At last, they said their goodbyes. “I’d offer you a lift back to the station, but our car’s rather full.”
“Oh, no worries.” James handed back the affectionate toddler. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk.”
They exchanged post addresses and finally James and Arthur were alone together once again. James turned with a sigh to watch the gravediggers fill in the hole where Mr. Marlin would wait until Judgment Day. “Goodbye,” he whispered. Arthur put a hand on James' shoulder, and they turned to go.
Lance Benwick stepped out from behind a tree, and blocked their progress. “Arthur and James?” He dropped his cigarette and ground it into the earth. “Please tell me you’re Arthur Pensinger and James Wilde.”
Arthur nudged James behind him with the almost-imperceptible movement of his hand and forearm. “Yes,” he said, “we are.”
“Brilliant. Meet me at the George Inn tonight, oh, say half-past six. It’s important, all right?”
“We’re headed back to London,” James argued with a cock of his head. “Why—”
“Please meet me. It’s about me Granddad. I can’t get away now — family — but we need to talk.” He turned and strode back up to the church. They watched, dumbstruck, as he disappeared inside.
Chapter 4
That night, at half-past six, James and Arthur stepped over the threshold and entered the George Inn. The pub was cheery, with white brick walls, gleaming wood floors, and a rustic fireplace. The cool dim interior was a respite from the sun, which had no intention of setting anytime soon. However, a quick glance about showed there was no sign of Lance Benwick. A few men perched on bar stools, locals, enjoying a chinwag over a pint. Across the room, a family sat at one of the larger tables for supper.
Arthur and James chose a small table by the bank of windows where they could keep an eye on the traffic. Both were sweaty and tired; it had been a long afternoon. Meopham was quaint and charming, certainly, but once they’d visited all the shops and taken a long walk through the green, they were both exhausted and overheated, despite the ice cream they’d enjoyed.
“Hullo, lads.” A middle-aged gentleman in an open vest sauntered their way. “What’ll it be?”
Arthur leaned back in his chair to look at the menu board. The flimsy piece of furniture griped in protest. “A pint o’ bitters and the steak and kidney pie.”
“Aye,” James grunted in assent.
The man nodded and went back behind the bar to fetch the drinks.
“Should’ve ordered two pies.” Arthur groaned and clutched his uninhabited stomach.
James unbuttoned his suit jacket and hung it over the back of the chair as Arthur had done when they came in. “Do you think he was having a laugh?”
“If he doesn’t come, I’ll be wound up.” Arthur mopped his broad brow with his handkerchief.
“It’d be too bad if he were a git,” James said as the barman set down their pints. Each raised his and drank away their thirst.
“Why d’you say that?” Arthur directed his question at James, but his eyes travelled across the restaurant as several pies left the kitchen, bound for the family table. “Should’ve ordered two pies...”
“Well, you saw him.” James leaned in on his elbows to whisper.
“Right. I did. And?” Arthur spread his hands wide.
“He looks like Tab Hunter.” James dipped his lips in his pint again. “You know, from Island of Desire.”
“Oh, he doesn’t,” Arthur argued, despite the fact that James was absolutely right. It was hot, he was tired, hungry, and his contrariness couldn’t be contained.
“He absolutely does. Spitting image.” James put his napkin in his lap.
Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but as he sucked in breath to do so, a boy from the kitchen appeared at his elbow with the pies. The barman followed shortly with a few slices of bread and butter. “You look hungry enough to eat your mate here,” he said with a robust laugh. “Here, some bread on the house. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“‘Nother round,” Arthur requested around his mouthful of steaming hot pie.
“Yes, definitely.” James grabbed up his knife and fork. “Ta.” The barman laughed again and retrieved two more pints.
They had finished eating (truth be told, it hadn’t taken long, and it was far from pretty) when the inn’s heavy wooden door opened. James nearly choked on a piece of kidney, eyes wide, but Arthur was too engrossed in the crust of his pie to notice anything was amiss until the stale smell of cigarettes and whiskey floated over to their table. He sniffed widely, then spun around in his chair and sputtered. Pie crust fluttered down on the front of his suit.
