Drawing Blood (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

David

He stepped off the train, surveying the platform warily. He was tired, hung over, and his leg was killing him. The cane only helped so much, and he hated having to use it. He didn’t like women looking at him with sympathy, like he was a three-legged stray dog that needed saving. But on days like today he really needed it.

It was Abby’s father’s cane. He’d taken it without really noticing he’d done it. He hadn’t wanted another cane after getting home.

The damage had healed well, but going home had not heralded any job opportunities. His dead beat hometown had disappointed him again. He’d gone to school, taken some accounting classes while staying with his sister, her husband and their son, but that was not a long-term goal.

Five months ago he’d been shocked to get a letter in the mail from Elliot Murphy. He’d told him about his job, his wife, the company her father owned. And then he’d offered David a job.

He hadn’t seen Murphy since they’d been sent home from England in the winter of 1945, two years before. Now here he was offering him a job? David had thought about it for all of fifteen seconds. Then he’d picked up a phone and called him.

Murphy wanted him to stay at his house while David decided if he wanted to stay in town, let him save some cash if he wanted to give home-ownership a try. David had done some research on Murphy’s hometown. It had a saw mill that had just recently also started producing pulp to make paper. People were flocking there as jobs were added by the dozens; people that would all need homes. And Murphy’s father-in-law already had an established and trusted contracting business. It hadn’t required much thought.

He had told Murphy his leg never did heal completely. The wound was fine, but his quadriceps muscle hadn’t healed right, so movement was still limited. It hurt like a son of a bitch when the weather got cold. He couldn’t run or jog and walking got exhausting. But his arms worked fine, and he now had an accreditation that said he was an accountant. So if they could use him, he was in.

Murphy had assured him his wife was happy to have him stay at their house for a while, but he couldn’t imagine that was true. Who would look forward to a strange war buddy coming to live in the basement?

He spotted Murphy easily. He was a half-foot taller than almost everyone else on the platform, and his bright red hair was better than a waving flag. He held an arm over his head anyway, his smile wide and genuine.

David started across the platform with his halting stride. Murphy came forward to meet him and caught him in a brotherly hug that almost made David start tearing up. He felt like a sap but he’d really missed the guy. Maybe he wasn’t really a father-figure, but he was at the very least a favourite uncle.

Murphy picked up his bag, hurrying him to the parking lot. “We don’t want to be late for supper. Janet’s had a ham in the oven most of the day and she’s trying some new potato thing.”

David nodded, feeling nervous for the first time in a long time. He was good with wives. They usually loved him, but normally he flirted with them to get on their good side. He sure as shit wasn’t flirting with Murphy’s wife. He was nowhere near that much of an asshole.

Murphy’s house was a standard bungalow on a street where the trees were just starting to look big and leafed out. All the lawns were tidy, every house had a driveway. Kids rode bikes down the sidewalks with baseball cards tat-tatting on the spokes. It was everything Norman Rockwell had been promising.

Of course it was perfect. Elliot Murphy had a charmed life; and he was one of the few men David had ever met who really deserved it. Maybe it would rub off on him if he stuck around long enough.

The house smelled fantastic and Murphy ushered him through the entryway. “Follow me. I’ll show you to the guest room. You’ll have the run of the basement, but there’s not a kitchen down there. You have a bedroom, bathroom with a shower, and a kind of sitting room. We don’t have a radio down there but if you want somewhere to sit and visit if you have company it’s there.”

Murphy was talking the whole time they descended the staircase. They came out in a room with a sofa and armchair, both obviously the “hand me down” furniture that was always destined for the basement. In the corner there was also a two-person kitchen table.  He followed Murphy through another door and in to the bedroom. It had a nice double bed, all made up with yellow bedding. A nightstand held a reading lamp. Murphy opened a folding door to show him that he had a closet.

David nodded at everything Murphy showed him, from the washroom to the laundry room next to it. He suddenly felt out of place. He was a guest here, sleeping in the Lieutenant’s basement. Had he lost his mind?

“Come on upstairs. I can’t wait for you to meet Janet.”

