Chapter Nine

“All right, all right!” Ruth yelled down the stairs. “If my bath water gets too cold, I’ll murder them!”

Making certain her bathrobe was securely fastened, Ruth pulled open the front door, her mouth open to let fly, and was pulled up short by the sight before her.

Leaning against a taxi was her nephew, Lawrence, and he was a sight. The most obvious injury was the cast he had on his lower left leg, the trouser leg slit to the knee. His right arm was in a black sling, and his face looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer. Somehow, she resisted the urge to throw herself at him, though her hands did fly to her mouth before she recovered her senses and picked up the rucksack beside him on the ground.

“Good to see you, Aunty.” He gave her what would normally be a very handsome grin, yet in the circumstances only twisted his features rather grotesquely. “Could you pay him, please?” Lawrence nodded his head toward the waiting driver. “My wallet’s in my rucksack, and frankly, I’m too stiff to bend down.”

Her bath forgotten, Ruth fished in his bag, paid the driver, and bid him a good day. She then turned back, the rucksack over one shoulder, a hand under his left elbow, not missing the wince upon his face, to help him as he hobbled in with the aid of a crutch on his other side. Once inside, Ruth placed his rucksack down by the coat rack and led him into the kitchen.

She sat down opposite him and surveyed her nephew. “To what do I owe this unexpected return? You do know you’ve interrupted my morning bath?”

When he didn’t come back straight away with his normal rejoinder, Ruth looked closer, past the black-and-blue bruises pasted all over his face. He appeared more than physically tired, and he held his head as if he were beaten. This was not how she was used to seeing him. He’d left her care back in January, strong and happy after spending as good a Christmas as was possible during wartime, particularly as he and Mary from next door were getting on so well. She’d had hopes he’d ask her a certain question. The hat had even been picked out!

Then he’d been called back to London, which hadn’t really been a surprise, as he was a member of Special Branch, but everyone who had eyes could see his heart was no longer in it. Only after he’d gone did Ruth think she should speak to him about it. Whatever the job he’d been assigned to when he’d got back to the capital, though, had taken him out of contact with them all. As well as herself, Mary had been particularly hard hit. She’d been unable to hide it and had spent most of her off-duty hours moping around, seemingly, given the little Ruth saw of her.

From the look of him, now was not the time to bring up the lack of communication. “What happened?”

A brief smile graced Lawrence’s face and then disappeared, as if it hurt him too much. “I see some things don’t change. I would say you should see the other guy, only you wouldn’t want to, in this case.”

A clattering of feet coming down the stairs caused their heads to turn as the worried face of Shirley appeared around the door. Scraping her hair out of her eyes, eyes which widened upon seeing they had a visitor, she put her hands on her hips. “I was wondering what all the ruckus was. Good to see you again,” she said in Lawrence’s direction before disappearing back upstairs.

“What’s up with her?” he asked, puzzled, leaning back into his seat.

Ruth got to her feet to put the kettle on. “I have no idea. She’s been keeping to herself for a week or so. Goes to work, has her evening meal, and then holes up in her room. From what the girls tell me, she’s been avoiding them too.”

“If I had the energy,” he told her after the kettle had boiled and she’d set a cup of hot tea before him, “I’d go and get what’s wrong out of her. I assume you’ve tried?”

“Of course,” Ruth replied, blowing into her cup.

When Lawrence didn’t comment further, Ruth decided changing the subject to what was her immediate concern wouldn’t do any harm. “Are you going to tell me what happened? Or do I have to beat the truth out of you?” she finished, pretending to reach for a heavy wooden rolling pin.

“You’ll never get a better chance,” her nephew found the energy to joke. Taking a good sip of tea, he let out a long sigh of pleasure before eyeing up his waiting aunt. “I can’t tell you the full version anyway, so here’s the abbreviated one. A raid I was on went wrong. I wound up hanging by my fingertips from a bombed-out shop when the…we’ll call them ‘men’… found me. A bit of an argument ensued, and the larger of the two threw his mate to his death, followed by myself.”