“Mrs. Wylit?” James gagged, and coughed violently.
Their landlady struggled between two large suitcases and a leather satchel, her handbag clenched in her teeth. She dropped the load to the floor with a clatter, panting, and straightened with a groan. Seeing them, she gave a tired salute. “Oy, Arthur, your mate’s about to choke to death; care to do anything about it?”
Arthur leapt from his chair and pounded on James' back. James pitched forward nearly into his plate.
“Bob’s your uncle!” Mrs. Wylit celebrated as James coughed up the piece of kidney, and then chugged his bitters, face crimson.
“Are you all right?” Arthur demanded incessantly until James could speak.
“Is he all right?” The barman hustled over and peered into James' face. It was scrunched up, eyes squeezed tight, tears streaming down his face.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” James croaked after a while. “Really, I’m fine.”
Mrs. Wylit turned to the family who sat frozen, open mouthed, completely gobsmacked. “There, everyone, see? He’s all right now, cheers, yes, everything’s hunky-dory. Good sir.” She addressed the barman as she gave the suitcases a kick, moving them slightly out of the way of the front door. “Whiskey, neat, and a glass of water if you please.”
“R... right away, marm.” He backed up slowly, perhaps afraid if he turned his back on her she might pounce, like a wild animal. When safely away, he lunged behind the bar.
Mrs. Wylit snagged another chair from an empty table and shoved it across the floor toward them. She sagged into it with an exhausted, doleful sigh, and lit a cigarette that came from behind her ear. “Tell you what, lads, I’m knackered. Quite the day, you wouldn’t believe.” She crossed her legs, revealing a pair of stems youthful enough, but clad in stockings marred here and there with small holes — cigarette burns, no doubt. It was the first time in ages they’d seen her presentably dressed and wearing hard-soled shoes. She had on a navy skirt and small jacket with a red striped blouse underneath. Summer wear from close to ten years ago, the last time she’d had anything new, perhaps. Still, with her hair pinned back and her figure revealed to the light of day, she looked several years younger than when she’d popped up for the coronation.
“There’s a pretty sight.” She grinned as the barman set her drink down on the table. She handed him a crumpled note. “Thanks, luv. Better bring along a pint as well.” Smoke curled from her nostrils as the nearby family recovered enough to pick up their forks again, eyes still fixed on their table. For their part, James and Arthur stared unabashedly at her as well. “What?” She tossed back the whiskey.
“Mrs. Wylit, what on earth are you doing here?” James took another pull of his drink to soothe his irritated throat.
“Ta, dearie.” Mrs. Wylit accepted her own pint from the barman and drank deeply before she put the cigarette to her lips again. The words came out smoky. “I had another of my... well, I suppose one can only call them ‘visions.’”
“Were you pissed?” Arthur eyed his fork as his stomach rumbled.
James' eyes went wide at Arthur’s question. They didn’t often, if ever, acknowledge Mrs. Wylit’s drinking.
“Of course I was,” Mrs. Wylit jerked the ashtray closer to herself. “That’s when they come, isn’t it? The house was... well, with you blokes gone
there was nobody to set off the damned kettle or clomp ‘round like a herd of horses over my head. I couldn’t sleep with all that quiet, so I got up to have a little nip, you know, something to help me ease off.” Her hair, curled for once, bobbed around her ears as she shook her head. “Strongest vision I’ve ever had. I was standing in a field, and a man with a long white beard spoke to me. He told me that you two were going on a journey, and that I should help. So I went up stairs, packed your things and came here to find you. I didn’t have to look for long, thank God.”
“I thought that was my suitcase,” James hissed under his breath in an attempt not to shout. “Mrs. Wylit, you’re not allowed to go into our flat when we’re not at home.”
“Well, of course not.” She took a mouthful of bitters. “I wouldn’t have done it if the old man hadn’t demanded. Wizard sort, he was.”
