ALEC ROSE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING TO HELP AGA before going to the Britannia. Exhausted from his venture the night before, he stumbled into the kitchen, expecting to see only Aga. Instead, his father sat hunched over a small table near the cooker, reading the Daily Mail. He turned as Alec entered.
"Alec," his father said. "Where have you been?"
Afraid that his father might have discovered his plans for the tunnels, Alec struggled for a quick answer.
"Your clothes? They're all rumpled."
Looking down, Alec saw that his clothes were covered with dust from his hiding place near the rubbish bin. He tugged at his trousers, smoothing the wrinkles. He could feel his face getting warm as he told the first of many lies. "I, uh, I stayed up too late writing in my journal and must have fallen asleep with my clothes on. Sorry. I forgot all about them. I'll change right after I set the dining room for breakfast."
"They look like you've been shuffling in dirt," his father said, unwilling to let the matter drop.
Alec wondered if his father had seen him leave the night before. He knew that if he'd been seen, his days on the Britannia were over. But he couldn't be sure his father knew. And he couldn't tell the truth; he was too close to a discovery for that. He scrambled for yet another lie. "When we stayed in port yesterday, the captain needed some fence posts—from up on that back lane, near the end of the docks. Awful dusty up there. Captain Cairns didn't want to go himself, so he sent me. I didn't know how dirty I got. I'll go change now." Alec darted through the swinging door and into the safety of his own room.
He changed his clothes, laced his boots, and checked his hair in the mirror. Until last night, he had honored his father's orders to stay away from the castle. But now it was different; he wasn't using it as a playground. Now he had a logical reason to climb the cliffs. He was on a mission, as Margaret would call it.
By the time Alec returned to the kitchen, Aga was there. Alec chatted with her, avoiding his father, who still sat at the table reading the newspaper.
Over his father's shoulder, Alec read the bold headline—Winston Churchill to Be Named Prime Minister. Aga saw it too.
"Mr. Churchill," she began. "Now, he's the one that can get us out of this mess. He's been suspicious of Hitler from the start—even when Neville Chamberlain thought he could be trusted."
"Think that if you will," Alec's father argued, "but I've seen Churchill in other times. Served under him, if you must know, and I've no faith in him. He'll be our ruin, he will."
Though it was the first time Alec had heard his father speak of his time in the Great War, he ignored the debate. He had become hardened to his father's bitter remarks and weary of his storming out of the drawing room during the BBC updates, convinced that England was wrong to be in France. Now the dailies declared what Alec's father had dreaded: Winston Churchill was going to direct the war effort. No wonder his father had challenged him so early in the morning.
Alec finished his duties and turned to Aga. "The captain's looking for me to give him a hand on a short trip to Folkestone. Says we'll be out and back by midday. I could run to the market if you need me to on my way back."
"Aye, lad. I'll ring Mr. Walter at the bakery. Why don't you stop by his place before you come home? I'll ask him to have the order ready."
Alec nodded and turned to collect his gear hanging near the cooker. As he did so, his father grabbed his arm.
"You won't be working with Cairns much longer, Alec. It looks like the war could take a nasty turn, and with Churchill stepping in, God only knows what we're in for. If things get too messy, your mum and I will be keeping you home."
Alec looked down at the hand that gripped his arm. Without speaking, he turned his wrist and released himself from his father's grasp.
"I mean what I'm saying, Alec," his father called after him as Alec continued toward the door. "You won't be deciding what's safe and what's not if we think you need to stay home."
"I'll hear what you have to say," Alec shot back, "but I won't like it."
This time he let the door slam as he jumped down the steps and entered the alley. He did not want to argue. If his father made him quit the dock work, he would not stay at the inn.
On York Street, Alec heard the clop, clop of the milk-wagon horses being nudged along by a lad no older than himself. He watched the boy hold the reins as the dairyman collected the ration stamps from each stoop. At one time, Alec's father, too, had done those very jobs. But he had left the dairy business to make his own path. Alec tried to imagine how different his life would be if his father had stayed with Mr. Woodhams.
He knew his father well. He would not have been happy working for someone else. He was too stubborn to take orders forever. And Alec was the same way. For now, he would take orders on the Britannia, but in the end, he would have his own ship. Why couldn't his father see that? Alec shook his head and scooted on toward his job.
