Cora yanked the sheet of paper from the typewriter with a satisfying zip. She scanned the page for errors.
“Hey, Cora.” Fanny Detweiler, the only other female correspondent in the room, hollered over the deafening clickety-clack of the machines. “A bunch of us are going to the Fox and Hound. You want to come?”
Laying down the article, Cora shrugged. “I’ve had a grueling day. How long do you plan to stay?”
“An hour. Maybe two. Come on. It will be fun.” Fanny held out her hands. “Help me out. I don’t want to be the only gal with these lugs.”
“Okay. You win.”
Fanny hurried to where Cora stood. “You’re a peach. I owe you one.”
“No problem. We girls have to stick together. There aren’t many of us.”
“You got that right.” Fanny leaned close. “We’ve invited that dreamy Van Toppel. I heard you two are collaborating on a series. You’re not…you know…seeing each other, are you?”
“What? No!” Cora cringed at the vehemence of her response. She took a deep breath. “I mean, no, and in fact, all we ever seem to do is bicker. He’s a condescending know-it-all. Every time he opens his mouth, he insults me. I’ll be glad when this assignment is over and done with. You, my friend, may have him.”
“He’s not that bad, is he?”
“You’ll have to judge that for yourself. Maybe it’s only me he doesn’t like.”
“Or perhaps he’s afraid you’ll outshine him. Face it, Cora, you’re a great writer. Someday soon, William Randolph Hearst is going to come knocking.”
“I’m not looking for fame, Fanny, but a little acceptance from my colleagues would be nice.” Going to a pub with a bunch of cigarette-smoking, misogynistic guys was not in her plans for the day, but perhaps spending time with them would be a way to build a relationship…become one of the boys. Ugh. Just what she wanted. Not.
A few minutes later, she finished correcting her article. Rising from the typewriter, she waved at Fanny who’d gone back to her machine. “Ready.” Cora held up her paper. “I need to stop at the censor’s office on the way out.”
They collected their jackets and pocketbooks, dropped off Cora’s article, then headed out of the building.
Cora wrinkled her nose. The pervasive smell of coal never seemed to dissipate. Combined with the fetid exhaust of the buses, the London air was thick with noxious fumes. A chilly breeze lifted her hair and brushed cold fingers across her cheeks. She shivered and pulled her coat closer to her body.
She glanced at the shop as they walked toward the pub. Some windows were crisscrossed with tape to prevent the panes from shattering in the event of an air raid. Other stores hadn’t been so lucky as to still have glass. Boards covered their displays with Open For Business painted on the wood. How long would it take for England to recover from too many years of war and destruction?
In the distance a clock chimed four times. Big Ben? She never tired of looking at the iconic tower and often planned her route to take her past the beautiful landmark. Unilluminated at night since the beginning of the war, the clock was damaged during a bombing raid in forty-one. What would it be like to have one’s monuments at risk from an enemy?
“Here we are.” Fanny stopped in front of a Tudor-style structure huddled between two stone buildings, a nod to the city’s nine-hundred-year history.
The pub’s wooden sign creaked on wrought-iron hinges as it swung overhead. Cora squinted at the painted board on which a red fox and brown dog each held a tankard. No question as to what the establishment was.
She followed Fanny inside and stopped, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.
Giggling, Fanny waved at a group seated around a small table. She tugged on Cora’s hand, and they squeezed past the crowd huddled at the counter.
Cora’s heart banged against her rib cage. Different than the bars at home, England’s pubs held a prominent place in its citizens’ hearts as a place to socialize and focus on the local community happenings. Would she be forced to drink an alcoholic beverage?
Two vacant chairs awaited them. Fanny jabbed her with an elbow and winked then pushed her into the seat next to Van. Cora swallowed a sigh. What was the girl up to?
She smiled at Van in acknowledgment then lifted her hand in greeting to the other reporters, some of whom she only knew by sight. How important was it to know each name?
“Hello, ladies. What’ll ya have?”
Fanny looked coy and gestured to a beer sitting in front of the guy next to her. Tom? Tim? Tony. Name tags would be great.
“Good choice, girly. Let’s see if you can hold your liquor.”
“Better than you, McCrory.”
As one, the journalists cheered as the waitress came to the table. Despite the fatigue lines on her face, the woman smiled and nodded. “Thanks for coming tonight, ladies. What can I bring you?”
Fanny help up her hand. “A beer for me. Cora?”
Cora shook her head. “Uh, do you have anything without…?”
“How about a nice cup of tea, luv?”
“That would wonderful.” The tension eased from Cora’s shoulders. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I’ll be back in a jif.”
“Tea?” Fanny hissed in a stage whisper. “Really, Cora? How are we going to fit in if you’re drinking like a schoolmarm?”
“Mind your Ps and Qs, Fanny.” Van’s voice rose above the buzz of conversation. “She doesn’t have to imbibe if she doesn’t want.”
