WW III

“William’s room.”

There was a quick glance between Rosemary and her father. It was the first time Anne Spence had even considered the idea of anyone entering William’s room.

“Perhaps,” said Rosemary, who Robert now saw had taken off her scarf and hair rollers, her hair warm and golden, “perhaps the captain has other plans, Mother. I’m sure he has friends.”

“No, I don’t.” He had said it without thinking. Why, he couldn’t fathom. First law of defense — never betray your most vulnerable angle of attack. It was Rosemary — her eyes. She was not especially beautiful, but there was a kindness, devoid of any cunning, and in that moment he remembered Lana’s injuction about giving love. He had been trained for split-second decisions; his kind of war did not permit anything else. A second lost was a ship lost.

He wanted to stay. The house, astonishingly to him, did not have a different smell from his own home; perhaps it was a spice, something as mundane as a rug cleaner his mother had used with the same odor, or perhaps he’d been at sea so long, he could no longer tell the difference in ambience between one house and another. Whatever the reason, he felt he was in a home he knew and understood. Here there was loyalty and affection. And there was love.

“I’d like to stay,” he said.

“Bravo!” said Richard Spence, brightening. “You hungry?”

Brentwood thought about it for a moment. “Why, yes, sir, I believe I am.” They all laughed. Even Mrs. Spence showed the trace of a smile.

“Now then, what do you Americans like?” asked Richard. “Wish Georgina was here.” He looked over at Brentwood. “She’s our younger daughter. Up at LSE — London School of Economics. Political Science—”

“What on earth has that got to do with what Americans eat?” asked the frail-looking Mrs. Spence.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” replied Richard, rolling up the sleeves of his robe so they wouldn’t touch the element. “Well, Georgina thinks she knows everything, I suppose. That’s why.”

“Americans like hamburgers,” said Mrs. Spence.

“Eggs,” said Richard. “What’s that expression? Easy up?”

“Easy over, Daddy,” said Rosemary, chuckling. She shook her head at Robert. “Don’t mind us,” she said. “I expect we’re bombarding you awfully. Perhaps you hate eggs?”

“No, ma’am, I love them.” Brentwood also knew that eggs were the least-rationed of foods — much easier to get than meat.

“You see?” cut in Richard happily. “I told you, Rose. How about a Welsh rarebit?”

“Sounds fine,” said Brentwood.

“Oh,” said Rosemary, “how rude we are.” She walked over and took Robert’s cap. “Call me Rose,” she said quietly, and Robert Brentwood did something he normally never did. He looked at her fingers. No rings.

As Anne Spence and her husband busied themselves in the kitchen, Mrs. Spence giving quiet directions, Richard assuring her he knew exactly what to do, Rosemary took Robert Brentwood into the dining room. “Now,” she said, “you must tell me all about yourself.”

“I’d rather know all about you.”

“I’m a schoolteacher.”

“Shakespeare,” he said.

She brightened, “How — oh,” she said, “William, I expect.”

“Yes, my sister told me. He talked quite a lot about you— and the family.”

“Yes. We miss him very much.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Can I ask you about your work?” Rosemary asked. “I mean, they won’t put me in prison or anything?”

“No,” he laughed. “Ask away.”

“This is going to sound awfully silly, but I’ve never understood why people always say how dreadful it must be on submarines. I mean, I know they’re rather crowded, or at least I imagine they are. Even the latest ones, but from the looks of them, I think I should feel much more claustrophobic on the Tube.”

“The Tube?”

“The underground,” she said, smiling. It was an easy smile, utterly devoid of any pretense. Their banter about the sub and everything else they discussed came as easily to them as if they were old friends — the kind whom one hasn’t seen for twenty years or more and yet whose conversation is taken up as if space and time had never existed. He couldn’t remember when he had felt more relaxed in the company of anyone outside his family. The house, like that of his parents, was neat but not obsessively so, comfortable but not ostentatiously indulgent. And though he knew nothing much about art, the paintings he saw gave him special pleasure; one in particular, La Gare du Nord, had such vibrant colors that at times it seemed to fill the Spences’ living room with a sense of life and light. The whole house seemed warm, and Robert felt that ironically it was the death of their youngest that, like the death of a crewman aboard a ship, drew the others closer together. And with Rosemary he felt he had to be honest, even confessing to her that he’d never read much Shakespeare.

“Most people haven’t,” she said, laughing. “Not really read him. And those who do always try to make him so dramatic— and all those flourishes. His language is really very quick. Alive. You know, ‘the quick and the dead.’ “

Robert shook his head. “Afraid you’ve lost me there.”

She paused. They looked at each other. “I don’t think so,” she said, and they both knew that it was beginning.

“Will you go away soon?” she asked quietly.

“We’ll be casting off in ten days.”

“I meant how long will you stay here?”

“As long as I possibly can.”

“Good,” she said. Her father was coming into the dining room with the tray. “I noticed you have a biography of Bing Crosby with you,” he said.

“Yes.”

“One of my favorites, too.”

Robert Brentwood was about to say that he’d bought it for Richard Spence, but it would be a lie — oh, a harmless one, but there was something about this whole family, something good that made him want to speak only the truth. Ten days might be all that they had. “I’d be happy for you to read it while I’m here—”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to—”

“No, sir. Please. I don’t think I’ll be doing much reading. I’d like to do a bit of walking. Stretch my legs for a change.”

“Rose?” Richard Spence said, looking over his cup of steaming Darjeeling. “You’re the trail person. Over to the Downs, down to Martin, then over—”

“Yes, yes,” said his wife, “but first, where did you put the toast?”

By the time they’d finished the impromptu meal, it was near 3:30 as Richard and Anne retired, Rosemary showing Robert William’s room. It was a neat room — in what Robert thought was a very navy way — small writing desk and chair, a bed, a clean, uncluttered Victorian dresser with minor, and a picture of a young seaman — winter uniform.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.

Robert Brentwood was tired, but he could not sleep for thinking of her. It was already quite clear to him that they’d be married, but he decided not to rush it. He’d ask her father tomorrow.

* * *

In the morning, a Saturday, Robert was surprised to discover, they all enjoyed a late brunch, and afterward, newspapers all round in the sun room. Being the guest, Robert got to take his pick, and while a scantily clad chorus girl under the screaming headline “DOING HER BIT FOR THE WAR EFFORT” caught his eye, he played safe and took the Sunday Telegraph. It was a mixed read, for on the one hand, it was clear that the tide had turned in Korea, the NKA in disarray, editorials understanding the American desire to push as far as the Yalu but cautioning against it as part of any long-range solution to the upheavals on the Asian front.

“Who is this awful Freeman man?” asked Rosemary.

“The American general,” said Richard. “There’s talk of them sending him over to Europe. Jolly good thing,