and jam rolls.

  She made her way down the platform and out of the station onto the road, feeling her way through the blackout by the light of a bomber’s moon. She tripped over a curb. Smacked into a pillar-box. Nearly broke her nose on a lamppost before a torch flared the ground in front of her.

  “Lucy?” The torch’s light slid up until it shone in her face, blinding her. “It is you.”

  “Bill?”

  “I been looking everywhere for you.”