James' head swiveled slowly to meet Arthur’s gaze as he did the same. Both their faces were wide-eyed and pale and conveying the same bewildered terror. This is the moment. She’s lost her mind completely.
“Now, he didn’t explain how long the journey was, or how far you were going.” She sharpened the ashes of her cigarette into a point against the lacquered surface of the ashtray. “I only grabbed a few things and I may have forgotten any socks. You’ll have to buy some on the way, I suppose. When you do, I’ll have to get myself a decent pair of stockings.” She looked at the runs on her legs and clucked in disapproval.
James struggled in his indignant throat to make words, but only strange half-syllables came out. Then his face froze with his mouth half-open, eyes fixed on something behind Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur jerked about in his chair and grumbled, “What fresh hell...?”
Lance Benwick stood inside the inn’s door. He stared down at the pile of suitcases on the floor, and then took in the scene at their table. His face twisted in bewilderment at what must have been the very distressing sight of Mrs. Wylit lounging with one of her feet in her lap, rubbing her toes as a cigarette dangled from her mouth. He recovered in a moment and ran a hand through his wheat-colored hair before he stepped over to the table. “I hope... I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” James dried his hands on his napkin before extending one to shake. Arthur rose to his full height and did the same. “This is, erm, our landlady, Mrs. Wylit.”
“Viola Wylit, pleasure to meet you. Would you care for a smoke?”
“No, thank you, that’s very kind,” Lance replied with a confused half-smile. “I’m so sorry I’m late — I had trouble getting away. Are... are those your suitcases, Mrs. Wylit?”
“Well, mine, and Arthur’s and James'.” She drained her pint and motioned to the barman for another. “I had to bring them all up on the train. Bloody near killed me — op!” She raised her hand to her lips and waved a little apology to the family, who were determined to finish their meal and leave.
“Let me help you.” Lance retrieved the bags and stacked them neatly on a nearby table. He helped himself to a chair and thanked Mrs. Wylit as she shuffled aside to give him some room. Once settled, the barman appeared with a pint for him. “Ta, Lenny.”
“Sorry to hear about your grandad, mate. Sixty-one was too young.” The barman patted Lance on the shoulder and returned to his post, though Arthur was sure he was listening in. Mrs. Wylit, whether she meant to be or not, was going to be the talk of the village tomorrow morning.
“Well, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here.” Lance put his hands palms down on the sticky table. He did not wear a wedding ring, and the nails were short-trimmed and clean.
“Mrs. Wylit? Perhaps you should...” James tried, and then trailed off.
She stared at him through a halo of smoke. “Perhaps I should...”
James looked pleadingly at Arthur, who shrugged, a diminished, helpless gesture.
Lance continued after the awkward pause had passed. “My granddad told me all about the two of you and the time you spent at Willowind House during Pied Piper. When he retired in ‘45, I was twelve, the same age you chaps were when you evacuated. We always read your letters together. He talked about... well, about those nasty boys who used to bully you, and how the two of you stood up to them together. He held you up as an example of courage when I was dealing with bullies of my own.”
James and Arthur shared a pale, panicked glance. How much more had Mr. Marlin told his family about the two of them?
“After so many years, the two of you grew up. I grew up. Grandad stopped talking so much about the old days, you know. His time with you at Willowind was wonderful, he said, but he had so many painful memories from the past. Well, you know he was at the Somme. Losing my grandmother, all of it. His heart was weak, and the doctor said it was best that he not dwell on upsetting things or discuss them with anyone. So, imagine how surprised I was when he called me to his bedside the day he died, and began to speak about the two of you again.”
Lance paused to whet his throat with ale, and they stared at him in perfect, frozen silence. Unattended ash drifted down from Mrs. Wylit’s cigarette.
