The Heart's War (16 page)

I hugged the card to my chest.

"And then I'll be able to see him?"

Second
Leftenant Cross shrugged, "That's not within my power, miss. You'll have to see his commander with regard to that. Now... unless you have some other matter you need assistance with?"

I shook my head and made my way out of the building and into the strange yet familiar sounds and smells of the Liverpool harbor.

I went to hail a cab, but realized then a flaw in Marie's plan. All the money I had was Canadian currency.

My first stop had to be at a bank, where a disinterested man with bushy side-whiskers changed about a third of my funds into British pounds sterling. He had to ask me to leave as I looked at the strange bills. I realized then I didn't know what any of the other customers were talking about when the mentioned pence, quid, and other bizarre nomenclature.

From there, it turned out that finding lodging was quite difficult. Most of it was on constant reserve for military service. Much of the rest seemed to be taken by family members of British soldiers come to help bolster their spirits.

So I took a trolley. The driver had to stop and take the requisite fee from my palm, much to the annoyance of the other passengers. He smiled at my accent and told me it was okay. I figured I was probably not the first Canadian to not understand the strange jargon the Brits used with their money.

I also asked him if he knew a place I might stay. He told me he'd let me know when we came near one.

So I sat and just enjoyed myself. The Liverpool air was hazy with smoke, and all manner of car horns, the cries of horses, and the chatter of people polluted the air with their noise. The wheels of the trolley itself made a sort of skirling hiss against the tracks, and the driver bleeped his little horn at various people and vehicles trying to cross in front of him.

Many tenement buildings stood on each block we passed, people loitering about their entrances. But Liverpool was old. There were many grand buildings, some of which I'd glimpsed from the bow of the Olympic. They had white marble columns and grand stairs. We passed several fountains with tall, Grecian statues looking down at the mere mortals moving about on the streets below.

Then we came to
Ranelagh Street. The trolley pulled into a central terminal along the right side of the road, several other trolleys and buses already taking on or letting off passengers within.

Men called, and police officers in tall caps whistled and waved their blackjacks. The trolley lurched to a halt, and everyone got off.

The driver came back from his seat and leaned down to speak to me.

"Across the street, you'll find a boarding house. They'll tell you it's full. But you tell them Jack
Chivers sent you and you'll get a bed."

"Thanks! Why are you doing me a favor?" I said, my suspicions mounting. Trolley driver Jack
Chivers seemed like a nice enough man, with his thick mustache and wrinkles around his mouth that spoke of his easy smile. But he made me think of Lawrence, and the favor he had done me.

But Jack just shrugged and turned down the corners of his mouth like some Frenchman.

"You're clearly not from around here, girl. I'd just hate m'self if anything were to happen."

He handed my bags down to me when I hopped down.

People flowed around me, going about their daily lives. It felt like I was the rock in the middle of the river around which the water passed. I had only just been tossed into this stream, and hadn't yet learned its currents, its little eddies, pools, and calm spots where one might spend an idle afternoon.

When I reached the street, I looked down one end, then the other. To my right, the street curved and I couldn't see where it went. To my left were the buildings I saw on my way to the station.

Trolleys pulled out of the station, ringing their bells or blowing their horns. Pedestrians cleared away from the tracks. Jack leaned out of his little window and waved at me. When he saw that he caught my attention, he pointed across the street. He'd slowed down to do so, and a man in a little one-seater car, its engine growling and sputtering, swore at him.

I followed his direction and saw the boarding house across the street. It was a tall, brown building between a tavern and a store that sold fancy lady's hats. A signpost hung over the door swung in the smoke-laden breeze, depicting a bed.

It said simply "Lodging & Food" on it.

As I crossed the street I noticed how the cars had their steering wheels on the opposite side, and how the Brits seemed to drive down the wrong side of the road.

When I entered the boarding house, I came into what appeared to be the main dining area. It had maybe six long tables with bench seating. Perhaps thirty men and women sat on these benches, tinkling their forks against their plates or downing beer from thick mugs. The scent of hops was strong, and it smelled like they ate a lunch of some sort of hot sandwich right before I came in.

One or two people turned their heads to see the newcomer, but most just stared down at their leftovers.

At the back of the room was a long bar with various bottles of liquor on a shelf at the rear. Polished beer taps rose out of the bar. At one side was a set of stairs that went to a landing a few steps up and then turned a sharp 90 degrees to the left. At the other end of the bar was a small cash register.

A short, thick woman, her crossed arms displaying impressive forearms and large hands, leaned against the liquor shelf. She watched me as I made my way to the bar.

"Drink, my sweet?" she said, her voice surprisingly high for her appearance.

I looked up and down the bar. I was a little thirsty. However, I tried not to indulge in alcohol. Not after watching how it had poisoned my father's mind and turned him into another man.

I thought about taking a seat on one of the stools in front of the bar, but I didn't want to make her think I was planning to be there long. I had no interest in that part of the boarding house.

"Actually, I'm looking for a place to stay..." I said, hefting my bags for emphasis.

Her large, dark eyes flicked down to my suitcases, then back to my face.

"American?" she asked, my accent apparently catching her curiosity.

"Canadian, actually," I replied.

She nodded.
"Lots 'o Canadian boys around. Not so many girls. I would love to offer you a room, dearie, but I'm afraid we're all but booked."

It was my turn to nod, having expected this. "Jack
Chivers referred me."

