Blackbirds (28 page)

A two-door Morris van purred along the road. She smiled and looked hopefully at the driver. The Morris passed Sharon. Its red taillights came on. It pulled to the side of the road. Sharon ran to catch up.

She opened the passenger door and leaned inside.

“You're going to get wet. Get in,” the driver said. Forty-something, with grey frizzy hair under a worn tweed cap, a tweedy jacket and slacks, and a blue woolen scarf wrapped around the neck, the sex of the driver was indeterminate.

“Are you going to Ilkley?” Sharon got a whiff of milk and chicken feathers.

Rain began to splatter against the windshield. The driver nodded and turned on the wipers. “I suggest you get in before we both get a soaking.”

Sharon squeezed inside, put her bag on her lap, and shut the door.

“I'm Sharon.” She looked sideways at the driver, who ground the gears while shifting into second.

“I know. That's why I stopped. You're the image of your mother. For a minute, I thought it was Leslie. Same brown hair. Same face.” The driver double-clutched and shifted into third gear.

The rain intensified the stink of milk and chicken feathers. Sharon looked for a window crank.

“The window's broken. Don't worry, you'll get used to the smell in a minute or two. I do my egg, cream, and chicken deliveries every other day.”

“I guess that means I'm lucky to catch you today. Especially just before the start of this rain.” Sharon resisted the urge to stick her nose in her elbow to mask the smell.

“You're on your way to Lacey Manor?” the driver asked.

“No, I'm going to the Townsend Farm.” Sharon looked ahead into the rain.
A woman!

The driver nodded.

Maybe she's selling food on the black market. That would explain
why she doesn't want me to know her name
.

“You look like a pilot.”

“I am a pilot.”
Keep it short and to the point
.

“A woman pilot?”

Sharon nodded.

“What does your Uncle Marmaduke think of that?”

Sharon shrugged. “Only met him once. Besides, I have more important things to worry about instead of what he might or might not think.”

They passed through the village of Otley: wet brownstone buildings, slick slate roofs, and bumpy cobblestones.

Halfway there
.

There was quiet until they reached another village — Burley in Wharfedale. Sharon turned as they passed stone churches. “You don't need to worry. I won't tell anyone about the black market.”

The driver looked open-eyed at Sharon. There was a raspy sound, a kind of wheezing laughter.

Sharon checked to see if there was a door handle at the ready in case she needed to jump.

“You think that's why I won't tell ye my name!” The driver slapped the wheel with an open palm. “Think I'm in the black market. Maybe even a highwayman!”

“You have to admit, you're being a bit secretive.” Sharon could feel her face glowing with embarrassment.

“No. No, love. I was just waiting to see what kind of Lacey you are! There's two kinds, as far as I can tell. One kind is like that Marmaduke, and the other is like your mother, Leslie. She was salt of the earth. Marmaduke, on the other hand, is more like salt in a wound.”

“I've met him. I know what he's like.”

“All the women around these parts know what he's like. And none will talk about it.” The driver peered though the windshield. “I need to be sure not to miss the road into the Townsend Farm.”

She braked, turned, and drove up the lane to Honeysuckle's farm. She stopped near the house.

Sharon opened the door. “Thank you very much for the ride. I would have gotten soaked to the —” She felt a hand on her arm.

“Name's Margaret. I've learned to be a bit cautious in my dealings with the Laceys. I was feeling you out, seeing what sort you are — I owe you a warning, because your mother was always kind to me: be careful in your dealings with that uncle of yours. He can be vicious. He's used to getting what he wants.” Margaret released Sharon's arm.

“How do you know?”

“Most of us around these parts know you went to see Walter McGregor, the lawyer. It doesn't take a genius to figure out there's something going on — after all, you are your mother's daughter, and McGregor is a fair and honest man. Lately, I've heard that Marmaduke has been dragging your name through the mud whenever he meets with his posh friends. You would be wise to be careful.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Marmaduke has a very loud way about him. And he thinks his servants don't have ears.” Margaret released Sharon's arm.

Sharon closed the door, hoisted her bag, and dodged puddles as she ran toward the back door. Before she could knock, the door opened.

“It
is
you!” Honeysuckle waved her inside. “Sean and Linda will be so pleased!”

Sharon let herself be engulfed in Honeysuckle's arms. There was something delicious baking in the oven.
Fresh bread?

“Was that Margaret who drove you here? Why didn't you call and let us know you were coming?” Honeysuckle released Sharon from her embrace.

“Yes, it was Margaret, and I wanted to surprise you. I hope that's all right.” Sharon looked over Honeysuckle's shoulder to see if there was any coffee.

“Come on, sit down at the table. You must be cold. Pour yourself a cuppa. I've got to get the bread out from the oven. Would you like a slice?” Honeysuckle put on oven mitts and opened the oven door.

Sharon grabbed a cup and poured herself a coffee. “I'd love some. It smells just the way my mother's bread smelled. Where are Sean and Linda?”

“Sean's in the barn. He'll be here in a moment. Linda is resting. She just got home from the hospital. Another skin graft. I do hope it's the last. Her spirits are low this time.” Honeysuckle set the fresh loaves atop the stove. “How long is your leave?”

“A week.” Sharon closed her eyes as she tasted real, fresh-brewed coffee. “Want me to pour you a cup?”

Honeysuckle smiled and nodded. “It's wonderful that you'll have a week with us. Sean will be thrilled. He was very disappointed you weren't allowed home for Christmas.” Honeysuckle rubbed the tops of the fresh loaves with butter.

My mouth is watering
. “We're finally catching up on replacement aircraft. Now the big push is to supply night fighters to take on the Jerry bombers attacking London.”

