SEVERAL DAYS LATER I sat in my usual café, having my usual Saturday breakfast, trying to hear the people around me. Normally, I picked a table in a corner so as to enjoy my meal in quiet, but today I handed a note to my waiter asking for a central location. He looked puzzled, but did as I asked. I sat warming my hands as they wrapped around my tea and looked from table to table, straining to hear actual words rather than underwater sounds of conversation.
The smells in the room were sharper to me today: the sweetness of the cake tray as it passed my seat, and the pungent carafes of coffee that sat on the tables around me. I noticed that my perfume had faded to the point that I could not detect it anymore and reminded myself to look into Amélie’s distracting perfume. My grandmother was constantly trying to introduce me to new beauty products; it might be time to allow for that.
Among the few bright spots were my evening visits with Brian, which I had missed while trapped at the hospital. Last night I noted that he smelled of clean soap and peppermint as usual, but with an underlying scent all his own. It was the first time I had ever noticed that. We were both hesitant of each other’s injuries, carefully avoiding bruises and burns, but at least we were alone again. He was less receptive to my report on the young girl who had seemed unfazed by a bomb blast that had dropped everyone else to the ground. I didn’t know how the girl was involved. She might not be, but her reaction was unexplainable and that made it important, to me at least.
His reaction made me think of the last thing Olsen had written to me before leaving my rooms. She asked how Brian was recovering from his injuries and, while I knew her to be far more empathetic than I, I wondered why she was asking. She had hesitated before answering, eventually writing that people handle pain in different ways and that Brian’s personality and pressures might make him unwilling to deal with his trauma, putting them aside because he was the head of his family. At the very least, she suggested I watch for uncharacteristic reactions and his dismissive response to the girl could be considered uncharacteristic. He was usually flatteringly interested in my views.
A tap on my shoulder brought me out of my solitary thoughts. My waiter said something incomprehensible to me and then pointed out the window, where I could clearly see Ruby and two of her small peers standing outside the café. I had sent another note with another of her peers after the bombing, asking for her help identifying the girl at the college bombing. She must have found something. Whatever the waiter was saying, their appearance was clearly upsetting him, so I wrapped up my untouched pastry in a napkin, put a few coins on the table, and left without trying to communicate any further. By now, Londoners should be more sympathetic to their fellow human beings left out in the cold while fewer and fewer of us actually had the means to enjoy a meal in a restaurant. But there was no point in trying to explain that to this man, I thought to myself, pushing the glass door open to the cold morning air.
Ruby waved at me, and then elbowed one of the boys who had accompanied her, who handed me a dirty piece of newsprint upon which he had written the words, “No sine of girl wit cruches.”
I wasn’t surprised. The only details I had been able to pass on were a rudimentary description of her face and height — a near impossible assignment even for industrious scouts like these. Spying the outdoor furniture for the café stacked in the alley, I led the children over to right a table and a few chairs so that we might sit in the relative protection provided by the two buildings.
Handing the pastry to Ruby, I pulled out my own notebook to write a response while she carefully divided the treat into three. I waited for the boy to scarf down his portion, and then handed him the notebook with my pencil. I had written one word with a drawing of a cross, hoping he would understand. The girl’s crutches had been carefully wound with cloth and bunting, perhaps hinting that her condition was not a temporary one. That probably meant she frequented a doctor’s office or hospital for ongoing care.
He looked down at it, scratched his head, and then answered a question from Ruby, who was looking down at the note curiously. She nodded and said something back to him, which he leaned over the table to carefully write, holding my pencil uncertainly over the paper in his hand.
“Arnie an his crew werk Harley street,” his note answered. “We can chek wit dem.”
“Please tell Arnie there is more where this came from for all of you,” I wrote, handing the note to the boy and handing a coin to Ruby.