She smiled at that. "Oh, did he, now? My poor old brother always did have a soft spot for the pretty ones."

Brother? I wondered. Then I saw it. She had those same smile lines around her mouth, and the same eyes.

She told me the rate, to which I agreed readily. I didn't have any idea whether it was a fair price or extortion. I did know that, from the sounds of it, I likely wouldn't find a bed anywhere else. I made a promise to repay every last penny ("Pence?" I wondered) to Marie in any case.

It turned out that Jill Milton operated this place with her husband, Charles. She told me how happy she was that his flat feet had kept him out of the war, and that she couldn't imagine running the place with him over in France or Belgium, walking about in all the muck. As she did so, she also leaned beneath the bar to grab the key to my small room.

"Would you like me to show you your room,
dearie?"

Jill Milton took me up to the third floor of the boarding house. The stairs were worn thin in the middle, and they creaked and groaned like an old man getting out of bed in the morning. Each floor seemed to consist of a central hallway with a series of rooms on
either side, and a communal bathroom at the end.

My room was the third door on the right. As Jill slid the key into the lock, I heard people tramping around in their rooms. Some coughed, another sniffled. Someone on the second floor snored so loudly (and in the middle of the day!) that I heard it clearly through the floorboards.

Jill took my bags after opening the curtains to let some light in. The rays tangled within all the dust floating around. There was a small chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and a narrow bed with plain wrought-iron head and footboards.

"Not much, I know. But it'll be more comfortable than it
appears, dearie. Is there anything else?" Jill asked, setting my bags down by the bed as I peered out the window at the building beside ours. If I put my face right near the glass, I could see a sliver of the street.

"Yes, actually!"
I said, turning to catch her before she walked out, "I'd like some paper please. And something to write with. Oh... and an envelope. Also... could you tell me where I might find a post office, as well as the telegram office?"

Jill smiled at me, deepening those lines in her cheeks so that they filled with shadow. She must have thought me a flighty, unthinking thing. But so many things rushed through my mind. I had to send a telegram off to Second
Leftenant Cross; I had to write a letter and send it back home to Marie; and once I found Jeff, I somehow had to convince his commander to let me see him.

My letter to Marie turned into more of a brief note. It was difficult, as I was forced to write it on top of the chest of drawers. With my wrist at an awkward angle, my normally smooth and flowing cursive looked like chicken scratch.

It turned out that the telegraph office was located by the postal service, which suited me nicely. Again, I had to let the attendees pluck the bills from my hand, and I trusted in their kindness and integrity that they gave me the correct change back.

With all that business done, it turned out to be rapidly approaching supper. This became my first experience with that peculiar British mini-meal known as tea time. I stopped at a small cafe in the corner building where
Ranelagh Street made its curve.

An old waiter came out to my patio table with a tray bearing a single plain white teacup, a small teapot, and a plate of biscuits.

I couldn't help smiling as I poured the steaming tea out. Earl Grey, it was. I could smell the bergamot.

There really were very few men my own age, I noticed. The ones passing by on the street wearing their bowler caps (or no hat at all) looked too young to shave. There were many older men as well, too old for service.

Had any women loitered on these streets early in the war, shaming the men with their cowardly feathers into joining the army?

I took a sip of steaming tea, scalding the roof of my mouth, trying to douse the anger kindling in my chest.

The trolleys trundled up and down the street, markedly emptier. There were fewer cars, wagons, and pedestrians as well. It seemed like the whole city shut down momentarily as everyone hurried home in time for tea.

For those few moments, I could hear the ships in the harbor hollering at each other with their foghorns.
Though the factory smokestacks continued coughing up great black clouds of smoke as though nothing had happened. It appeared that the only things capable of supplanting tea time for the Brits were war and industry.

At supper, I returned to the boarding house and found a seat at one of the long tables. They were almost entirely full now, and the noise of a dozen conversations buzzed about the room.

Jill and two other girls wearing dark dresses with white aprons came out and served everything steaming bowls of thick beef stew as well as a few crusts of bread.

The bowls steamed, and the rich smell of the gravy had me salivating. All the conversation died down as well as the other patrons fell prey to their hunger.

I checked with Jill after I had cleared my bowl and she told me that I had received no messages while I was out.

My stomach sank as I climbed up those creaky stairs to my room. My original plan after supper was to explore more of the city. I wanted to see more of those fine old buildings with their columns, and maybe get a closer look at a few of those fountains I
passed earlier while riding the trolley.

But I'd also been expecting to hear back from Second
Leftenant Cross about Jeff. The lack of news left a hollow inside me, a cold spot that sent tendrils down my spine. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Chapter 15

I woke after breakfast the next day, jarred from sleep by the bell of a passing trolley. Grey light spilled into the room through the gap in the drapes.

Trying to clear the fuzziness from my mind, I went about my morning habits. The only time they'd really been disrupted was aboard the train, when I couldn't keep Lawrence Marsh away from me for more than a few minutes at a time.

I thought myself lucky at first to have missed breakfast. Many of the other patrons seemed to be gone for the day, leaving the place relatively quiet. I got the bathroom to myself. The "hot" water turned out to be lukewarm in the shower, but I didn't mind.

Without prying eyes, I gave myself the freedom of leisure, making sure not a single strand of hair escaped the tight bun at the back of my head. I even applied a little makeup to my lips and cheeks, smiling at my reflection in the hazy, spotted mirror.