Cloudy skies hung overhead as Alec turned the corner to walk the final blocks to the Britannia. But in the window of Lawton's Jewelry, something caught his eye. He had almost missed it, but its familiarity drew him back, and he stopped and stared. There in the window was a small silver cross with a circle surrounding its crossbar. Alec thought of Will.
Forever dóchas. Alec remembered Will's Irish word for hope. He knew his mum would like the cross. With the money he made on the Britannia, he could buy it for her birthday. She could wear it to church.
He pulled himself away from the window and ran toward the docks, hoping his brief stop at the store had not lasted too long. But when he arrived, the captain and Douglas were just pulling up lines to set off toward Folkestone.
"Can you give us a hand with that line? Toss it to me as you come onboard."
"Aye, Captain. Anything else?"
"Well, Douglas made tea, but it's terrible stuff. Go below and brew us up a fresh mug. He spent too many shillings at the pub. He'll need a strong drink to make it through the morning."
"Me mates at the White Horse, they kept me drinkin' too late," Douglas grumbled, and turned away. Alec was relieved that Douglas wanted to be left alone. He'd already argued with his father; he didn't need another row with Douglas.
The engine chugged as the Britannia pulled out of the harbor and made for the Channel and Folkestone. Alec watched as the shore slipped away behind them; then he went below to brew the tea. Turning the white cliffs and the tunnels and the Celtic cross over in his mind, he had trouble holding to one thought. He was brought back by the captain's voice.
"With Churchill taking the post now and commanding the troops, things are going to get better."
"Aah think yer wrong, Cap'n," Douglas argued. "So do all me mates. It's the talk that we've got trouble in France. That 'itler's army is movin' fast, rollin' their tanks through new villages every day. The blokes at the White Horse say we'll lose all our troops if we cannit do somethin."
"If we were in deep trouble, the BBC would tell us. We'd read it in the Daily Mail. Can't keep news like that quiet long. We've got too many men over there to not hear if things have gone rotten. No, my trust is in Churchill. He won't let anything happen to our boys."
"'ave it your way, Cap'n. Think what ye want," Douglas answered. "But aah'm sayin' things are goin' to get worse. That's the word I'm hearin' from that bloke at the pub. Some of 'is Majesty's finest right here in Dover, 'e says—takin' charge of the troops. Cannit believe it meself, but somethin' doesn't feel right."
Alec made himself think about the information he'd read in the lieutenant's papers. Could it be that Will and his demolition group had gone to France to destroy their own artillery? Could it mean the British were in retreat?
"Sonny—lad—have you fallen asleep? We're looking for our tea!" Captain Cairns called down.
"Have a seat over on the locker box there," the captain said when Alec came up with the mugs of tea. "You look as bad as Douglas. Too many pints for you last night as well?"
Alec did as the captain said. He watched as the ship moved on through the Channel toward Folkestone. To his right, the white cliffs rose above the water, a sharp contrast to the blue sea. On top of the cliffs, he could see patches of green where grass covered the hills. Sometimes, when the cliffs dipped down and he could see farther inland, he caught a glimpse of sheep roaming the green hillsides. Settled far back, away from the edge, cottages with their slate roofs dotted the landscape. Though he often wondered what it would be like to be away from the coast and his home, he was glad he didn't live far from the fishing harbors. As much as he grumbled about the Shaftbury, he could not imagine living outside Dover.
For now, he needed to think about his plan. Douglas had said the stout man came most nights and always on payday. Alec didn't have enough time to wait until Thursday. Although he couldn't go every night, he didn't want to miss the man.
The water was calm and the trip smooth, but Alec thought the journey to Folkestone was slow. Then the harbor was busy, and they had to wait to dock. When they were finally ready to unload, the boom arm wouldn't swing out over the cargo hold. Douglas went after it with his wrench and other tools, but by the time it was working again and they were finally unloaded, they had spent an extra hour in port before shoving off for home.
Back in Dover, Alec heard the seagulls squawking around the rubbish bins as he worked quickly to secure the lines and swab the deck before running off to the bakery for Aga. By the time he arrived at the inn, he was in a foul mood—his head stuffed from the barrage of words from his father that morning and Douglas that afternoon. It seemed foolish to be following the same routine day after day when war hovered so close to them now. He didn't want to do the inn work anymore. He had to force himself to keep going—setting the table and running errands as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening. Inside the hotel, they seemed nearly untouched by the ravages of war. And in the midst of his work, his father always was nearby.
"Alec, Aga," his father barked. "We've got to be prompt with supper. It's important to keep the guests happy." He left the kitchen before either one of them could answer.