Face warm, Cora looked at him and narrowed her eyes. When would the other shoe drop? Only a matter of time before he managed to insult her.
a
Van pursed his lips. Cora seemed annoyed rather than appreciative that he’d come to her defense. Not that he expected her to fall on her knees in gratitude, but irritation? She had to be one of the moodiest women he’d ever met. Probably best to ignore her for the evening. Too bad he couldn’t avoid her at work.
He shrugged and turned to his left where Harry Medlyn, a writer from Nebraska, hunched over his drink. “Harry, how goes the battle?”
Slight with an elfin face, the journalist could pass for a high school kid. “Just got the word I’m headed to the coast. I leave in the morning.”
“A lot going on down there.” Van’s grip tightened on his drink. Was every other reporter going to get a shot at the big stories but him? “Really? Going to take in some sun and sand?”
“If I get time after covering Ike and the party he’s got planned for the Jerries.” Harry smirked, looking like a cat who’d unearthed a stash of cream. “Although actually getting a story worth printing past the censors could be a trick.”
“Boo hoo. I’m feeling bad for you.”
“Sounds like you’re going to remain stuck here in the king's backyard? Sorry, old man. You’re an excellent writer. Why wouldn’t the UP want you where the action is?”
“Guess they think there are still some stories worth writing in the city.”
Harry nudged his shoulder. “You’ll get a break. Be patient. At least you don’t have to worry about making someone a widow.”
“Good point. How is the wife? What’s new with the kiddos?”
A faraway gaze clouded his friend’s eyes. “Martha can ride a two-wheeler now, and Michael got involved in a punch-up at school. They’re growing up without me.”
“One of the many regrets from this awful war.” Van pushed away his mug. “They’ll be there when you get home.”
“And then maybe I’ll exchange my press card for a herd of dairy cows and fields of corn.”
“You make that claim about every three weeks.” Van grinned. “I’m beginning to believe you. I wouldn’t mind doing the same thing. Feeling the earth crumble between my fingers and watching newborn calves stumble to their feet are two of God’s gifts. My dad’s been holding his own using gals from the Women’s Land Army. Said they planted the fields in record time this spring. He can’t pay them as much as they’d make with the defense companies, but they don’t seem to mind.”
“Women at home have picked up the slack, haven’t they? Think they even miss us?”
“Now don’t get maudlin, Harry. Your missus is counting the days until you walk through the door.”
The waitress arrived with a platter of chips, the fried potatoes still sizzling. “There’s more where that came from, folks. Eat up.”
Van’s stomach rumbled at the tantalizing starchy aroma. “The Brits sure know how to do potatoes.” He forked a few on his plate as several people around the table did the same thing. Cora reached forward, and her arm brushed his, sending a shiver slithering along his skin.
“Pardon me.” Her face pink, she pulled back.
“No need to apologize.” He speared a few of the succulent wedges onto her plate. “It’s every man for himself, but allow me.” Nice to see she had thawed since he first sat down.
“Thanks.” She licked her lips. “And thanks for earlier, you know, after what Fanny said.”
He tore his gaze from her perfectly shaped mouth. “My pleasure. No one should be told what to believe. Kind of why we’re fighting this awful war, on a larger scale, anyway. Freedom from tyranny.”
She cocked her head. “Sort of like every man for himself?” A teasing smile lit up her face.
“Something like that.” He chuckled. “Do you ever think about what life would have been like if Hitler hadn’t started this war or the Japs joined in? Where you’d be or what you’d be doing?”
“Not often, because as terrible as this conflict is, I’m being afforded opportunities I never would have had.” She gestured around the table. “Three thousand miles from home doing a job I would not have gotten if I was home. Might not seem like a big deal to you, but for this girl from New Hampshire, it means a lot.”
“No one will be the same after this is over.” He nodded. “And it is a big deal. At home, I’d be writing about the latest advancements in farming. Not exactly Pulitzer Prize-winning material.”
“Will you go back to the agriculture industry?”
“I’m torn. I love to write, make a difference with the articles I publish, but farming is in my blood. I come from a long line of farmers.”
“Perhaps you can do both.”
“Maybe.” He fiddled with the edge of his empty plate. “But we’ve got a long way to go. There is still a lot of fight in der führer. This big offensive that is rumored needs to be highly successful, and no one is betting the ranch at this point.”
“Or the farm.”
“Funny.”
“Trying to be. Our jobs are so much about death and destruction, I can easily get caught up in despair, wondering if God is paying attention or if He’s allowing this nightmare as part of some sort of judgment?”
“God? Are you a believer?”
Her face fell. “Yes, but some days, my faith hangs by a thread.”
Van’s breath hitched. A fellow Christian. As beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. He was going to have his work cut out for him to remain aloof.