Now he was really nervous, but he followed Murphy back upstairs anyway. The kitchen was full of sunshine and warmth. A short brunette woman bustled from stove to sink, emptying a pot in to a strainer. She was the definition of petite, her hair very dark and fashionably short. When Murphy said her name she turned, pushing a lock of hair out of her eye, smiling brightly. Her eyes were bright, wide and completely honest.

“David,” she said before Murphy could introduce them. She put everything down loudly, wiping her hands on her apron, and came forward with arms open. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

When she hugged him, David felt embarrassed. First, he hadn’t noticed she was pregnant until her stomach bumped in to his. Secondly, she really hugged him like she meant it. She patted his back, gave his shoulders a second squeeze then backed up to look him over. “You’re right Elliot. He’s a handsome one.”

David knew he was blushing, but she didn’t push it. She told them to go sit in the front room.

“Can I get you a drink, David?”

“Umm … scotch and soda?”

Murphy nodded then gestured to the arm chair across from the sofa. David lowered himself down to the cushions, hooking the cane over the arm. “So,” Murphy said cordially, taking a seat on the sofa after handing him his drink. “What’ve you been up to?”

David shrugged. “Well, like I said, when I got home I used the cash from my parents’ house to take that accounting course. I was in rehabilitation for the leg, so I worked from my sister’s place, just doing the books for a few businesses back home.”

“Would you be willing to take on the books of a contracting business full time? I’m told they’re a headache. There’s tradespeople and part-time workers and casual employees to track. It makes my head hurt to think of it myself.”

David was staring in to his drink, thinking how odd this all was. They’d been through mud and blood together. Sitting around talking about books and finances was about as surreal as … Well, as the war had been, come to think of it.

Murphy must have been thinking the same thing. He leaned forward on his knees. “How have you been … otherwise?”

David swirled the amber liquid around his glass. He shrugged. “You know … not too bad. Nightmares sometimes. Insomnia the rest of the time.”

Murphy nodded. “Me too.”

David looked up quickly, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. Night terrors. Cold sweats. It was all flashbacks for me, though.”

David remembered the nightmares Murphy had woken him up from. Some of the worst dreams he’d ever had. Until then he’d been avoiding sleep to avoid the dreams. Now he found if he drank enough he didn’t dream at all.

“If you want, I’m meeting with a group every week. It’s a few veterans hanging out and telling stories. But I’ve found it’s really helping me. I’m sleeping better, the nightmares are farther apart. I’m not going to push you, but if you stay and you want to give it a try, I’d happily bring you along. Might not help, but you know: one foot in front of the other.”

He took a deep swallow to give himself time consider his answer. It sounded a little too … sensitive for him. But if it had helped Murphy …

“I’ll consider it.”

The answer pleased Murphy. Before long they were being called in to the dining room. The spread for supper was enormous and he wondered how much of it he was expected to eat. And even if she was pregnant he couldn’t imagine Murphy’s wife eating a third of what was on the table.

“So, tell me about you, David,” she said as she passed him roasted rosemary potatoes.

“Ummm … well, not sure what’s fit for telling actually.”

Murphy laughed. “David, tell us about your family.”

He shrugged. “You know my sad story.”

“I don’t,” Janet said with great purpose. “I’m sorry it’s a sad story, though.”

“My mother passed away when I was fifteen. My older sister couldn’t get out of our house fast enough, so I was left with my father.”

Janet’s pretty face was just as pretty when she frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m guessing you don’t get along with your father?”

“I didn’t, no. He passed away while I was overseas.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. On both points.”

Conversation lulled while they ate. David consumed more at that table than he had in the entire previous week. It seemed to please Janet that he enjoyed her cooking, and she was very surprised when he told her he was doing the dishes.

“Whoever does the cooking relaxes during the clean-up,” he assured her, piling the plates up.

Janet and Murphy exchanged a look, and he knew she was going to like him just fine.

Murphy helped him dry the dishes and find where everything was supposed to go. When he excused himself to go downstairs and unpack, Murphy stopped him and asked him what he thought of the arrangement and whether or not he thought it was going to work out.

