Three days is what she told him. Three days and she’d be back. A practice run. The King’s Cup Race. London to Manchester. One day there, one day of rest, then one day back. This was day two, and already he felt the loss of daily routines—breakfast and the morning papers, a cup of tea at elevenses, a hot meal, and the news on the wireless at six.
“How’s the pond?” The bell above the door jangled at that moment, and Edmund had to lean toward his neighbour to say that it was fine, just fine, the lilies starting now.
The pub crowding, the usual Wednesday night scrum, Edmund supposed. Observing the merriment, he could almost see the appeal of it, this weekly gathering. The food satisfied as well, steak and kidney pie. A lot of meal with no effort. He’d been enjoying himself until Mr Stokes came along, Nigel, it turned out, and because the pub was crowded and because Nigel had spotted him and said hello upon entering, the seat at the bench next to him seemed a natural place to sit. But Edmund was used to talking to Miriam, and this conversation carried out with them sitting beside each other made it feel as though they were watching a cricket match together.
“My wife’s away.”
“Oh?”
Edmund was not sure how much to tell him. It was not a secret that Miriam would be taking part in the King’s Cup Race in August, but somehow he couldn’t talk to his neighbour about it.
“Manchester.”
“I used to work in Manchester.”
“Oh?”
“Three months.”
They returned to their drinks, watching the crowd, Edmund wiping the sweat from his glass, then drying his hand on his trousers.
“What exactly do you do, Nigel?” Edmund had grown courage through his half pint.
“I build bridges.”
“Bridges. Not towers?”
“Towers?”
Edmund sat back in his seat, aware that now it was he who was under suspicion.
“It’s just the drawings. I saw towers.”
“You’ve seen drawings. What is this?”
“It’s nothing, Nigel. It’s just when we were in the garden, I saw drawings of towers.”
“Ah the blueprints.” It was his turn to drink from his glass. “It’s hard to know who to trust these days. I thought for a moment you’d been in my house by the way you were talking, thought you might have sneaked in and seen my drawings. One can’t be too careful.”
“No. Exactly. One can’t be too careful.”
Edmund had imagined an identity for Nigel. Watching him night after night across the fence, noticing his neighbour’s reserve, or perhaps indifference, had made Edmund curious, had let his mind wander. Miriam had scolded him for it, caught him edging toward the fence, spending too long out there, secateurs in hand, snapping at the air long after he’d clipped the rose bush.
“You’re as good as spying on him,” she’d said.
“It’s what they taught us in training at the Air Raid Precautions. Vigilance.” This is what he’d told her, his excuse.
“Vigilance doesn’t mean spying,” she’d said. And she was right. He felt foolish to be here at the pub on a Wednesday night, a mood of gaiety, companionship, quizzing his neighbour on his work, not with a casual interest but with an accusation of some kind.
Beside the door an Air Raid Precaution poster advertised for recruits.
“Have they been around?” Nigel asked, gesturing to the sign.
“I’m one of them.”
“Them?”
“A warden.”
Edmund felt Nigel shift next to him, knew without looking that his neighbour was eyeing him, seeing him as something other than the quiet shopkeeper who kept a garden. Now all Edmund’s questions would be suspect, all comments of the war taken as coming from some sort of authority. It was he who would be observed now, he who would be suspect.
“Been around twice to mine.” Nigel’s voice suddenly clipped.
“Oh?”
“Warned about a chink of light coming through at the bottom of the window. I asked him if he thought the Germans would be flying overhead or arriving on their hands and knees. He was the keen sort. Likes his authority a bit too much I’d say.”
Edmund knew the man Nigel was talking about, knew that he was indeed keen. Edmund wanted to tell his neighbour that he himself was not like that, that he was only trying to help, not get people in trouble. He’d barely issued a warning yet, and in hearing Nigel speak of this warden, felt his sense of inadequacy blooming.
“How is the pond?” Nigel asked, obviously forgetting he’d already inquired. “Any frogs yet?”
“The frogs have come,” Edmund told him. “I hope their croaking won’t disturb you.”