Ian Tregillis - Bitter Seeds

He found the missing crowds when he reached Piccadilly. Men and women mobbed a newsstand three-deep. The stand was a tiny thing wedged between a jeweler's and a tobacconist, facing the Shaftesbury Memorial in the center of the circus. The fountain itself stood un-adorned, the statue of Anteros having been removed to safety in the countryside soon after the outbreak of war the previous autumn.

Will nudged his way to the front of the crowd swarming the newsstand.

“Hi, hi, paper man.” Coins jingled in his palm. “Give us a—hell.”

Will dropped a shilling's worth of change atop the vendor's stack of papers. Several pence rolled off and tinkled underfoot. The Times's headline told him why it had been such an odd day, why such a pall hung over the streets, and why Marsh hadn't made it home: the Jerries had invaded France. The Phony War was over.

He hopped from the curb into the traffic whirling around the circus. Brakes screeched. To the colorful invective of a cabbie he replied with a fiver and an address in Walworth, south of the river. Will absorbed the salient details from the paper during the ride: blitzkrieg; French forces in disarray; PM Chamberlain stepping down.

Marsh had gone to France a little over a week ago on business for MI6. But as far as his wife knew, he'd gone to America with a delegation from the Foreign Secretary's Office, in hopes of procuring more support from the Yanks. A perfectly safe, if somewhat hopeless, mission.

Will left the paper in the taxi. He thrust another handful of bills at the driver, and told him to wait. He bounded through the front gate of a two-and-a-half-story mock Tudor house. Rapraprap . He rapped again. Raprapraprap .

Liv answered. The frown tugging at her mouth and eyes disappeared when she saw him. Pregnancy in its final stages had rounded out her face, put a flush into creamy skin.

“Hi, Will. Thanks for coming.”

“Liv, my dear, terribly sorry to be so late, beastly of me, I know, particularly in your time of need, had something of a bother finding a cab.” It came out more rushed than he'd intended. He took a breath.

She ushered him inside. He squeezed past the bulge of her belly straining at the blue wool of her WAAF uniform.

“Goodness. Don't tell me they still have you chained to a switchboard all day?”

“It's better than sitting here, waiting.”

Will wasn't surprised that Liv had held her situation as long as she had. Liv was a force of nature when she wanted to be. And, of course, her husband's employer had connections. Typically, WAAFs, Wrens, and other women who found themselves PWP—pregnant without permission—got sent home for the duration. It happened commonly: “Up with a lark, to bed with a Wren,” as the saying went.

“Nobody would fault you if you chose to evacuate. Pip least of all.”

Liv shook her head, hands resting on her stomach. “Not until he gets to meet our baby.”

Our baby. You and Pip. But if life had turned out differently ... Will shoved the pang of envy aside, sobered by thoughts of France. It may be your baby from now on, Liv.

He closed the door for her, nudging it past an end table with his bandaged hand. A bowl of water and a folded wool blanket sat on the table, for covering the door in case of gas attacks.

“Oh, my. What happened to your hand, Will?”

“This?” He flexed his hand, checked that blood hadn't seeped through the new bandages. “Bashed it with a spade,” he lied. “Aubrey's gone on a tear about the victory gardens right now. Bloody sharp, those things.” He tapped the side of his nose. “It's Hitler's master plan, you know. Do us all in with gardening mishaps.”

“Hmm.” She looked upstairs, her hand still on her stomach. “I haven't finished packing. My suitcase is in the—” She teetered for a moment.—”oof ...” Will jumped to her side. “In the bedroom,” she finished.

Will led her to a chair in the den. “You rest. I'll pack your things. Think of me as your Passepartout.”

He dashed up the stairs and found the bedroom immediately. It was a small house. A suitcase sat open on the bed. It felt a bit voyeuristic rummaging through Liv's and Marsh's things, but he tried not to dwell on that. Especially while he packed her undergarments. Will made something of a mess as he tried to be quick without leaving anything obvious behind. He grabbed a toothbrush from the bathroom on the way back down, hoping it was Liv's.

Back downstairs, he found Liv composing a note for her husband. She smiled as she wrote it.

Will took several careful breaths so that he could put as much nonchalance into his voice as he could muster. “Heard from Pip, have you?”

She shook her head, signing the note.

“Still in America, getting the Yanks to lend a hand?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Well.” He hefted the case again. “Your carriage awaits,” he said, offering his arm.

“I'm not infirm, Will.” Color crept down the curve of her neck, where a few strands of auburn hair had pulled free of her bun.

“No, but you're walking for two.”

Back in the cab, the newspaper reinforced Will's concern that Liv was about to give birth unaware that her husband was trapped in a war zone. The neighborhood blurred past them. Getting Liv to the hospital had become a matter of personal honor for the driver.

Liv said, “Did we remember to lock the door?”

“I'm quite certain we did. Trust your Passepartout. Speaking of which, will you have enough around the house? With the little one to feed? Do you need extra ration books? It's no trouble. My brother—”

“I'm not going to cheat , Will.”

“No, no. Of course not. But you'll let me know if you need anything, won't you?”

She patted her stomach. “We'll be fine.”

But what if it's just the two of you from now on?

The conversation ranged to baby names (Will suggested Malcolm, for a boy), mutual acquaintances, and whether America would enter the war.

They pulled up at a hospital in the shadow of London Bridge. As the driver carried Liv's case to the entrance, Will helped her out of the cab: “Please remember, Liv. If you're ever in need of anything, don't hesitate to say. Leaning on His Grace is my God-given talent.”

She looked at him with suspicion in her eyes. But then another contraction hit, and the issue was dropped.

10 May 1940

Mezieres, France

Stealing a motorbike turned out to be a bit like riding one. The skill came back quickly, Marsh found.

A violet spark leapt between two strands of copper as Marsh touched them together. It made the alley smell of ozone. He spat out bits of rubber, tasting blood; he'd stripped the wires with his teeth. The BMW sputtered once, then died. He tweaked the throttle on the second try. The sputtering relaxed into the regular brum-pum-pum-pum of a four-stroke.

He inched out of the alleyway into chaos. Cars, trucks, carts, bicycles, and pedestrians glutted the narrow cobbled street. Word of the invasion had spread, and like the orders from a field commander, it had mobilized an army of refugees. An opening appeared ahead of a truck. Marsh gunned the throttle. He darted past the truck and spun the bike around. Gravel kicked up by his U-turn rained on the refugees and their vehicles. In return he received the blare of horns and a few gestures.

The more panic gripped France, the harder it would be for Marsh to get an accurate picture of what had happened. On the other hand, the chaos made it easy to steal a motorbike without attracting notice.

Getting out of Mezieres required driving against the flow of traffic. The avenues were little more than glorified cow paths, best used for guiding livestock. They predated motorcars and weren't conducive to a spontaneous evacuation. Marsh treated the traffic like an obstacle course. After one close call with the steaming grille of an overheated farm truck, he made the outskirts of the hamlet.