Ruth’s face had a look of horror on it, and Lawrence had to fight off the strange urge to try to convince her he wasn’t a ghost. He reached out and took her hand in his good right one, soothing the back of it with his thumb. “It’s all right. Look.” He gestured as best he could with an arm in a sling. “I’m still here, still fighting.”

“Hmm,” was the initial response he got, from a frankly disbelieving Ruth. “I don’t suppose if I push you’ll tell me more details…” When Lawrence didn’t show any signs of filling in the gaps, she contented herself with a fierce look, which was wasted upon the tired young man. She then asked, “I would at least appreciate knowing how you came to be injured and, well, not dead, if you were thrown too?”

A dark expression settled on Lawrence’s face, likely as unpleasant memories came to the surface. Without preamble, he told her, “Let’s just say, most of me landed on top of the thug who went first.”

“Most of you?”

Lawrence nodded. “He took most of the force of my fall, but my leg and wrist hit the rubble.”

Ruth winced, and he could see the effort it took not to reach across and squeeze his hand. “And how long ago was this?”

She wasn’t certain, but Ruth would bet anything underneath his bruised and battered face was a man going red with embarrassment. Sure enough, he lowered his head before replying, “About a week ago now,” he admitted.

“A week ago!” Ruth couldn’t help but shout. “Where have you been since then?” she demanded.

Lawrence was savvy enough to know not to lie to her, “Well, for the first five days, I was laid up in hospital.”

“Then what happened?” she wanted to know.

“Then my boss came and told me to stop taking up a bed someone else needed and to get my,” he paused to cough, “ass on three weeks’ sick leave. He didn’t say where I couldn’t go, so here I am. I hope you don’t mind my just turning up, Aunty.”

Her face appearing a little more relaxed now, Ruth finished her tea off before replying, “It does seem to be a habit of yours, this turning-up lark.” She put her cup into the sink and came and knelt down beside him. “So tell me what you’ve got. I can see you’re black-and-blue about the face, though from what I can see,” she added, peering closely and making him squirm a little, “nothing much a while longer won’t fix.”

“Cracked shin bone,” he informed her, waggling his right foot, “and a broken wrist,” he added, waving the cast in its bandage.

Getting to her feet, Ruth fixed him with what he’d come to think of as her editor stare. “Is the swine who did this to you behind bars?”

The silence greeting this question, together with the scowl, was enough of an answer for Ruth, and she was wise enough not to push.

****

Early Monday morning, Ruth popped her head around the door into her lounge and frowned. The settee was empty. Closing the door, she padded into the kitchen in her slippers to find her nephew leaning against her kitchen table, boiling some eggs.

Upon seeing her standing in the doorway, Lawrence used the table to hobble around to kiss her good morning. “Take a seat, Aunty. Boiled eggs coming up!”

“I thought the purpose of sick leave was to take it easy,” she enquired, nevertheless taking a seat as he suggested.

Winking at Shirley as she slinked into the kitchen nearly as silently as a cat would stalk a mouse, he served up an egg before each lady and added a rack of freshly grilled toast.

“I’m impressed,” Ruth declared. “Last year, I was always worried when you decided to make a cup of tea! Something you’re not telling us?”

Though Shirley gave no sign of wishing to take part in the conversation, Lawrence could tell by the way her eyebrows were twitching she was hanging on his every word. No matter which way he’d phrased his questions last night about her, Ruth hadn’t been able to shed any light on what was troubling the girl. She’d been meaning to catch up with Betty and her gang of girls next door at The Old Lockkeepers Cottage, but she hadn’t managed it yet.

Putting his concerns aside, he pulled his chair out and cracked open his egg, and whilst buttering his toast, told her, “Nothing exciting. You may not have noticed, but I was paying close attention to you all the while I was here last time.”

Somewhat to his and Ruth’s surprise, Shirley snorted tea out of her nose. Well, some reaction was better than none.

“Something you want to say, Shirley?” he asked.

Shirley wiped her nose. “Not really. Ignore me,” she said and then proceeded to studiously munch on her toast.

Lawrence and Ruth exchanged raised eyebrows. At least she was still capable of conversation before elaborating, as Ruth had kept her raised eyebrows aimed squarely at him. “All right, all right! Lower the eyebrows, Aunty. I was paying attention in case I wanted to become serious with Mary.”