“Well, what do you think of Margaret?” Honeysuckle put the butter down and sat across from Sharon. She lifted her coffee.

“She was feeling me out to see what kind of Lacey I am.”

“Sounds like Margaret.” Honeysuckle smiled.

“She said my mother did a favour for her?” Sharon watched Honeysuckle's expression.

“Yes, your mother did Margaret a good turn.”

“Well, what did she do?”

“When your mother was eighteen, she found out that Margaret was having Marmaduke's child. So Leslie convinced her father to provide a house for Margaret and the baby. Apparently, nothing was ever said to Marmaduke, even though Margaret maintained that she had had no choice in the matter.” Honeysuckle blushed.

“You mean that my uncle raped Margaret?”

Honeysuckle nodded.

“Was it a boy or a girl?”

“A boy. He's three years older than you, and the last I heard, he was in a tank in North Africa.”

Sharon shook her head. “The more I learn about my family. . .”

“The more interesting it becomes.” Honeysuckle raised her eyebrows.

“I wouldn't have put it quite that way.” Sharon thought about getting more coffee.

“Just a moment. That bread should have cooled enough for us to have a taste.”

Sharon poured more coffee while Honeysuckle cut bread. She set the fresh loaf and some jam on the table.

“So if nothing was ever said about Marmaduke's illegitimate child, why did my mother have to leave the country when she found out about me?”

Honeysuckle carefully spread strawberry jam on her slice of bread. She looked up at Sharon and shrugged. An ageless expression passed between two women who both know the answer to a question, and that answer offers them no comfort. She cut her bread in half and began to eat. Honeysuckle finished chewing. “In a way, your grandmother answered that question.”

“What do you mean?”

Honeysuckle picked up her coffee. “Did you know it was your mother who got me drinking coffee? She sent me some for Christmas one year.”

“No, I didn't. How did my grandmother answer that question?”

“You remember I told you that Cornelia was going to leave for Canada when she heard your mother was sick?”

Sharon nodded.

“And I explained that the old bastard beat Cornelia so badly, she ended up in hospital?” Honeysuckle asked.

Sharon waited.

“While she was in hospital, they brought in a fellow who had alcohol poisoning. The doctors managed to save him, but it made Cornelia think. You see, she used to stop your grandfather from drinking after he'd had too much. She would hide the bottles; protecting him from himself, it seems. So — I believe it was the day after she got the letter telling her that Leslie had died — she went and bought whiskey. Two cases, if memory serves. At every subsequent evening meal, she kept filling his glass with scotch. When he emptied the glass, she refilled it. She told me a few weeks later that she kept that up every night for a week. Then, I think it was a Friday, she woke up in the morning and found him dead on the dining room floor. He'd choked on his own vomit.” Honeysuckle took a sip of coffee, then looked at the bottom of the cup. She stood up. “I think I'll have one more cup. Would you like some more as well?”

Sharon nodded, not knowing what to say.

Honeysuckle refilled their cups. They sat there for a few minutes, drinking coffee, eating fresh bread, and thinking.

“Have you heard from Harry?” Sharon asked.

“He's working in London — 64 Baker Street, in fact. He writes me almost every day.”

“What does the address mean?” Sharon asked.

“He's working for what's called the Special Operations Executive, and now so is Michael. He's training agents to go into France, since he can't go back anymore.” Honeysuckle put her finger to her lips.

“Why not?”
Just play along
.
Act like you know less than you do.

Honeysuckle put her hand on Sharon's. “The Gestapo were onto Michael. Apparently, a Frenchman turned him in to the Germans. He was very nearly arrested. That's why he had to get out of France that night you went to pick him up. Michael's no use on the continent anymore, so they've got him instructing others about what he learned over there.”

“They're both safe, then?”

“Safe as anyone else in London with the Blitz going on.” Honeysuckle looked at the back door. “Sounds like Sean has finished his chores.”

I wonder how she'll react to our news?

Boots stamped just outside the kitchen door.

Honeysuckle stood up, looked at Sharon, and lowered her voice. “He's been having nightmares.”

Sharon stood.

The door opened. Sean stepped inside; he was bent over after leaving his boots outside. He looked up and saw Honeysuckle. “The bread smells awfully delicious.”

“Sean?” Sharon stepped out from behind Honeysuckle.

“Sharon!” Sean rushed across the room, collided with the kitchen table, ricocheted, then hugged her around the waist. He looked up at her. His eyes were underlined with dark smudges from lack of sleep.

He smelled of the barn and wet wool.
He smells wonderful!

“There's fresh bread on the table. Hang your jacket up, wash up, and sit down with us.” There was satisfaction and contentment behind Honeysuckle's tone.

A minute later, Sean was sitting next to Sharon, slathering jam onto his bread, and wearing a milk moustache. “What have you flown lately?” He looked at his sister.

“There was a remarkable twin-engined aircraft I got to fly the other day. Unfortunately, there's not much more I can say about it, other than it's very fast.” Sharon put her hand on Sean's back.

“As fast as a Spitfire?”

“Faster.”

“You must be joking!”

“Not a bit of it.” Sharon looked at Honeysuckle, who was holding her coffee cup and smiling from behind it. “Before I forget.” Sharon picked up her duffel bag. “I happened upon a generous supply of chocolate.” She reached inside, pulled out a bar, and handed it to Sean.

Sean's smile was nothing compared to the look of rapture on his face after his first bite of the chocolate.

CHAPTER 30

“Come on. I have an appointment in Ilkley,
and you need to get out for a bit.” Sharon and Linda were bundled up and sitting outside in the garden. Linda had her legs up and sat sideways in her chair. She rolled a cigarette between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand and drank tea with her right. Her red hair was in desperate need of a wash, cut, and brush. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes vacant.