Sentimental Journey (62 page)

He disembarked and walked around the station, then down the dirt road, where he hitched a ride on a hay wagon to Branton Manor, the housing quarters for the No. 2 Ferry Pool. The wagon was driven by two Land Girls in their knickers and headscarves, who liked the looks of his uniform and decorations, gave him an apple, and cheerfully flirted with him. They dropped him off near the gates, where he showed his ID, then walked up the long gravel drive to the huge front doors.

He rang the bell.

A pretty blond British woman in a flight suit opened the door.

“Is Charlotte Morrison here?”

“Charley?” She smiled. “Come in. Please. You may wait for her in here. Have a seat. I know she was here earlier.” She left the room.

He stood there, his hat in his hands.

“Tell Charley someone’s waiting for her downstairs!” he heard the blonde tell someone on the stairs.

He walked over to the fireplace. There was a mirror over the mantel, and he looked in it, stuck his hat under his arm, licked his hand, and slicked back his hair.

A minute later someone came running down the stairs. He turned when he heard the quick tapping of a woman’s heels on the marble of the entry.

“You’re early, you cad! Don’t you know—” Charley stopped speaking the moment she saw him. “Red?” She hesitated, the skirt of her dress floating softly around her legs.

He took it all in, all that beautiful woman.

“Red!” She crossed the room, holding her hands out to him. “It’s you!

He laughed, taking her hands. “Yes, Charley-girl. It’s me.”

“Red. I can’t believe it.” She stepped back, still holding on to him, and continued to stare at him, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just so surprised to see you. Come, sit down.” She pulled him over to a small sofa. “When did you get here? What’s going on with you? Where are you stationed? Look at you,” she rattled on, then sat back. “My God . . . that’s a
DFC
pinned to your jacket. You’re a war hero! For pete sakes, why didn’t you write? Tell me everything.”

“I thought if you’re free, I’d fill you in during dinner. You owe me a date. Although the chances of us finding barbeque are not likely.”

Her smile froze, then melted away. “I can’t, Red.”

“Okay. Another night. I know I just showed up without any notice. I’m sorry, but—”

She held up her hand and shook her head. “It’s not that. Who at this time in the world makes plans?”

“Maybe next week then.”

“Red.” She took a deep breath and stared at him with a pained look that made his gut turn over. “I can’t see you. I mean, I can’t date you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

“I guess you don’t have to say anything, Charley. You just said it all.”

She put her hand on his arm.

He looked down at her hand. Her nails were painted red to match the dress. He glanced up. He hated the pity he saw in her expression. It made him feel foolish and out of place. His dreams, well, they weren’t hers.

She took his hand. “Red . . . We missed what might have been. With the war. The ATA. Things changed. Everything is so different. Everything changes so fast.”

He stared down at their hands. She was still holding his, and it felt and looked too big, especially next to hers.

“I’ve met a man, and I’m just nuts about him.”

He could only look at the face he saw every night when he closed his eyes and at the same time listen to the words from her that broke his heart.

She watched him so intently.

“Lucky guy.” He gave a short laugh and tried to smile.

The door chimed loudly, and they both turned as someone ran down the stairs and opened the front door. A tall, distinguished, older man stepped into the foyer.

“Charley?”

“Pop!” Charley stood and ran to him. He had gray hair and a familiar square jaw and a broad, easy smile. He hugged her. She turned and pulled him over toward Red. “Pop, this is my friend Red Walker.”

He held out his hand. “Hello, young man.”

“Mr. Morrison.” Red shook his hand.

“It’s good to finally meet you. I heard you taught my daughter a thing or two about tornadoes.”

“Yes, sir. I believe she was about to fly into one.”

Charley laughed. “I was not. I was aiming for your gas pumps, and you know it.”

Red could tell she was nervous. “I’ve been trying to get her to admit that for the longest time.”

“She doesn’t admit she’s wrong.”

“You two can stop talking about me as if I’m not here.”

“Who’s not here?” Skip came walking into the room. Cassidy was right on his heels with a beautiful woman, pin-up material, with fine features, coal-black hair and pale blue eyes.

Red straightened and saluted him. “Commander.” Then Cassidy. “Colonel.”

“Walker?” Inskip frowned.

“Hey there, Red,” Cassidy said. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re old friends,” Charley said nervously, then she moved toward Skip and took his arm. “How do you all know each other?”

With a feeling of dread Red saw plainly the gist of things, even before Skip put his arm around Charley and gave her a kiss. The breath Red took felt airless. He tried to keep his expression blank. He had no idea if he was successful.

“We work together.” Inskip was eyeing him differently. He didn’t let go of her.

