Gierek would sit on the bench in the bright sunlight under a clear blue sky, ignoring the hovering schoolgirls who found his airman’s uniform and his newly acquired maturity too difficult to resist. He caught sight of them out of the corner of his eye but he never lost track of what Sister was saying. Time for the girls later.
He thought of Brother and the image troubled him. The boy was too outspoken and too ready to fight, and although he had just entered his late teens, he was big and aware of his size. Brother never wavered in his opinion of people or causes, and when Gierek, himself used to expressing his opinion whether asked or not, tried to explain that sometimes moderation or caution were acceptable attributes, Brother dismissed the idea.
“You’re getting old,” Brother had said. Gierek was surprised at the comment because he thought of himself as young, and rather good-looking, and self-possessed. Less than five years separated him from Brother, but it might as well been a century — the old and the new of it. Especially now that Gierek had seen so much of what war was really like — not the uniforms or the adoration of small-town girls who spun like satellites around a celestial body. But the real war — guilt, fear, rage, and loss.
Gierek heard a noise and looked down at his side. The Black Prince sat next to him, looking through a thatch of greasy fur into the storm. A pink tongue hung listlessly from a parted mouth and his panting was accompanied by soft wheezing.
Gierek stared at the disgusting creature, while the Black Prince ignored him. “Are you truly lucky?” Gierek said in Polish, keeping his voice low so that no one heard him except the animal. “So many of us go up and so few of us return each time. Are you truly lucky?”
A stream of drool dropped from the dog’s mouth and created a puddle in the hard-packed dirt.
Gierek stared into the storm. “I live in a little town, dog. One day the Germans came and that was that. They shot our planes out of the sky and destroyed our army. I ran and hid. Finally I found some men to fight with but soon they were killed. Then I found others to fight with. That is all I did. Fight, hide, retreat.”
The dog yawned and sunk to the earth, resting its chin over its crossed paws.
“So I come to England and fly wonderful airplanes. Sometimes I think that I shall never see my village”; the images of Sister and Brother interrupted his testimonial and he winced. “Sometimes I fear that my family is dead. So I concentrate on killing Germans. But I am troubled. I have flown too many times. I think that my time is nearly done.” He looked at the dog. He appeared to be asleep. “If you are truly lucky, be lucky for me. I want to live to see my village and my family again.”
The wind pushed a sheet of rain into the hangar, spraying Gierek. He stepped back out of the weather, noticed that his cigarette was soaked, and threw it away in disgust. He searched through his pockets for another one when he looked down. The Black Prince was gone.
“I hope that you are truly lucky,” Gierek whispered, lighting another cigarette.
Chapter 22
Cole drove up the tree-lined gravel drive, his apprehension building. He had come close to turning the jeep around and heading back to the base a dozen times but he couldn’t make himself do it. His better sense, or guilt, or a combination of the two, said that he had to see Rebecca. He tried to harden his attitude toward her on the drive, creating conversations where he played both roles. He was masterful in the imaginary encounters, his harsh words slicing through her weak excuses for ending the affair, until his own decency got the better of him and he realized that he was being unfair to her.
He had tried to deny his excitement, masking it by concentrating on the odd English road signs and the challenge of driving on the wrong side of the road. When he had called Dickie Moore to ask for directions to the Manor, the Royal Navy officer had been his usual cheerful self. “About bloody time,” he had said over the sound of a radio playing swing music in the background and the hum of a dozen voices. Another of Dickie’s parties. “I say, Cole. Are you going to be pleasant?”
“Of course,” Cole had said, cupping the phone close to his ear to hear his friend’s voice.
“You see I ask,” Dickie said, and then apparently afraid that he wasn’t being heard over the noise in the background, “I ask because you are such a piker.”
“Just give me the address,” Cole had said. “You can insult me later.”
He had the address and he made the short drive to Petersfield, and as he dropped the jeep down into second, he could see the impressive stone building at the apex of a curved drive. Farley Manor.
He stopped the jeep, hopped out, and scanned the sky. Still heavily overcast, so dark it almost felt like night. There was bad weather coming in all right.
He took the heavy iron doorknocker in his hand and drew a deep breath when the door opened. An aged butler looked him over with disinterested eyes.
“Sir?” the old man said.
“Lieutenant Jordan Cole,” Cole said, feeling as if he had intruded on a funeral. “To see Rebecca Blair.”
“She is expecting you, sir?” the butler said.
“No,” Cole said. “I’m a surprise.”
The butler stood back, signaling Cole that he could come into the hallway. His eyes flicked at Cole’s cap. Cole quickly removed it, not sure if he should hand it over or hold on to it. The butler didn’t offer to take it and the gesture said everything; you won’t be staying long. “Wait here, sir,” the butler said. “I’ll announce you.”
Cole nodded, running his fingertips along the edge of his cap as he waited. The argument continued to rage inside but it was less intense than before. He was here; it would be silly to bolt out the door. What if she doesn’t want to see me? He tallied up a dozen reasons, mostly imaginary, why she didn’t want to see him. He berated himself for his conduct, for not writing to her, for the anger that he felt toward her, for the terrible things that he called her, and for a wild, irrational instant he was certain that she must have known how horribly he treated her in his mind. He shook his head in disgust at his own insanity and wondered why he could do everything except save the relationship.
“Lieutenant Cole?” a thin woman with auburn hair approached him. Rebecca’s mother; she had to be Rebecca’s mother, the resemblance was amazing. “I’m Florence Bannard. You’ve come to see Rebecca.”
“Yes,” Cole said. He felt awkward, now more than ever, an intruder. “I should have called or something.”
“ ‘Or something,’ Lieutenant. Carrier pigeon, perhaps?” It might have been an attempt at a joke, but Florence delivered it with just enough coolness to belay that suspicion.
He laughed despite himself. “Okay. You’re definitely Rebecca’s mom. Mother.”
Her demeanor remained unchanged, but Cole supposed it was more a question of British reserve than it was her mild chastisement of him. “Ringing ahead or carrier pigeon would certainly have been the polite thing to do, but I’ve noticed that you Americans are an informal people.” That damned British reserve — sometimes Cole found it intimidating. “But you’re welcome, of course.”
“I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
A moment passed. “Not at all. I’m sure Rebecca will be glad to see you. She’s in the solarium. She spends quite a bit of her time there these days. If you follow me…”
“Ma’am,” Cole interrupted her. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather show myself to her room. I mean find my own way. I…” He tried to find a way to tell her that Rebecca might not be happy to see him and he didn’t want an audience if that was the case. His emotions were spinning about like the waterspouts he had often watched dance over the sea.