Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“I didn’t, until about a month ago,” Luke informed me. “A customer talked me into it, and I have to say I’m glad he did. Makes me feel like one of Santa’s little old elves.” He patted the trolley. “Nothin’ like a good book to distract a body from what ails it.”

“I hope you’ve thanked your customer,” I said, managing a smile.

“Well, now, he’s not a customer, exactly,” Luke temporized. “A customer spends money, and this fellow has none to spend. He’s what we used to call a road scholar, if you take my meanin’. Nice fellow, though. Good-hearted as the day is long. Strange, when you think that all he reads about is war.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. “What’s this guy look like?”

“He’s a long, tall drink of water,” Luke answered. “Wild hair, big old beard, dressed on the shabby side. Hasn’t been in for a few days, but I expect he’ll be back.”

The hospital lobby seemed to spin around me. “Does he have a name?”

“Kit,” Luke replied. “Kit Smith. But he says some folk call him Smitty. Why do you ask?”

I motioned toward the trolley. “Are you finished here, Luke? Are you heading back to the shop?”

“Soon as I fetch my coat,” he replied. “Why?”

“I’m coming with you,” I said. “I’ll explain why on the way.”

We walked to Preacher’s, fighting our way down Saint Giles Road through a swarming stream of shoppers caught up in the holiday frenzy. Most looked haggard, some merely anxious; a rare few smiled contentedly. As I walked along, telling Luke about Kit, I was jostled by jutting elbows, bumped by bulging shopping bags, and assaulted by the tinny strains of competing carols that spilled into the street each time a shop door opened. By the time we reached Preacher’s Lane, I was ready to strangle Father Christmas.

As we turned into the lane, I caught sight of two rheumy-eyed men crouched in a doorway, as though they’d been shunted to a side inlet by the rushing tide of shoppers on Saint Giles. They were unshaven, filthy, and sharing a bottle between them. I averted my eyes from the pathetic scene, but it was to no avail.

“Give us a kiss, lady!” roared one.

“Give us a tenner and I’ll let you kiss my arse!” called the other.

The pair laughed uproariously.

Luke seized my arm and hustled me along, muttering, “They’re not all like Kit.”

“They certainly aren’t,” I agreed.

We said nothing more until we reached the bookstore.

“Kit told me they wouldn’t let him into the college libraries on account of his appearance,” Luke said, hanging our coats behind the front counter. “Now there’s high-class idiocy for you. Any fool could see that he’s bright as a button. Said his daddy used to give lectures at the university.”

“Did you think he was telling the truth?” I asked.

Luke shrugged. “He might’ve thought I needed an excuse to let him read my books gratis, but I didn’t. I don’t care what folk look like. Hell, half the students comin’ through here dress worse’n old Kit.”

I nodded. “Did he say anything else about his family?”

Luke shook his head. “Not much of a talker, truth to tell. Preferred reading. Come on, I’ll show you what he read.”

Luke led me through the narrow aisles to an alcove labeled military history. I gazed at the floor-to-ceiling shelves in dismay.

“Did he read everything?” I asked.

“Nothing but the books on Bomber Command.” Luke began selecting volumes from the crowded shelves. “Let’s see if he marked my books the same way he marked that prayer book of his.”

Luke and I spent the next two hours examining two dozen books, but we found no folded corners, no annotations, nothing to indicate a special interest in a particular page or passage. When we finished, I took up a general history of Bomber Command and asked Luke if I could borrow it.

As he wrapped the volume in brown paper, the string of bells on the front door jingled and a shambling figure wearing a green stocking cap sidled into the shop, wafting his distinctive body odor before him.

“Rupert?” I said, my nose wrinkling involuntarily.

“That’s right, missus. Me mates told me you’d be here.” The little man was dressed in multiple layers of grubby vests and sweaters topped with an oversized raincoat. “Got something for you.”

“Really?” I seriously doubted that such a shabby character could have anything I’d want. “What’s that?”

Rupert reached inside his raincoat and produced a thick scroll of paper. It was charred at one end, as though it had been thrust into a fire and hastily removed. “Smitty left it to be burnt with the rest of the rubbish at Saint B’s, but I got it back for him. Didn’t seem right to burn it, not after he took such trouble over it.”

I took the charred scroll from him hesitantly. “Why didn’t you give it to Father Bright?”

“He’s got a mortal load on his back, does Father Bright, what with keeping Saint B’s ticking and all,” Rupert replied. “Didn’t want to give him something else to worry about.” He motioned toward the scroll. “You’ll give it back to Smitty when he’s fit again, will you?”

“I will,” I promised, and reached into my shoulder bag. “Let me give you something for your troubles.”

“I done it for Smitty, missus,” he said. “I don’t want no reward.”

“A cup of tea, at least,” offered Luke.

“Ta, but I got to get back to Saint B’s. Father Bright’ll try to do it all himself if I’m not there to get the crew cracking. Cheers, missus.” The little man pulled his stocking cap snugly over his ears and shuffled out of the shop.

“Looks like you’re makin’ all kinds of new friends,” Luke commented. “Let’s see what old Rupert turned up.”

The scroll was made up of some two hundred sheets of onionskin, each thin sheet covered with hundreds of names written in the same minute script Willis, Sr., had discovered in the prayer book. An abbreviated military rank proceeded each name.

“Flyin’ Officer A. R. Layton,” Luke read aloud, squinting at the tiny writing. “Leadin’ Aircraftman L.J. Turek. Looks like they’re all flyboys, Lori. A roll call of the dead.”

“The dead?” I said, fingering the thick scroll. “There must be thousands of names listed here. That’s an awfully high casualty rate.”

“Bomber Command lost round about sixty thousand men, give or take a few,” Luke informed me. “They took a hard hit.”

As Luke wrapped the charred scroll in another sheet of brown paper, I felt as confused as Rupert. Why would Kit attempt to destroy a list of names so painstakingly compiled? Why compile the list in the first place? If he was praying for the dead, wouldn’t a general prayer suffice?

“You sure have taken an interest in old Kit,” Luke observed, handing the scroll to me.

“I guess I feel responsible for him,” I mumbled. “He collapsed in my driveway, after all.”

Luke looked at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “The Somervilles aren’t offerin’ him such a bad deal, Lori. I’m not sayin’ Kit’s dangerous-crazy, but from what you’ve told me, he does seem a mite peculiar.”

Luke must have seen a tack-spitting gleam in my eyes, because he immediately changed the subject. “Lookin’ forward to the Christmas Eve party. Got my red suspenders starched special for the occasion.”

I smiled briefly, thanked him for the loan of the book, and left the shop.

As I made my way up Preacher’s Lane, I heard a shout from the pair of winos I’d seen earlier. I pulled my coat collar up and prepared to hurry on, but something made me glance in their direction.

The two ragged men stood at attention, their hands raised to the brims of their cloth caps in a shaky salute. Rupert’s mates, I thought, and wondered if they were ex-airmen as well. I acknowledged their gesture with an awkward bob of the head, then hurriedly retraced my steps to the Radcliffe.