“Captain Red Walker. This is my wife, Kitty.”

“Ma’am,” Red, said stiffly. He didn’t mean to sound so sharp.

Kitty Cassidy held out her hand, but looked right past him with those light, unseeing eyes. “Captain. J.R. has told me all about you. I understand you are quite the marksman.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Red took her hand. She was blind. He’d had no idea. Cassidy never said a word.

“The team sharpshooter? That’s you?” Charley looked from Skip to Red. “Oh, my God.” She faced him. “I never knew you could shoot.”

Red shrugged. “Most Texans can shoot.”

She looked at his
DFC
medal and the other badges on his uniform, then up at his face. He could see she didn’t know what to say, and Inskip was all too quiet. The room was quiet. Red had made the mistake of telling Skip there was a special girl he wanted to track down this weekend.

“Well,” he said, spinning his hat in his hands. “I should be leaving. Charley.” He nodded in her direction. “It was good to see you again.” He turned. “Mr. Morrison.”

“Captain.”

“Commander.” Red nodded at Skip and to the other couple. “Colonel. Mrs. Cassidy. It was good to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Kitty said quietly. “You stay at J.R.’s back, will you? I want my husband to come home when this is all over.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Red headed for the door.

“Red, wait. Please.” Charley reached out to him.

Red stopped, even though he wanted out of there. Fast. But he couldn’t ignore her, and turned.

She stepped away from Skip and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.”

“You, too.” Red left, and put his hat on his head as he walked down the front steps, heading for someplace, anyplace as long as it was away from there.

He walked down the drive without looking back. His shoes crunched on the gravel. Crunch, crunch, crunch, like bones cracking in two. Or maybe it was his heart. He was angry . . . at himself. He wanted to hit something. He just walked on, past the gates, down the road.

A few minutes later the car that had been parked in front of the manor came through the gates. He stopped and watched it drive off in the opposite direction.

He was hurting so deep inside it was as if he had an open wound in a place no one could find to heal. He knew this feeling. He remembered standing under that Texaco star and watching a Ford V8 disappear down a lonely Texas road.

He stood there for a long time. He didn’t know how long. When he turned to walk on, he looked up. The sky was gray and cloudy; that English mist was slowly rolling in. He stared down as he walked. The green grass was damp. The soil was dark, but the ground of the road was solid.

He needed to remember to keep his feet there.

He walked for miles, then, unaware of time passing. The thick mist moved in completely and crawled across the ground in front of him. It was white and eerie. He kept walking until he felt it condense and drip down his face. Funny thing. His face was already wet.

“OH MAMA”

Audrey stood silently in the foyer, waiting, her hands clasped in front of her, a pose she hoped looked calm. The true reason she held on to her hands was that if she didn’t she might unconsciously begin to wring them.

George came up the steps, greeting Peters as he came through the doors. His friends were behind him. She heard car doors close. There were voices and footsteps, light chattering, the higher sound of women’s heels tapping up the stone front steps.

She listened to them with a hunger that filled an emptiness inside of her she hadn’t known existed. The voices she heard, all excited and talking at once, reminded her that she was really still alive. They made her feel the same way she felt when she walked outside and down through her gardens.

A woman laughed. There was a joyous sound to it that she hadn’t heard in so long. One of the American men had a deep, resonant voice.

She wondered how she looked. Was her hair parted the way she’d always worn it? On the left, not the right. She had forgotten to check it. She wondered how much gray she was getting. Her gray hair had started showing a year before the war. A hair here and there.

Was her slip showing? Were the seams on her hosiery straight? This relying on others for her appearance made her feel like an invalid, some toddler or someone so feeble she couldn’t dress herself. She despised feeling that way. But no more than she despised herself for the stubborn pride that kept her from saying the words: I need help.

No one asked to help her anymore. She deserved that. She had made them all miserable for ever asking. And even at her weakest moments, she still couldn’t bear to ask them.

“Mother!” George grabbed her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “You look ravishing.”

“My, but that is good to hear. I say that means Eleanore and Bromley aren’t lying to me.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I am not the easiest person in the world to live with. I’m certain there are days when they wish I had lost my voice in the Blitz.” She clung a bit to his arm. “Now tell me, dear. What am I wearing?”

“Blue lace that matches your eyes.”

She smiled. “You are a good son. Should I mention that it’s been too long since you’ve been home?”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“I suppose not. This is terribly exciting. We haven’t entertained since before the war. This old house needs some fresh voices echoing off those high ceilings, and God knows we could all use some laughter around here. Did you know that my sister has no sense of humor?”

“That’s odd, Mother. She says the same about you.”