World events appeared in perfect accord with the direction Allison believed God wanted her to take. In June of 1941, Hitler shifted the force of his interest away from Britain. His mighty Wehrmacht and stunning Luftwaffe suddenly did an about-face and turned upon Russia. It would be for historians to debate why he made such a move, and perhaps for the Third Reich to lament. But with the fifteen-thousand-mile Russian front to occupy his troops, Hitler could not now hope to win the tiny island forty miles across the sea west of France, one of the few bastions of freedom now left in Europe. Thus, Britain was granted a respite after nearly a year of relentless blitzkrieg. And for Allison, it meant that she could return to London that autumn to make an attempt to heal the wounds of her marriage.
As Allison waited for her cab in front of Victoria Station, she was horrified at what met her gaze.
Yes, the Battle of Britain had been won, but it had been a victory for which the brave British people had paid dearly. In many places heaps of brick and stone lay where familiar buildings had once stood. She had heard that the civilian death toll ranged in the multiple thousands. Huge portions of old Londontown lay in rubble. Ancient cathedrals had been gutted, parts of St. Paul’s and the House of Commons were destroyed, and bombs had even fallen dangerously close to Buckingham Palace.
Yet amid all the destruction it was evident that the British people themselves were largely untouched, at least in their undaunted spirits, which, under the leadership of Winston Churchill, remained typically stoic and courageous. Perhaps it was because they knew there was no time for despair—the hedonist enemy may have been turned from their door, but he was by no means defeated.
“Where to, mum?” asked the cabby as Allison ducked inside the black automobile.
“To 314 Clemments Street,” said Allison.
“Right-o!” replied the cabby. “Been away long, mum?”
“Throughout most of the bombing, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be ashamed of that, wot with the little one and all.” He cocked his head toward little Joanna, who inched a little closer to her mother while under the scrutiny of this stranger. “Many’s the wife wot got out of the city last year.”
“I never imagined it would be so bad,” said Allison while the cab maneuvered into the traffic.
“It were a livin’ inferno at times,” replied the cabby, “but we’ll kick the tar out o’ them krauts yet! I ’spect yer ’usband’s out doin’ jist that, eh, mum?”
Allison did not answer, pretending not to hear. Yet she had to ask herself: was the reason for her silence that she was ashamed of Logan? She didn’t know, but at least she finally had the courage to face the question. Or was her reluctance a further reminder that she didn’t even know what Logan was doing?
No, she was not ashamed. She knew Logan had anguished over being perceived as a coward for not being able to get into the army. But she knew he was a brave man.
She had to remember to tell him that. There was so much more he must know. Since leaving Scotland, it seemed she was growing and changing minute by minute. With every humbling she was able to bring to bear upon herself, God seemed to give her more insight concerning Logan and their relationship. She was coming to understand how self-sacrifice and humility went hand-in-hand, and thus she could see how her pride had been a terrible barrier in their marriage. And when some of her old thinking tried to creep in, telling her that Logan was a proud and stubborn man too, she could remind herself that she was only responsible for her responses.
And with these changes within herself, Allison’s love for Logan was restoring itself as well.
She could hardly wait to see him! She cautioned herself, saying she couldn’t expect overnight changes. But it would be good just to be with him again, and she held an assurance in her heart that she would be able to accept things as they were. As silent and uncommunicative as he wanted to be was fine with her. She just longed to be his wife again!
All at once the cab jerked to a stop. Her heart raced within her and her stomach fluttered. She couldn’t help it—she was nervous.
“’Ere you go, mum,” said the cabby, opening the door. Allison climbed out, while he rushed around to the boot of the car for her suitcases. “Please, ’low me to carry these up fer ye, mum.”
At the door of her apartment she paid him and thanked him for his kindness.
She waited until he had gone before raising her hand to knock. When no answer came, she pulled out her key and glanced at her watch.
“Daddy here, Mummy?” asked her daughter.
“I don’t know, honey,” replied Allison. She hadn’t wanted to barge in unannounced. But it was only four-thirty in the afternoon. He was no doubt still at work.
She inserted the key, but the door did not open. A panic seized her. But there was their name, still on the door! She tried it again, gave the key half a twist to the right, then jammed it forward, twisting it to the left. The lock clicked and the door opened. It had been so long she had forgotten about the trick to the lock. Still, it seemed a little tighter than usual.
A dank chill greeted her the moment she stepped across the threshold, and a mildewy odor permeated the air. A more objective visitor would immediately have realized she was stepping into a place that had not been occupied for some time—months perhaps, or more. There had been no heat turned on to dry out the dampness, nor had the windows been opened to air out the stale odors. Yet Allison clicked on the lights and wandered half through the place before the truth dawned on her that Logan was gone.
