He’d never been good at goodbyes. He would always rather slip away. But there, in Victoria Station, he couldn’t do that. Bea walked him down the platform and they had one last hug, then he climbed up the steps and onto the train. He found a seat, not at the window but on the aisle, next to an elderly woman with a hat, and Bea couldn’t see him, even though he could see her. She was looking for him, but it was he who had the chance to gaze at her, to memorize the lines of her face, the way her hair framed her neck, the graceful way she moved her hands.
Then the train began to move and he leaned forward, over the woman next to him, and touched the glass with his palm, and she saw that and waved, and the train gathered speed as it pulled out of the station, as light filled the compartment, as they headed out of London. He lost sight of her, and he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Later that day, the ship pulled out of the harbor so slowly at first that he didn’t realize they were moving. He stood on the deck, looking at the faces on the dock below, people waving madly at their loved ones. He wished Bea had been there, so they could have replicated the moment that she left the States. It felt only right. Instead, he knew no one. He thought about waving, about pretending that there was someone there for him, too, but he couldn’t do it. He knew he was alone.
Night fell and he wrapped himself in a deck blanket, looking up at the stars. This time in London, he decided, was to be a secret, one never to be shared. Not with anyone. He would keep it all to himself. He could be with Bea in that moment, for those days, for the rest of his life. Some secrets are weights to be borne. Others are gifts, little bits of warmth, to be revisited again and again. No one else ever needed to know. No one else had the right to know. It was theirs and theirs alone.
In the navy darkness he saluted to the east.