“He’d had an attack, and he was in and out that evening, confused — he kept saying he heard the Baroness ringing for him.” Lance paused again to shove a tear aside from his cheek with the heel of his hand, a nonchalant motion. “At one point, I was alone with him, trying to get him to drink some tea. He seemed coherent suddenly, and he said to me, he said ‘Lance, find James and Arthur. Tell them Matthew is still alive. Tell them to find Matthew and bring him back. He’s completely alone now, and he won’t last. He needs to see his mother’s grave. He needs to know how much she missed him.’ I tried to ask more questions, but he wasn’t making sense after that. He died the next day. Without telling me anything more.”
Lance took a breath to compose himself, then lifted the glass and sucked in more of the bitters. He placed the glass back on the table and looked back and forth between James and Arthur.
“So,” Lance said, “who is Matthew?”
Chapter 5
James handed Mrs. Wylit a glass of water. She sloshed it down the front of the smart little red and white striped blouse she’d taken such care to wear. She tried again, and managed to get some of the liquid into her mouth. “Give me a ciggy,” she slurred, and patted his cheek affectionately.
“You’ll burn the sodding house down.” James set the glass of water on the low coffee table to his left and eased Mrs. Wylit back onto the sofa cushions.
“I can’t sleep on a bleeding sofa.” Her eyelids drooped over her bloodshot, glazed-over orbs.
“Something tells me you will,” James hissed back with an impatient sigh. “Besides, it’s not as if we can be choosy about the accommodations. Lance’s family has relatives from out of town for the funeral. It’s shameful we’re here at all, imposing on these poor people.”
“Don’t scold me, laddie.” She burped, and her eyes closed. After a moment, her breathing went deep and steady.
“Good God.” James looked to the heavens for patience. After a few moments, he stood up and turned to tiptoe away.
She flailed out and snagged his pants leg with claw-like fingers. “Maggie.” She tugged on the fabric, her eyes still closed. “Bring me Maggie. Bring me my Maggie.” Mrs. Wylit opened her arms and beckoned for something.
“I don’t—” What was Arthur’s favorite phrase, a tribute to the deliciously hilarious Dorothy Parker? What fresh hell is this?
“Give...” She wiggled her fingers and drew her arms toward her.
James fumbled with a discarded cushion and pushed it into her chest. Mrs. Wylit smiled, hugged it close to her, and promptly passed out.
“Thank God.” James backed away from the sofa, turned, and rammed his shin on the coffee table. He bit his lip to stifle the curse, and limped through the dark hallway to Lance’s bedroom.
Arthur sat in Lance’s desk chair, and Lance sprawled on the bed of the homey little room, painted green, the floor protected by an oversized rag rug. Ja
mes was impressed with the selection of books on the small shelf next to the cluttered desk: Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Ellison, Vonnegut, Whitman, some detective novels. There was one book he’d heard of, but hadn’t read yet — Strangers on a Train — and he meant to ask Lance if he could borrow it. On the other side of the room from Lance’s bed were two crates and a steamer trunk, peppered with dust bunnies. Four furniture-leg marks stood out in the dust on the floor as if a bed had been above the stored items.
They’d stumbled home to Lance’s cottage more than a bit tipsy with the rubber-legged Mrs. Wylit, but the conversation with Alice, Lance’s mother, had sobered them within minutes. She never would have let them stay if she hadn’t heard about James and Arthur’s history with her father. Mrs. Benwick seemed much less knowledgeable than Lance about the time her father had spent at Willowind House during Pied Piper, but she knew Mr. Marlin had spoken of Arthur and James often and fondly.
They had no excuse or explanation for Mrs. Wylit, but something in her incoherent babbling tugged at Mrs. Benwick’s heartstrings, and she had reluctantly offered up the sofa.
“Did she finally settle in?” Arthur asked as James snuck into the room and closed the door. They kept their voices low out of respect for the rest of the slumbering household — Mr. and Mrs. Benwick, and his aunt and uncle in the guest room.
“At last. I thought I was going to be up for hours with her,” James groaned. Lance shifted over and offered him a place to sit on the bed. It creaked and sagged as he settled in on top of the homey quilts.
“You two must have a few war stories, renting a flat from her.” Lance shook his blonde head.
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