Two Blackbirds (6 page)
“Do you see him around very often?” Sharon asked as she freed herself from Sean's grip.
“Every so often.” Sean looked at Sam and smiled.
Ask him.
“What do your friends think of him?”
“Friends?” Sean's eyes locked on hers.
“Well?” Sharon asked.
He lifted his chin in the direction of the retreating Marmaduke. “It's not a good idea for anyone around here to be my friend. Your uncle has made it clear that there will be a price to pay if anyone defies him by being seen with me. Besides, there aren't many males around here. After all, there is a war on.”
“Is that why Honeysuckle decided to get Sam?” Sharon hurried to catch up with Sean, who was closing in on the gap in the hedge. He ducked his head and stepped through.
She found him waiting on the other side. “I thought you would be safe here. I thought Honeysuckle would be good to you.”
“She is. There aren't many people who are willing to stand up to Marmaduke Lacey other than Honeysuckle, and for some reason, he's afraid of her.”
“Michael told me something that might help you understand why he's worried.”
Sean leaned to pick up a stone. He tossed it over Sam's head. The dog gave chase. Sean looked at Sharon.
“Apparently, Marmaduke was known to be associated with Oswald Mosley in the early part of the war.” Sharon studied her brother's reaction to the news.
“Who's he?”
“A fascist. He thought Mussolini had the right idea about how to run a country and that England should follow suit.” Sharon put her hand on Sean's shoulder. “You understand that this information is not to be shared?”
Sean nodded. “Yes. Of course. But I thought Italy surrendered. And besides, why are you telling me this?”
“It did, and Mussolini is finished. Marmaduke is afraid that people will find out he supported Mosley and Mussolini. It will make him look like a traitor to his country. So he leaves Honeysuckle alone because she might share that information with the people around here. Did you know that Townsend works for
MI
5?”
“You're joking! Harry? Honeysuckle's husband? He works for Intelligence?”
“So does Michael,” Sharon said.
“I knew that, but Harry? He's so. . .” Sean was unable to complete the sentence.
“The polite word is âeccentric.' And that's why Marmaduke is afraid. He thinks Harry might let it slip at the pub during one of his visits home.”
Sean rubbed Sam behind the ears. “Dogs are much easier to get along with than people.”
Sean drove the Austin
and Sharon sat in the passenger seat. He ground a couple of teeth off third gear as he shifted up from second. Skipton Road was on the south side of the River Wharfe. The tarmac road carried them along on its back into the town of Ilkley. The Cow and Calf rocks looked down on the town from their vantage point on the hill.
Sharon looked out the window, thinking about her mother, grandmother, and father.
All three of them are gone. Well, Cornelia is still
alive, but her mind is gone
.
At the edge of town, the Austin's brakes began to complain. Sharon looked ahead.
A man in a scarlet coat and white pants was perched atop a white stallion with an erection the length and girth of a baseball bat.
Sharon glanced to her right.
Sean blushed.
The rider stood up in the stirrups and blew his horn. A pack of hounds appeared, swirled around the hooves of the stallion, and disappeared into the brush on the other side of the road. More horses and riders followed. Some looked down on the Austin as they pranced across the road. Marmaduke brought up the rear, stopped in the middle of the road, looked down on them, then spurred his horse forward.
“Since you first pointed it out, I have to say that the resemblance between Marmaduke and his horse is remarkably accurate. It almost makes me think that, perhaps. . .” Sean revved the engine before releasing the clutch and jerking forward. “Sorry.”
She hung on. “Don't worry. You're getting the hang of it. Do you want to finish that thought?”
He blushed. “What did your grandfather look like? And what was he up to in his stables?” He pulled up in front of a tan-coloured three-storey stone building at the centre of town.
“I thought we were going to McGregor's office,” Sharon said.
“He moved when his son came back from the war.” Sean shut off the engine.
“Which son is back?”
“The one who was in the Navy. He lost part of one leg in some navy battle. Now he works in the office with his father.” Sean turned to her. “Do you want me to come in?”
