76

“Oh God! Patrick, where have you been? You look like a wreck,” said Brenda. She was sitting in the lobby of the Royal Hibernian Hotel, and she had been frantically calling the police to locate him. His train had already left, and Godfrey had told her to drive him to the border if she could find him.

“Freda has left for Germany,” said Patrick. He stood dejectedly in front of her in the crumpled flannel suit. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked dangerously close to collapse. The Irish detectives had just delivered him to the hotel after questioning. They seemed to treat it as a joke, and said that he should have gone to the Italian Embassy. There had been a non-stop party there ever since Mussolini had been overthrown. Under their bantering, of course, they were serious, but they didn’t see much danger to national security in this young Canadian. However, one man had sat in the background and did not say a word. To him, Patrick was an officer of the crown who was playing around in some pretty dicey company.

“Good riddance,” said Brenda. “Your train has left and you’ll be late for your ship. Pack your things and I’ll order some breakfast. You can change into your uniform at the border, and we’ll try to get you to Londonderry. We should have stayed in peaceful London!”

Patrick packed his suitcases, forced himself to eat some bacon and eggs, and paid the hotel bill. Brenda brought the old Rolls Royce to the door, and Patrick tipped the conciergethen gave ten shillings to the doorman and five shillings to the busboy. They all waved farewell, and Brenda drove them north out of town. They passed through Dunboyne, where Admiral Drax’s brother had a castle, across the Boyne River, where the Stuarts had lost crowns, and across the border to Enniskillen.

“I am Lady Lynch-Silbey,” said Brenda at the border. “This young man is a friend of mine and he is returning to his ship in Londonderry. He doesn’t belong to the IRA.”

“I hope you and your sailor had a good time,” said the guard of the Irish Free State.

On the other side of the border, the dour official insisted on seeing Patrick’s uniform, which was hanging under his Burberry in the back seat. Patrick changed in the railway station, and he looked at the fouled anchor under the crown on his cap badge. Brenda told him to leave the suit in a trash bin, and they had time for a drink in O’Duffy’s Bar.

“Call me when you get back to London, Patrick,” said Brenda. “How old are you now?”

“I’ll be twenty-one in two months,” said Patrick.

“Oh God,” said Brenda. “We’ve put you through a lot, we Englishmen. We don’t deserve you, Patrick. We cast you all off once and now we welcome you back to die. I just get more depressed—and Vera Lynn cannot cheer me up like she does the soldiers. I’m not hearty or strong or patriotic, I am just uncertain and apprehensive, and sad. I’m going to trash my arrogant dining room, I just can’t measure up to it.”

“There is my bus,” said Patrick.

They rose, and Patrick carried his suitcases across the cobblestone street to the bus. The bus driver stowed them—and Patrick kissed Brenda.

“If you’re in trouble let me know,” said Brenda. “If your ship sails soon it will all get lost in the wash, but my husband has contacts. I won’t let you rot in any jail.”

Patrick climbed on the bus and Brenda walked back down the street to the old Rolls Royce. Patrick found a rear seat and soon fell into an exhausted sleep.

When Patrick woke, he was in Londonderry. He walked up the gangplank of the HMCS Fleur-de-Lis five hours late. The captain was in a rage.