Grounded Hearts

by Jeanne M. Dickson

  Nan nodded. “Yes.” Her stomach flopped like salmon jumping upstream.

  “He does look ever so pale. The poor lad needs his rest. He ought to be home in bed. With you.” A sharp elbow to Nan’s arm was followed by a cackle.

  Dirty Mary turned to the petrol-station owner. “Ruari, when you’re done here, we need ya help getting my Guinness down. The lad inside is doing poorly.”

  He hissed at her. “You had three husbands, Dirty Mary. You overworked them all and sent them to early graves.”

  Mary gritted her teeth and shook her fists. “Keep it up, Ruari. Just give me a reason to pop ya one, again.”

  A few minutes later, after unloading five barrels of beer, Nan and Dutch were on their way, the lorry chugging uphill toward the north. Dirty Mary had made them sausage-and-egg sandwiches, which they’d gobbled up along with a shared bottle of milk.

  “The petrol-station owner, Ruari. Do you think he might call someone about us?” She rolled the sandwich papers into a wad.

  “Maybe. I don’t think he bought our story.” Dutch glanced at her. “You see a Garda station in town?”

  “No. Cliffside only comes alive on the weekends, when the market is in town, or when the races are held a few miles away. There’s probably a Garda in the next town.”

  She felt uneasy about Ruari, but rather than feeding the unrest, she kept her mouth shut.

  The wide-open landscape left nowhere to hide. They rambled northbound, the road twisting and coiling over the barren land. Green hills sloped gently up and down. Rock walls sectioned off forgotten patches of green. A ruined Viking tower dominated the landscape for miles.

  Nan studied the map. “It’s not far now. We’ll take the mountain pass, and at the bottom we’ll be back on track to the abbey. And the border.”

  “The sooner the better.” Dutch slowed down. “What’s that?”

  Nan sat up, fixing her hands against the dashboard. In the distance, like lumps of clay on the horizon, several men and a car blocked the road. “Ah no. Another checkpoint.”

  “Aren’t we in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Only seems that way. Over the other side of the mountain, there’s a big lakeside fishing community. You think Ruari called someone? Got word to them?”

  “Perhaps. Stay calm.”

  Knots gripped her throat. She struggled to swallow. “Maybe I’ll know them.” Her voice shook, not confident in that statement.

  “When we get close enough, tell me if you recognize them.”

  “If I don’t?”

  He glanced at the glove compartment, where the gun was stashed. “You’ll have to fake it again.”

  Dear God, please let me know them. Please.

  Rubbing her hands together, she searched their features. Two men in their forties or maybe fifties, wearing LDF uniforms, sat on the car’s bumper. They held guns at their sides. Another man was stationed inside the vehicle.

  “They’re LDF, but I don’t know them.”

  “Think you can talk your way through?”

  “I’ll try. And if I don’t, no one gets hurt. Promise?”

  “Sure.” Dutch slowed the lorry to a full stop. One of the men approached them.

  “Over here,” Nan said through her open window. “My husband can’t talk. He’s ill.”

  The officer frowned, stared at Dutch, who stared back.

  “All right, miss. What brings you this way on such a fine day?”

  Nan laughed. “I’d think it be obvious. We’re delivering Guinness.”

  “Are ya, now? Have ya any papers?”

  “Ah sure, we do.” She offered him the pack of cigarettes along with Brian’s ration book. “Are ya lonely out here?”

  “A bit boring sometimes, yeah.” He pocketed the cigarettes. “What’s this?”

  “Our papers.”

  “This is a ration book. How about some identification?”

  “Ah, Brian dear,” she said to Dutch, “will ya give me your identification papers?”

  Dutch reached inside the glove compartment. Fortunately, the gun had shifted to the very back of the cubby. He handed her Brian’s driver’s license.

  “Here ya go, Officer.” Nan smiled. “Getting cold. Do you think it’ll rain?”

  “It always rains in Eire.” He flicked the license against his rough hands. “How about yours?”