From all appearances he might have never been here after leaving Stonewycke in April. Or if he had been back, his stay had been brief, for it had been weeks and weeks since anyone had been here. He must have paid the rent up in advance, and then left. Slowly, painfully, the reality began to settle in upon Allison—he had gone away, and not even bothered to tell her.
For once she didn’t care for her own sake—it didn’t matter how he wanted to treat her. She could cope with it, even love him in spite of it now. But he had a child. Didn’t he feel any responsibility for their daughter? That was the painful question.
She had been receiving regular checks from him all along—at least she always assumed they were from Logan, though they had always been cashier’s checks, with no name upon them but her own, accompanied by nothing, not even a note. Yet was there no duty laid to his charge beyond money? What if something happened—an emergency? The recent illness had proved minor. But what if it had been something worse? Had he stopped caring for everything?
Already, without even noticing what she was doing, Allison had slipped back into the old pattern of casting blame onto Logan. Suddenly she realized what she’d been doing. This was not going to be easy—changing all her old ways and habits of thinking!
“Where Daddy?” Jo’s pleading voice interrupted Allison’s thoughts. She sank down onto the sofa, then looked full into the sweet blue eyes that were reminding her more and more of her great-grandmother Maggie’s.
“Oh, dear little pumpkin,” she said, “your daddy loves you . . . and me. But he’s not here right now. It’s only that he’s a little confused—”
She had to stop, for tears had begun to rise to the surface of her eyes, accompanied by a thick knot in her throat. “Oh, my little darling, what are we going to do?”
She sat, taking the child onto her lap, and held her tight while she wept softly. It was not many minutes before she awoke to the selfish element in her tears. No one would have blamed her for crying at that moment, but she had not given a single thought to Logan.
Where was Logan? What was he going through? He was no cold, unfeeling man without human emotions and compassion as her old self tried to tell her. He needed her love, her prayers, not her accusations. Yet even as she tried to lift him up before his Father and hers, some deep inner resistance prevented her from saying the words. The struggles would be many before she would be able to completely forget the hurts of the past, the seeming unfairnesses. She wanted to pray for him, but the thoughts and words would not focus.
In the midst of her mental tussle, a noise outside the apartment door distracted her.
Her ears perked up at the sound. She jumped to her feet, hoping against everything her rational mind told her that it might be Logan. The doorknob was rattling, as if someone were fitting a key into the lock. Her heart leapt into her throat. She stood staring at the door.
The next moment it swung open, and there stood the bent and wizened figure of Billy Cochran. He stopped short in his tracks, looking every bit as surprised as Allison did disappointed.
“Well, I’m blowed!” he exclaimed when he found his voice. “I sure didn’t mean t’ barge right in on you, Miz Macintyre.” His normally irascible tone was noticeably softened, almost deferential. Lady Allison Macintyre was the only member of the nobility he had ever known personally, and notwithstanding that most people in the twentieth century gave not a fig for such distinctions, Billy could still remember a time when it was not thought comical for a man to bow in such a presence. Though his hunched back seemed to give the appearance of that action, in fact he merely afforded to Allison what respect the tone of his voice could command.
“That’s all right, Mr. Cochran,” answered Allison kindly. She had always considered him a sweet old man, no matter that her perception had often amused Logan. In point of fact, Cochran’s heart was made of gold, though, except in the presence of the wife of his friend Logan, he seemed bent on giving exactly the opposite impression with his surly manner. “Do come in,” she added with a smile, hoping her reddened, puffy eyes were not too noticeable.
Billy shuffled rather awkwardly into the room, removed his hat, and stood fingering its rim for some moments before speaking.
“’Tis right nice t’ see you agin, Miz Macintyre,” he said, managing a smile that to anyone else would have looked even more alarming than his usual scowl. “If I’d—”
“I don’t mind,” replied Allison. “Are you . . . looking in on the place for Logan?”
“That’s right, mum. ’Course, now as yer back, I’ll be leavin’ you t’ yer privacy.”
“I appreciate what you’ve been doing. Tell me, Mr. Cochran, how long has it been since—”
Allison paused. It was hard to admit to a relative stranger that she had no knowledge of her husband’s recent activities. But she had to know.
“—since you started coming by?”
“Now, lemme see . . .” He screwed up his face in deep thought and silently counted his fingers. “April, it would of been when I came the first time. That’d be—”
“Four months,” sighed Allison, at last accepting the reality of the situation. Their apartment had not seen Logan for almost as long as she. “Please sit down, Mr. Cochran,” she went on; “that is, if you have a moment.”