David smiled. “I think it’s going to work out great. And not just because I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

When Murphy hugged him again David imagined that this was what family felt like.

Chapter Forty

Abigail

When mail finally started arriving, Abigail was surprised to get a letter from her sister-in-law, Emily. It was telling her about how London was rebuilding, she had to come home and see it, and sorry to impose but James had given her this address before he left. She had tried writing before but the letters never made it out of the country.

Abigail had responded kindly, thanking her for the letter but explaining that until she could sell her parent’s house she had no money to travel and certainly couldn’t afford to rent an apartment in London.

In truth, Abigail wasn’t sure she wanted to go home. With the country bouncing back, their little community was starting to feel like her home. She bought chickens and sold eggs at market, along with a few vegetables here and there. She didn’t need a ton of money, but being able to go out and buy things was a real treat. She was also considering going to work at the hospital in town eventually, but that would have to wait. She wanted her French to be perfect before that. And she was also busy with other responsibilities.

Her neighbours were her friends now, too. She had carved relationships with these people through terrible times, and now she felt like she’d known them all her whole life. Trying to imagine leaving made her anxious.

The next letter from Emily was more urgent, asking her if she’d heard from James. Abigail knew he was alive, didn’t she?

Abigail felt her blood run cold. James was alive? It had been over two years since the war ended. Where the hell was he?

She responded the same way as the previous letter. No, she didn’t know James was alive. She hadn’t heard from him. She politely asked if Emily knew where he could be reached.

She stewed on that a bit before posting it. She’d been on her own for nearly eight years by this point. She was twenty-nine now. That was a long time to be independent. Any inclination she had about needing him had worn off a long time ago. Abigail found herself not really missing male company anymore.

Emily’s next letter had all the exasperation Abigail remembered from the few times she’s met the woman. She spoke her mind; that was for sure. Emily shared her frustration with her brother, wondering what the hell was wrong with him and if he’d lost his tiny pea-brained mind.

Abigail had immediately liked Emily. She had that boisterous English humour, a loud voice, the ability to make everyone like her immediately. Like James, come to think of it. She felt guilty that they hadn’t been better friends, but then she remembered the circumstances of the previous few years and couldn’t figure out how they would have made that happen.

Abigail responded with thanks, and said that she’d happily meet with Emily at some point to catch up. She didn’t dare speak on James.

He was alive. The war had been over for years. What in the world could have happened to keep him from her? There was a time when she would have dropped everything to get back to him. What if … What if he had found someone else?

She knew how hypocritical that sounded. But if he’d been with someone else for two years, or even less, living with her and keeping Abigail in the dark … She couldn’t stand the thought.

She waited months to respond to that last letter. She felt embarrassed that her sister-in-law was taking her side against her own brother. She didn’t deserve that loyalty.

Emily, she finally put pen to paper.
Thank you so much for your concern, I appreciate you taking up my cause. I am incredibly embarrassed that I have left out some important information in our previous correspondence. I made a huge mistake those years I was trapped here in France. I had a very brief affair with another man. I am very ashamed of this fact. I cannot regret the experience however. It left me with one of my proudest accomplishments: a son who I love more than life itself.

Archibald David Spencer arrived the summer after the war ended. He was born screaming and yowling on her kitchen floor, with Madeline Petit there to help. He had come too quickly to get to the hospital.

Archibald had been her father’s name, and she’d always liked the name David, even before meeting David Cleary. She still used James’ last name, so it was just easier to keep Archie’s last name the same as hers.

The Petits had been lovely to her once she’d started showing her “delicate” state. These were not stupid people; they knew very well where the child had come from. No one accused her of being a German whore. And once he had lost his baby hair the new crop had grown in bright red and it was out there for everyone to see. That nice Canadian man got her pregnant.

If anyone had any snap judgments about her, they kept them to themselves or eventually got over it. Her son played with the Petits’ grandson and they took turns looking after the little ones when they had errands to run. Yes, she could have been a nurse. But that would have taken her away from Archie.