Sharon opened the passenger door. “Of course.”
Sean stepped out of the Austin and pointed at a door set in one corner of the ground floor. “We go this way.” Sean opened the front door for her. “It's the first door on your left.”
Sharon saw
McGregor and Son
etched in the glass framed by the office's oak door. She opened the door and stepped inside. She looked around at the reception desk. On either side were neat rows of books. Behind the desk stood three massive filing cabinets. The room proclaimed confident efficiency. She turned to her brother. “Are we in the right office?”
A man entered the reception area from one of the adjoining offices. “Who were you looking for?”
Sharon turned to face a man who was about six inches taller and perhaps two years older than she was. His black hair was cut and combed. His suit was blue and his blue tie knotted with a double Windsor. She held out her hand. “I'm Sharon Lacey.”
The man smiled. “Of course you are. Father told me to expect you. My name is Rupert McGregor, Walter's son.” He turned to Sean. “And this is?” Rupert offered his hand to Sean.
“My brother, Sean.” Sharon watched with interest as the two shook hands.
Rupert looked over his shoulder at an open door. “Father?”
There was the sound of a chair being pushed back, papers hitting the floor, and footsteps on wood. While his son was neatly groomed and trimmed, Walter McGregor wore a rumpled brown tweed suit. “Ah, it is you.” He smiled at Sharon and then turned to Sean. The lawyer's eyebrows were as thick as a hedge. The hair protruding from his ears and nostrils was at least as overgrown. “Good, you've brought Sean.” Walter extended his hand and shook theirs in turn. He spun and gestured for them to enter his office. “Do you mind if Rupert joins us?”
“Not at all. I have very little time; I'm expected back this afternoon.” Sharon stepped into the office. A glance told her that Rupert had not yet been able to apply his organizational skills to Walter's inner sanctum.
Walter shut the door behind them and cleared files piled on three chairs. “Please have a seat.”
Sharon watched as Rupert stood in front of his chair, grabbed the oak arms, and kicked his left leg out. With a creaking of leather and metal, he sat down and crossed his right leg over his left.
“I've asked Rupert to join us because he's become my partner in the practice, and we work closely together,” Walter said.
“It's okay with me.” Sharon looked at Sean.
He shrugged as if to ask, “Why are you asking me?”
“You are aware that your grandmother is ill?” Walter asked.
“Yes, she seems to be reverting to her childhood,” Sharon said.
“Three months ago, she came in to see me. She explained that she wasn't feeling like herself. She had me draw up documents to make me the executor of her will and expressed a desire that I should have power of attorney over her affairs. In her words, she wanted me to ensure that both her son and her granddaughter were looked after. She was very clear that she wanted each of you to have a half share of her estate.” Walter leaned back in his chair. “I wanted to inform you of this new development. I expected to see you sooner, but the buildup leading to the invasion of France would explain why you haven't been free to travel here.”
Sharon looked out of the window. In the distance, scarlet-jacketed riders trotted along the street. “Does my uncle know about this?” There was the call of a hunting horn, and Sharon blinked at a flash of insight.
The old guard senses the war is nearly over, and they've come to town
to reassert themselves
.
Walter shook his head. “Your grandmother made it very clear that she wanted me to tell you of this new development and that she would tell Marmaduke.”
Sharon turned and faced Walter. “Does he know?”
“I don't think so,” Walter said.
“If I might interject here?” Rupert asked.
“Go ahead,” Sharon said.
“If I understand the situation, you are not afraid for your personal welfare?” Rupert asked.
Sharon glanced at her brother and said, “No.”
“Then this is a temporary situation,” Rupert said.
“I don't understand,” Sharon said.
“By all accounts, it would seem that the war will be over soon â within the year, perhaps. Then you and your brother will be free to live elsewhere. In point of fact, your entire family could move back to Canada. Or. . .” Rupert hesitated.
“Or?” Sharon asked.
“You could even afford to move to Australia, or wherever else in the world you would like to live. So that is why this is just a temporary situation.” Rupert held his hands with palms up to emphasize his point.