"He's just getting worse, not better," Alec sighed, placing all the silver and dishes on the tray. "There's no pleasing him. I don't know how Mum stands it."
"Now, Alec. Lad, I can't let you be blasting your father so. It isn't respectful."
"He deserves it. You know that. Never happy about what I do. Forever telling me how much trouble I cause. Always shouting about something or grumbling about the war and Churchill. Aye, there's no pleasing him."
"Oh, Alec," Aga said. "I know that you and your father have had hard times these last few months since—" Aga stopped.
"Since what, Aga?" he said. "Since Georgie died because of me?"
Alec couldn't believe his own words. He couldn't remember when he'd ever shouted at Aga. But here he was, just like his father, bellowing like a bull at his one true friend.
Aga fell silent. Turning back to the cooker, she stirred the kettle.
"Oh, Aga. I'm sorry. I don't mean to take it out on you. This is between Father and me. It's not your fault."
"I know, Alec, that you don't mean to hurt me. But you shouldn't be trying to hurt your father, either. He's a bit ornery these days, I'll grant you that, and even a trifle demanding, but he's got lots on his mind. He doesn't mean to sound so hateful. He's just worried about the times. We're living in bad times, you know."
Just thinking about his father made Alec want to quit—to gather his things and go off on his own. But he snatched up the tray and started for the dining room. "I'll not let him turn me into someone like him; I'll leave before that happens! I'm not like him." The words had spilled out of him. Knowing he was too late to take them back, he charged toward the table. But Aga was too quick.
"Wait a moment there, Alec boy. What do you mean you'll leave? What plans are you making?"
"I ... I was ... oh, Aga." Alec stumbled over his words. "I was just being silly."
But Aga was not fooled. "Alec lad—this is your friend, Aga. I know that look; I've seen it when you snuck off to fish in the Channel with Georgie or when the two of you came back from clambering around the cliffs. Just what are you planning to do? Go off to war?"
Her words caught Alec off guard. She'd said aloud what he'd been afraid to imagine. Had she known him so long that he had no secrets? Struggling for what to say next, Alec heard Aga's words again.
"Alec. Alec, I'm speaking to you. Tell me now. You won't be leaving me wondering all night about your doings."
Slowly, Alec answered. "It's just that I've heard some rumors about the war, about the troops in France, and I'm planning to find out what I can about Will and Thomas. Nothing plucky, Aga. Just snooping a bit. I didn't mean I was going away or anything"—he lied again—"just planning to do a little night sleuthing up near the cliffs."
"The cliffs? Alec, you know Mr. Frank has forbidden you to go near the cliffs. And what could you possibly find out there about the war?"
He had told her too much already. Aga could keep her mouth shut. She'd covered for him many times before. But if she thought he was in danger, she'd tell his folks to keep him from getting hurt. No, he wasn't going to let anything else out.
"There's a chap in Dover who says he can get a message to Will. I just have to meet him at the base of the cliffs one night. He'll post something to Will and bring me word back of how he's doing. That's all. But he needs to meet me at night so the officers won't catch him. I told him I'd come next week."
Aga looked doubtful. But before she could say more, Alec's mum appeared. "Your father's wondering about the table, Alec."
This time, Alec was grateful for his father's demands. That was too close, he thought. Aga wouldn't be put off so easily the next time. He had to go back to the White Horse soon.
The rest of the evening Alec moved about the dining room, waiting on guests and serving tea. When he could, he sneaked a look at Aga, but she was occupied. He hoped she would forget their conversation.
Later, stacking the dirty dishes into the wash tub, Alec plotted his next step. The White Horse and the cliffs had been a part of this city from the time he was born. He had roamed among them many days after school, yet he had never imagined they would consume so much of his attention. He could think of nothing else. By the time Aga came in, he had washed every dish.
"Why, Alec. You've taken my job. What's moved you to do such a lovely thing? If you think this will make me forget about your sleuthing, don't be so sure."
"No, Aga. Nothing else to do since the curfew's on."
"Aye, the curfew's a good thing right now. Keeps lads off the streets and home where they should be."
"You're right, Aga. That and the blackouts give little chance for lads to do anything but stay home."
He offered her his arm. "So shall we keep our date with the radio?"
"If it will prevent you from sneaking out, I'll sit here every night and listen to that silly box," she said, taking his arm as they strolled into the drawing room, where Alec's mum sat alone, her face white with fear.
"Germany has invaded France," she said.