  “What about mine?”

  “Your papers. I’d like to see them, miss.”

  This officer was no pushover. Her charms weren’t going to work. “Ah sure. I don’t have them on me. I wasn’t aware the Emergency Act requires that passengers carry their identification cards.”

  “You should carry it always.”

  “Next time I will.” She grinned at him.

  The officer was inspecting Dutch, who had pulled the cap down so far over his head that his eyes were barely visible.

  “All right. Let me just take a gander at this.” He patted his pockets. “Ah, for the love of Pete. What did I do with my reading glasses? You wait here.” He strolled over to the car.

  When the officer got back to his vehicle, Nan squeezed Dutch’s hand. “What are we going to do? He’s bound to see you’re not a fifty-five-year-old man.”

  The two officers outside the car inspected the license. The taller of the two men frowned. They looked at Dutch, back at the license, and back at Dutch again.

  “They made us,” Dutch said.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting away. Hang on.”

  Nan grabbed the lip of the seat. The lorry lurched forward, increasing speed, skidding up an embankment and around the officers’ parked vehicle. The truck spun to the left and clipped the front end of their Ford. The lorry shook, swaying from side to side, Nan along with it.

  Nan looked out the back window. The officers were taking aim with their rifles. The blast sounded, and a shot banged against the lorry’s gate.

  “We’re hit.” Her surprise outweighed her fear. “I can’t believe they’re firing at us. What a dirty Irish trick.”

  “Keep your head down.” Dutch shoved her, slamming her face against the seat.

  Pain radiated over her cheek. It felt as though the vehicle was coming apart, piece by piece. Dutch struggled to keep the steering wheel steady. The lorry pitched and shook along the road, as Nan bounced up and down on the seat.

  She found herself praying out loud. When she finished, she reached into the knapsack for the gun and flipped onto her back. “You need this?”

  He gaped. “Put that away before you accidentally shoot yourself. Or me.”

  She shoved the gun back inside the sack and remained down on the seat, the scent of beer and motor oil making her stomach protest.

  He let out a laugh.

  “What’s so funny when we might be dead in a few minutes? What?”

  “Sit up and take a look.”

  Nan sat upright and peeked out the back window. A lone barrel bounced and rolled off the lorry bed. It skidded down the lane and joined the pile of barrels blocking the road. Dark liquid spilled over the landscape.

  “Thank you, Lord,” Nan said.

  “That’s probably what the LDF officers are saying, too.”

  A giggle and then uncontrollable laughter took her over, tears running down her cheeks. Within a moment, Dutch joined her. They rambled along the country lane, both of them shaking with hysteria.

  Their mirth gave way to sobriety once they turned onto a road that led to the ruined abbey. If the map was correct, they’d be there in three to four hours. There, they’d part. He’d make the rest of the journey on foot, and she’d drive the lorry home, armed with another lie about being kidnapped.

  They didn’t speak much for the next few hours. Nan stared ahead at the winding road. The hills became steep, rocky, jagged. Trees crowded either side of the route, turning the path cold and dark. Through the gaps in the forest, Nan spotted a lake. “According to the map notes, we’re getting close.”

  The lorry sput
tered up a twisting road, into a cloud of gray drizzle. The windshield wipers arched back across the glass, providing a steady clicking sound. Time ticked down to this moment, this one shot at freedom for Dutch.

  She looked at him. Eyes focused ahead, he squinted at the rain hitting the windshield with loud taps. “It’s really coming down.”

  “And it’s getting dark.”

  In the distance, the abbey rose from the ground, a skeleton of its former self. Window openings minus their glass allowed the rain to slant through, slashing against mossy stone walls.

  He downshifted, the gears making a grinding sound as the lorry putt-putted toward the crumbling structure. The right wheel pitched forward, and Nan slid along the seat to smack against him.

  “Hang on,” he said.

  “To you?” How she wished she could.

  “If you’d like. I think we blew a tire. I’ll pull the truck inside the abbey and change it before I hightail it for the border.”