“Don’t mind if I do, mum. Them stairs is mighty steep.” He lowered his small frame into a chair adjacent to Allison’s. Then, as if the act of sitting down next to this gentlewoman brought them into, if not equal status, then at least closer proximity, he appeared to relax, and said in a more personal tone, “Miz Macintyre, there hain’t nothin’ wrong, is there?”
For a brief moment Allison attempted to put on her secure and self-assured mask. But there was something in the old man’s eyes—a deep, almost fatherly concern—that made her suddenly blurt out the fears from the depths of her heart.
“Oh, Mr. Cochran, I haven’t seen or heard from Logan in four months! I don’t know what to think. Can you tell me anything? What is he doing? Where is he?”
Billy frowned, and thoughtfully scratched his large nose. “I didn’t think it were so bad,” he mused, mostly to himself. “If ye’re beggin’ me pardon, mum, I don’t mean t’ be so forward, but you see, Logan did talk a mite t’ me afore ’e left. Didn’t give me no details, but ’e said there was some problems, that is, atween you an’ him, mum.”
“What did he say?” she asked anxiously. “Do you know where he went?”
“Didn’t say much, I’m feared t’ say. Just that ’e was goin’ away fer a bit, an’ would I check in on things every now an’ then.” Billy took a long slow breath. “But ’e was real mysterious ’bout it. Wouldn’t give me so much as a clue.”
“Don’t you have any idea, Mr. Cochran?” pleaded Allison. “Was he—has he been involved, you know . . . with his old life?”
“No!” answered the ex-counterfeiter emphatically. “I’d swear on it with me life!”
“Have you noticed anything unusual when you’ve been here?”
“Only stumblin’ in on you today, Miz Macintyre,” he replied. “’Cept that ’e ast me t’ pick up ’is mail, but there hain’t been a stitch of it.”
“None?”
Cochran shook his head.
“But I’ve written,” Allison went on. “Surely my letters have arrived.”
“Not so’s I seen them.”
Allison leaned forward excitedly as a new idea came to her. “Mr. Cochran, is it possible Logan could be in the city—coming here only to pick up the mail?”
“’Tis a wild notion, if I may say so, mum. Not that Logan hain’t experienced at layin’ low. But I doubt ’e could do it ’thout me findin’ out. ’Sides, ’e gave me the distinct impression as ’e was leavin’ town fer a spell.”
“But it is possible he’s still in London?”
Slowly, somewhat regretfully, Billy cocked his head to indicate doubt.
“Now, mum, would you be permittin’ me to speak openly?”
“Yes, of course.” Despite her affirmation, Allison’s voice contained a trace of hesitancy, as her old self sought to hide from the truth.
“’Tis like this, mum,” Billy began. “This ’ere world is pretty crazy these days, an’ anythin’s liable t’ happen. An’ I hain’t sayin’ you ought not t’ hope fer the best. I know Logan’ll be back. I’d wage me last bob on it. But I’m thinkin’ you’ll be only ’urtin’ yerself if you don’t accept things as they are right now, an’ that’s that he’s long gone, who knows where. I mean, you’d not be doin’ you or that dear wee girl there no good if you go beside yerself at every sound you hear, or every distant face that might resemble Logan.”
“You’re saying to give up on him?”
“No, mum. The bloke’ll be back. You can count on that. I’m only sayin’ there’s no tellin’ how much longer he’s bound t’ be gone. In the meantime, you gots t’ go on with your life. You gots t’ let things ’appen as they may.”
“You’re probably right, Mr. Cochran.”
“But Logan’s comin’ back, you don’t ’ave to worry none about that!”
“How can you be so certain?”
“’Cause I know the blighter. Oh, he’s got ’is problems t’ be sure, jist like the rest of us. But there hain’t a finer, more honorable man aroun’—what’d give ’is life fer a friend if he had t’—than Logan Macintyre. An’ he loves you too, an’ that’s a fact!”
When the conversation waned, Allison rose, asked Billy to stay for some tea, which the small, unstocked kitchen was still able to supply, to which he heartily agreed. When he left an hour later, Allison embraced him warmly. Never before, at least within the old man’s memory, had anyone expressed such a feeling toward him, and the act of affection flustered and pleased the dear man more than he cared to show. He forced out his stammered goodbyes, insisting that Allison call on him if she needed anything at all.
He would have been further embarrassed, and perhaps pleased, had he known that he had come as an answer to Allison’s prayers. Hours after he had departed, while she lay upon her bed in the dark, she played over again his words of encouragement in her mind.
Perhaps tomorrow, or next week, she would despair again. But for now, God had sent, through her husband’s old friend, a sustaining message of hope.