Shirley let slip all pretense of not listening—her taking a bite of toast and failing to connect with the bread was a bit of a giveaway—so she said, “Do tell.”

Lawrence proceeded to go beetroot red, and neither woman helped him out by saying a word. The silence hung in the air for a minute or two before he breathed a sigh of resignation. “Okay, I am serious. But you can’t tell her,” he hurriedly got out, as Ruth’s hands had flown to her mouth, and she was giving every indication of letting out a squeal and possibly running to Betty’s.

“Spoilsport,” Ruth mumbled, savagely attacking her toast.

Lawrence finished off the last of his breakfast before informing her, “Don’t fret so, Aunty. If anything happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Bloody well better be.”

Ruth didn’t trouble to keep her voice down, whilst Shirley gave a cough. “I’d better get going,” she said, getting to her feet.

“Hold on!” Lawrence said, making a grab for his crutch as he tried to rise. He missed, and he failed to fall down only because both Ruth and Shirley grabbed hold of an arm each. “Thanks,” he mumbled sheepishly, before turning back to speak to Shirley. “Do you mind if I come with you? I’d like to say hello to everyone on camp.”

“So long as you’re all right with going straight there,” she replied.

Lawrence’s brows knitted together. “Um, is there any reason you don’t want to stop off next door and walk in with the girls?”

The pause was barely long enough for Ruth and Lawrence to look at each other. Again, Shirley didn’t elaborate. Instead, she walked out into the hall, put her coat over her arm, picked up her gas mask case and bag, and called over her shoulder, “You ready?”

Ruth put a hand on Lawrence's arm, restraining him from hobbling after their unhappy mechanic. “Don’t push it.”

“With what?” he asked.

“Her, and your leg!”

“The leg will be fine,” he answered, slapping the top of his bad leg and promptly wincing in pain.

“Sure, and I’m a Sunday Times writer,” Ruth responded.

“You could be,” Lawrence replied with a grin.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” she actually snapped at him, before continuing in a milder voice, “Look, I’m only thinking of you.”

Mollified, Lawrence rested his hand on his aunt’s. “I know. And I will be careful, honestly, but I really want to do this.”

Ruth studied her nephew for a minute before nodding once. “Okay, but so you know, if you want to see Mary so badly, why not just say so?”

Lawrence took his crutch, placed it under his arm, and lurched out of the cottage as best he could, to catch up with Shirley, who was standing, impatiently tapping her foot, by the garden gate.

“So you know,” Shirley informed him, her face carefully neutral, “if you want to stop off and call for Mary, you’re on your own.”

She then strode off, slightly too quickly for Lawrence to be able to keep pace. Indeed, when they got to The Old Lockkeepers Cottage, its occupants were walking down its path.

Doris had just opened the gate as Lawrence stumbled and nearly fell. Her head snapped up at the scraping sound of his crutch on the ground. A wide smile broke out on her face, and she called over her shoulder, “Hey, Mary! You’ve got a visitor!”

Mary had already seen, though. Her ATA cap slid off her blonde locks, her emerald eyes snapped wide open, and forgetting all decorum, she rushed up the path, nearly knocking Doris over the garden gate as she flew into Lawrence’s open arms, receiving a rap on her ankle from his crutch for her troubles.

Only when the two of them resurfaced for air, two minutes or so later, did they become aware of their audience. “I assume you’re pleased to see him, then, Mary?” Penny asked, not bothering to hide a smirk.

Nuzzling her reddening face into Lawrence’s shoulder, she replied indistinctly, “Possibly.”

“Possibly, my Great Aunt Fanny!” put in Betty, linking an arm through one of Doris’s. “Anyway, you can tell us all about what you’ve been up to, and why you’ve left our Mary on her lonesome for so long, whilst we walk to work.”

Stuffing his crutch more firmly under his arm, Lawrence accepted Mary’s hand in his cast-clad hand, having left his sling at his aunt Ruth’s, and looked up the riverbank at Shirley’s receding back.

Mary put into words what everyone was thinking: “What’s up with Shirley?”