“Oh.” Sharon looked at Sean. “What do you think about moving away after the war?”
“Sounds grand, actually. The only complication is how Michael, Linda, and Honeysuckle will react.” Sean raised his eyebrows and looked out of the window as another rider in a red coat clopped down the road.
“Where did that Jeep come from?”
Sean parked the Austin on the gravel next to the stone two-storey Townsend house. They could see Linda, Honeysuckle, and a black-haired man wearing the blue of an
RAF
dress uniform. He was sitting and drinking what appeared to be coffee in the back garden where Honeysuckle's flowers bloomed.
Sharon waited for Sean to shut off the engine and apply the emergency brake. She smiled at him. “What say we go and meet this guy?”
“Who is he?” Sean opened his door.
Sharon watched the stranger turn toward them. She turned to Sean. “He's that pilot from yesterday â the one who's interested in Linda. His name is Milton. I wonder how he tracked us down?” She climbed out of the passenger side of the Austin, closed the door behind her, and walked toward the garden.
Milton stood up.
Sharon noted that Linda was evaluating him with frank interest.
Honeysuckle said, “I've just met Milton. He managed to find his way here. You didn't tell me that you told him where we lived.”
Sharon looked at Linda, who sipped her coffee while she continued to study Milton. Sharon said, “We told the Wing Commander where we were going, and Milton must have been eavesdropping.”
Milton smiled and turned to face Honeysuckle and Linda. “Guilty as charged.”
Sean sat down across from Milton. He lifted one of Honeysuckle's thick ham sandwiches and began to eat.
Sharon sat down next to her brother, poured herself a cup of coffee, reached for a sandwich, and took a bite.
“You're from Calgary?” Milton asked Sharon.
She nodded.
“I'm from north and east of Edmonton; a place called Smoky Lake.”
Sharon glanced at Linda and saw how she was staring at Milton.
“I come from the bush,” Milton said.
“What exactly is the bush?” Linda asked.
Our lives just got very complicated
. Sharon found she was a little jealous and excited at the prospect of Linda having someone in her life.
Sharon looked outside of the cockpit
of her Spitfire and saw that the wingtips had disappeared in the grey-white fog.
Rain gathered and skittered back along the outside of the canopy. More determined moisture made its way inside, gathered on the top of the Perspex canopy and dripped onto her slacks. The fabric on her knees was soaked through. She checked her instruments to ensure that she was on course, at altitude, and right side up.
“Shit!” Sharon exclaimed as she peered through the rain and fog in search of Longues.
My first trip into France in four years, and I can't
see a bloody thing!
The Spitfire flew into an open patch of sky. Sharon looked down and saw the Channel. She spotted cargo-laden landing craft making for the shoreline. The wake behind them told her she was headed in the right direction and â just a minute later! â she spotted the French coastline. She flew over four concrete domes, which she identified as Nazi gun positions apparently overtaken by Allied troops on the first day of the invasion. A few minutes after that, she was lined up to land at Longues. A green Very light flared up and disappeared into the grey belly of the overcast. Sharon landed and taxied over to what she hoped was the maintenance area.
Mechanics appeared at her wings and helped her guide the brand new Spitfire outside a hangar so that it would be ready for combat. She switched off, released her harness, and climbed out of the cockpit. “Any of you fellows know where the canteen is?”
“Over that way.” One of the mechanics pointed in the general direction of a gathering of tents.
Sharon hefted her parachute over the shoulder of her sheepskin jacket and followed her nose to the camouflaged green of the largest tent. She dropped her parachute on the end of a table and made her way around to the urn, where she grabbed a cup of tea and was handed a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
She sat down at her table, sipped the scalding tea, opened the wax paper, took a bite of the sandwich, and frowned at the greasy taste of Spam. She set it down on the table and reached for her cup.
On a
day like today, even tea tastes good.
The warmth began to reach her fingers and toes. She took off her flying helmet, lifted her ponytail so that it hung over her collar, and wrapped her fingers around the metal cup.