  “No, you can’t go yet. The night is coming. It’ll be too slippery and dark to make the crossing. The map notes say there are drop-offs and deep crevasses. ‘Don’t attempt during night.’” She found the paper crumpled on the floor, picked it up, and showed him the hand-printed warning, as though he hadn’t read it already.

  “There must be a flashlight in the truck somewhere” was his only response.

  “Don’t be an eejit. You didn’t come this far to slip off into the abyss. You have to wait until morning.”

  The lorry’s headlights lit the cavernous abbey like ghosts dancing around the masonry. “You can’t leave until morning, either,” he said this time. “The roads are barely passable even in sunshine. And you need the daylight, too.”

  “Spend the night with you? Alone?”

  “Why is this any different from your cottage?”

  “Because I never shared a bed with you.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “That was different. You were unconscious.”

  “Not completely.”

  She poked his arm. “Will you stop teasing me?”

  The lorry limped inside the roofless structure and came to a stop. “Nan, your virtue will remain intact. I’ll find a dry spot outside the abbey somewhere.”

  “Thank you.” She was a good Catholic girl, and hell wasn’t the place she wanted to spend eternity. Yet she added, “I’ll be massively cold tonight. It’s your turn to keep me warm.”

  He looked pleased at the prospect, and didn’t she agree, sinner that she was?

  CHAPTER 26

  Dutch found the abbey spooky in the waning light. The mist hugged the black walls, and the faces carved into stone above the multiple arches gave him the willies.

  The wind circled the top of the highest wall and then cascaded down to surround him. He turned up his collar. The sickeningly floral scent of dirt and moss did nothing to settle his nerves. Beneath his feet, the ground went from spongy moss to cold slate. There sure isn’t anything like this in Canada, he thought.

  Nan seemed perfectly at home, and why wouldn’t she?

  “Be careful,” he called as she scurried around the abbey like a mountain goat. She climbed the steep steps that hugged the walls of the ruins.

  As she neared the top of a stairway, she slipped, and his stomach lurched. “Will you be careful? The map is wrong. It’s been wrong all along. There couldn’t possibly be a box of supplies up there. Come down. It’s not worth it.”

  “The map wasn’t wrong. We took a wrong turn. Aren’t you the least bit curious?” She poked a stick between the stones.

  “No. Watch out for spiders.”

  “Why? You afraid of them?”

  “Would you come down already? You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Come down. You’re not going to find anything up there but a sprained ankle.” She was in enough danger already, without adding a self-inflicted injury in this death trap. “Nan. I mean it. Come down. I don’t want this to end like some stupid ballet. You haunting the abbey in search of your lost—”

  “Brains.” A tinkling sound echoed through the ruins. “What’s this?” Beaming as though she’d found a diamond necklace, she held a tin container the size of a cigar box. “Can’t wait to see what’s inside.”

  “Be careful.” Dutch bit his ragged thumbnail as she descended the stairway. It was as if she climbed ruins every day.

  Strange how things had turned out. A few days ago, jumping out of the Wellington, he thought he was good as dead. He never imagined he’d be rescued by a beautiful Irish woman. He peered upward through a lancet window at the darkening sky.

  Dear Lord, you brought us this far; please be with us the rest of the way.

  Nan approached him, slipping over the moss-covered rocks. Righting herself with graceful movements, she glowed. At every step, something rattled inside the box. “What do you think it is?”

  “Another gun?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Bullets?”

  “You have a one-track mind. We don’t need another weapon or more bullets.”

  She stood beside him, her sweet scent of lilac and soap surrounding his senses, her hair curling even more in the gathering dampness. The beret plastered on her head reminded him of soggy pancakes, and the thought of food made his stomach grumble.

  “I can’t open the lid.”

  The contents again rattled inside, echoing through the abbey like dead monks shaking their rosaries.

  “Weakling,” he muttered, taking the box. After a few tries, he popped the lid. “Here you go. Have fun.”

