WW III

“ ‘Fraid not, Mr.’Arris. I’ve got a liter of Old Espagnol, though.”

“Dry, is it?” Harris inquired about the sherry, Brentwood thinking he’d forgotten completely about his question.

“Mr. ‘Arris,” said the barman, “if this stuff was any drier, it’d make your ‘air fall out — eyebrows, too, most likely.”

“How much?” asked Harris, forehead furrowed, ready for a shock. He got it.

“A century.”

“Oooh—” said Harris, his head coming back from the bar. “Oh dear—”

“Best I can do, Squire,” said the barman. “Rationing and all.”

“Oh, quite, quite. Quite all right, Fred.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Harris.”

Brentwood Lifted the last of his Guiness and savored it as it went down. “I like that,” he said.

“I think, old man, she was saying you were rather bourgeois.”

“Straitlaced,” cut in the barman, his hand rocking from side to side. “You know—’long the straight and narrow. No ‘anky-panky.”

“Well,” said Harris, “I have to spend a penny. Then I ‘m off, I’m afraid. I’ll take you to the station.”

“Going to the loo,” explained the barman as Harris made off, a little unsteadily, through the gray-blue haze of cigarette smoke, something you saw much more often these days since the war had begun.

“Straitlaced, eh?” Brentwood said to the barman.

“Yeah. ‘Cor, my dad. ‘E loved Crosby. Bit of a crooner himself. Always hummin’ round the ‘ouse. Then I’d be on listenin’ to the Who. Drive me mum nuts. Battle royal over that, I can tell you.”

“Uh-huh,” said Brentwood — it was like listening to a new code.

When Harris returned, they walked out into the chilly night air. They could see the searchlights all around London, in constant crisscrossing, interplaying patterns, reaching thousands of feet and reflecting off the stratus.

“Do no good at all, I’m told,” said Harris, looking up at them. “Is that true?”

“More or less,” agreed Robert, a cold, bracing breeze coming up from the Embankment. “It’s a war of invisible beams,” he explained to Harris. “But I guess searchlights give comfort to a lot of folks. Something you can see.”

Harris had hailed a cab for Waterloo Station, its headlights two yellow slits. “What you think our chances are? Look here— I don’t want to pry — classified stuff or anything like that.”

“I don’t know,” said Brentwood. “Far as I can tell, the experts don’t know either.”

They got into the back of the taxi.

“How long do you think it will last?” pressed Harris.

“ Longer than anyone expected.”

“That’s rather grim.”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence until they entered Waterloo and Robert Brentwood alighted, turning to pay the cabbie. Harris waved the money away.

“All right,” said Brentwood. “You can put off some of the people some of the time, but you can’t put off all of the people all of the time.” And with that he handed the bookshop manager the liter of Old Espagnol that he’d been hiding under his coat.

Harris was agape.

“Thanks for everything, Mr. Harris. I really appreciate—”

Harris cut in, “I’m — really, this is quite — wonderful.”

“Between allies,” said Brentwood, smiling.

“Allies indeed.” Harris put out his hand. He made to say something, hesitated, then dared to go on anyway. “Captain, you might be right. It might last longer than any of us imagined, but if you’ll accept a piece of advice—”

“Certainly.”

Harris lowered his head. “That gal — any port in a storm, old boy.” Then he sat back in the cab, chuckling, shaking his head. “Any port — my God, Captain — don’t you tell anyone I told you that. So banal, they’d have me thrown out of the club.”

“I won’t,” said Brentwood. “Good-bye.”

“Ta-ta.”

* * *

When he got to Oxshott, a wind had come up, the oaks and big elms around the station blowing hard, a smell so fresh and clean that despite the distant thudding of antiaircraft guns and the orange scratches against the sky that were the surface-to-air missiles along the coast from East Anglia down, Robert had the sense that he had been to this place before. But not being a superstitious man, and trained in the cold logic of launch mode attack, he decided that it must be the invigorating force of the wind that had cleared the Guiness, heightened his senses, giving him the feeling of deja vu.

The Spence house, however, looked familiar, too, like the one his parents had in New Jersey — double- storied, semimodern brick. All the lights were out, but flower beds were dimly visible beneath the high silver moon, a dog barking from somewhere behind the house, and a run of big bushes, possibly rhododendrons, giving the whole garden a casually ordered appearance. He rang the bell, realizing that he’d planned this operation badly. But there had been no hotel rooms left in Oxshott, so it was either this or back to the train station to wait until 4:00 a.m. A light came on, then another.

When the front door opened, he saw a woman, her hair in curlers, long, padded dressing gown held tightly by her hand at the throat. He guessed it was the dead boy’s mother. He took off his cap. “Mrs. Spence?”

“No, is there something—”

“I’m Captain Brentwood, ma’am. U.S. Navy. Robert Brentwood. My sister is a nurse — she was William’s nurse and she wrote me with—”

“Oh — oh.” He heard the door chain rattling. “Oh, do come in. Ah — oh, please come in.” She switched on the kitchen and living room lights. She switched them off again, explaining quickly, “I haven’t drawn the blackout drapes.”

“What’s—Rosemary!” A man in his sixties, tousled head of sparse brown hair, in a tartan nightrobe, was coming down from the upstairs bedroom, peering shortsightedly.

“Oh, Father. This is Captain Brentwood. Nurse Brentwood’s brother. He’s—”

Richard Spence tightened the belt on his robe and put out his hand. “How kind of you. My goodness, where have you come from at this hour?”

“London, sir. I ‘m afraid I left it a bit late, and when I reached Oxshott, there were no bed-and-breakfast places, hotels, or anything else. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Bother? No bother. Rose, get Mother quickly.” He turned back to Brentwood, tying his robe tighter about his thin frame. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, sir. That’d be nice.”

Robert Brentwood decided there and then not to tell them about the damaged tape in his kit. If they asked, he’d say it never arrived. It would be heartbreak for them.

When Mrs. Spence came down slowly, a short, frail lady with soft white hair, she looked dazed.

Richard Spence said softly, “My wife’s been on medication, Captain. Ever since—”

“Of course, sir. I understand.” Robert Brentwood rose to his feet to greet Mrs. Spence.

Richard Spence left the room hurriedly. The American’s manners, his thoughtfulness in coming this far, all the way from Scotland, to bring something of their son’s last hours in a foreign place, filled Richard Spence with such gratitude, he had to excuse himself in order to regain his composure. When he reappeared, he was in command of the situation. “I hope you’ll be staying.”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, sir. A bed for the night would be more than—”

“Tonight? When are you due back?”

“Ten days, sir.”

“Of course he must stay,” put in Anne Spence, the hot, steaming tea Rosemary had made reviving her.