Abigail had her own issues to deal with, but she still would have liked to have at least had James look at her and tell her he wanted a divorce. She at least wanted that closure.

Sending that letter had been difficult, but a month later she got a simple response.

I’m coming to see you. Emily.

Abigail flattened the letter out on the kitchen table. She looked down at her son, playing with a pot and a wooden spoon on the floor.

She couldn’t imagine a single day without him. She and James had planned on having children. When she woke up for a week straight sick to her stomach, Abigail knew what was wrong immediately. James was her first thought. Maybe she could give the baby up for adoption.

Then she heard about the overrun orphanages all over Europe, women in a similar situation to her or woman who had not had the option of being able to say “No” were leaving their babies at churches like an epidemic. Her child would likely not make it to a loving home; there was too much competition.

It wasn’t until she held him that she knew for sure. He had lovely blue eyes. His scaly skin was pink and adorable. She was in love, she was keeping him. As he grew older and his hair changed colour she started to see less of herself in him and more of Elliot. It brought back bittersweet memories. She wanted to regret those few days, but after Archie she just couldn’t.

Archie looked up at her, holding up his wooden spoon and exclaiming some kind of baby gibberish in all childish seriousness. He was too old for that but she laughed, and it made him smile. Then he went back to knocking the holy hell out of the soup pot.

“Archie, it looks like we’re getting company.”

“Momma!”

She shook her head. He had been rewarded with hugs and being carried around when he said his first word. He used it.

Abigail looked around her kitchen, wondering what her sister-in-law would see. The linoleum floor was worn but clean. The same could be said for her cupboards and the rugs in the front rooms. The wooden floors were beaten up. Her parents had lovely furniture, she could be proud of that.

The letter launched two weeks of thorough cleaning. No small feat with a two-year old in the house. She taught him new words in both French and English. His vocabulary was certainly domesticated.

“
Savon!
” he cried out while she was cleaning windows.

“Soap,” she said. He looked at her, confused. “Soap,” she repeated.

“
Savon!
”

“
Savon,
” she agreed. He was pleased. French must be more fun for him to speak for whatever reason. She was likely raising him to be incredibly confused.

“
Fenêtre!
” Her little French mina bird.

The car came up the driveway slowly, like it was trying to decide where it was actually headed. She knew it wasn’t a neighbour.

“Momma! A car!”

“I know, honey.” She put her rag in the bucket of soap and wiped her hands on the legs of her work slacks. He took off running ahead of her in that drunken childish way that made her giggle. “Archie,” she was laughing. “Wait for Momma!”

The car in the driveway was strange to her, but the blonde woman getting out the driver’s side wasn’t. Emily Spencer smiled broadly when she saw her, and it made Abigail almost burst into tears. This was her old life meeting this new one, the past bending around to touch on the future.  Emily Spencer was actually happy to see her.

Archie threw on the brakes when he saw Emily, suddenly startled and shy. He stood with his fist in his mouth, looking up at her bashfully.

Emily was surprised by him, too. Her face softened noticeably and she crouched elegantly in her skirt. “Well hello handsome. What’s your name?”

No answer as Abigail caught up with them. She ruffled his hair, and he turned and attached himself to her leg like a barnacle. Emily laughed and stood, hugging Abigail tight.

The urge to cry returned, and her eyes watered up. She hugged Emily back, maybe a bit too long. She became aware of Archie yanking on her skirt.

She stepped back and scooped him up, holding him on her hip. He was very fascinated by Emily. She did look like a movie star compared to what he knew. She was shiny and glossy and smelled exotic. Abigail felt dumpy for the first time in years.

“Say hi to Miss Spencer.”

“Missus Jackson, actually.”

“Really?”

Emily shrugged, indicating it was no big deal but that she was actually quite pleased. “He’s in the RAF. A gunner. He’s Canadian,” she made it sound adorable.

Abigail grinned at her. Emily was so clearly happy and in love. “Congratulations, then. Where is he?”

Now Emily looked uncomfortable. “He went to get James.”