  “Some bandages,” she said, picking through the tin. “A tube of ointment. A tin of sardines.”

  “Yuck.” Although right now the smelly fish sounded good.

  “Candles. Matches. Ah, but didn’t they think of everything?”

  “An escape tunnel to the north would have been better.”

  Nan smiled brightly enough to light the night without the aid of candles. But around her, the wind howled through the drizzle.

  She shivered. “Not exactly romantic, Ireland, is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, sliding off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. “Reminds me of Wuthering Heights.”

  “You read the book?” She cozied herself into his jacket, clutching the edges together for warmth.

  “Forced to in school. Then I took my mom and sister-in-law to see the movie. It was the last gathering with my family before I left for England and the RAF.” And then too many hugs. Too many tears. Promises he hadn’t known if he could keep.

  Her finger traced the back of his hand. That act alone made him tremble.

  “You’re a good lad.”

  He wasn’t sure what “good” was anymore.

  “Let’s get out of the dampness,” she said, leading him to the truck.

  They settled in the cab, one on each side of the seat, the candle lit and stuck to the dashboard. They ate the sardines, which tasted better than he’d imagined, the apples from Nan’s trees, and the eggs from the pub.

  With total darkness came moist cold, the kind that stung through clothing. Rain was pouring down as though God had turned on a faucet and forgotten to turn it off.

  When Nan could no longer hide her shivers, he said, “Come on. Lean into me. I won’t bite.”

  With her back pressed into his chest, they shared their warmth. The candlelight flickered in the breeze that crept in, the wax dripping onto the dashboard. He held her around the waist, his cheek resting on her head.

  “When did we crack the windshield?” she asked, positioning her arms over his.

  Dutch squinted at the glass. The dancing light glinted on the web of crazing that rose from the left side to the top of the windshield.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We managed to make a wreck of the lorry,” she said. “That alone will send me to prison.”

  With arms tightening around her, he inhaled the scent of her hair.
“I’ll pay for the damages.”

  “How will you do that on a flyboy’s salary?”

  Should he tell her? He hesitated. “My family has money.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice. But I won’t have them spending their nest egg on an old lorry.”

  “No, I mean a lot. My family won’t miss a few hundred dollars.”

  “Are you telling me you’re one of those hoity-toity rich people?” She laughed.

  “We’re not hoity-toity.”

  Nan lifted her face to his. “What would your mother say if you come home with an Irish peasant girl?”

  “She’ll love you because I love you.”

  Nan’s eyes glistened. “Would she?”

  “Can’t wait for you two to meet.” He caressed her cheek with his own. “Will you change your mind? Come to England with me?”

  She shook her head. “My life is here. I can’t go with you now. I’ve created a mess for my friends.”

  “I’ve created the mess for all of you.”

  “Well, you helped, but we’ll stick to the story. You made us do everything at gunpoint. All of us will say so.”

  “I hope the story sticks.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Know what I think?” She fidgeted with her wedding ring.

  “What?”

  “There are no accidents, only divine connections. The good Lord sent you here to heal my heart.”

  He thought about it for a minute. “Yes, maybe He sent me to find you. And for me to see the face of war. I always viewed it from above, not down here on the earth. I don’t understand how those infantry soldiers do it. They have to see the dead.”

  “Guess we saved each other.” Crawling to the other side of the truck, she rolled down the window a crack. “Good-bye, Teddy. Ya blaggard.” She threw her wedding ring out the window.

  Dutch sat up. “Nan. What have you done?”

  “Closed an awful chapter in my life. Almost. I still need to confess my sins to Father Albert and receive his forgiveness. And do a boatload of penance.”

  “You’re truly free to be with me?”

  “Yes. And I want to be, Dutch.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  She smiled. “I will.”

  “Cross the border with me tomorrow. We’ll get married on base. Come with me to England. Live nearby.” He slid closer to her, reached for her, wanting to hold her tight. His leg pressed against hers, her warmth sending waves of tingles up his back to rest between his shoulder blades.